#maybe he can hear too much when it's too quiet

[lovelylittlegrim]

Headcanon that Eddie isnt the kind of guy to say I love you first. He’d had it rough growing up. Dead beat parents and very little affection until he moved in with Wayne.

And Wayne is a quiet man. More action than words so I think Eddie would learn how to love from him. With actions. A new mug here, a pat there, a plate of breakfast after a rough shift. Acts of service as their love language.

Steve Harrington though… He also grew up with very little affection but he didn’t have an uncle Wayne. So, love for him is different. Steve falls hard and fast and he is always quick to say it, always the first one to say ‘I love you’. And he means it everytime and is devastated when it isn’t reciprocated.

When steddie happens, Steve would try to play it cautious. He’s been burnt so many times that he holds the words to his chest for weeks, maybe even months before they finally come spilling out. And, Eddie would be stunned. He could probably count on his hands the times he’s been verbally told he’s loved. And, of course he loves steve too. How could anyone not love steve? But Eddie can’t get the words out.

And Steve, he gets it. He knows Eddie. Knows that even though Eddie can’t say it, that the way he leans into Steve and kisses him all soft and sweet and deep says it for him. It’s in Eddie’s big expressive eyes the way it’s never been in anyone else’s before. Steve wants to hear the words, but he doesn’t need them from Eddie because he can see it. It’s mutual. It’s reciprocated and that’s enough for Steve.

I do think Eddie will say it. Later. Maybe a few months down the line and I think it’ll be such a random and seemingly unremarkable moment. That Steve is probably just sitting there, all focused and squinty eyed as he’s working on something and Eddie is watching him. And Eddie loves him. Loves him so so fucking much and the words don’t seem all that scary or hard to say anymore.

“Steve?”

“Hmm,” Steve hums, not looking up from the bracelets he promised to make for Max and El.

And Eddie can’t stop the grin on his face, the relief as the words roll so easily off his tongue. So earnest and honest and heartfelt, “I love you.”

Steves head snaps up, eyes wide as he looks over at Eddie.

Eddie feels warm beneath that gaze, hair tickling his cheek as he tugs it over his mouth. It’s out of habit more than embarrassment, or vulnerability.

He watches Steves throat bob when he swallows, the way his mouth ticks up at the corners, how it grows into a wide smile. He doesn’t make it a big deal, doesn’t even comment on it other than to say, “Love you too.”

[tactical-jellyfish]

Wisdom Teeth (drabble)

I've been mean to y'all. Too much angst. Take some fluff for the winter (me having a test this week)

Warnings!: Wisdom tooth removal. Bloody spit, at one point reader is in enough pain to verbally request an opioid pill. Pain and pain medication. Fluffy <3 prob leads up to poly, they're fruitcakes about it.

The SAS teams have had to pause ops for a wide, wide range of reasons. The odd health complication is very much among them.

That being said, Price never thought he would have to pause a mission because one of his star players got a wisdom tooth infected.

You had been off on Tuesday, chewing on only one side of your mouth and not drinking anything that was even a little hotter than room temp.

Kyle gave you funny looks for it, but that was all.

Wednesday, you didn't leave your room for much at all, but that was fine. Resting up before an op wasn't uncommon. Simon did it all the time.

However, at some point between you disappearing and Johnny saying he heard crying from your room all bets were off.

The door was kicked in, to reveal a grown sergeant, teary-eyed and crying a little as they clutched their cheek with a hand.

Kyle was already at your side, trying to coax you to open your mouth for some painkillers. It wasn't working well.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You cried a little before the surgery. Maybe out of nervousness, maybe out of pain, but the nice nurse was kind enough to ignore it as she explained that you would be waking up in a few hours down four whole teeth.

She explained it to you as you sat in the stupid fucking chair, she repeated it as she gently tucked a I.V. with a small blister containing medicine into the veins of your arm.

"Alright, first the anti-anxiety drug will be administered, okay?"

She doesn't wait for your confirmation, but gently pats your shoulder and continues.

"You should start to feel a bit fuzzy, then, you'll sleep."

It takes a few sickening seconds for you to actually feel the drugs kicking in. You want to get out of this chair, to scream at something.

You never liked the dentist.

But then... the world starts to fade out. It's like you're being locked out of your body as your mind turns itself off.

You hear her counting with the surgeon–a much more awkward woman, though no less polite.

Three.

Two.

On-

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The waking up is slow, and messy.

Cotton pads lie in either of your cheeks, and you can't do much but oblige as the nurse gently coaxes you into a wheelchair, giving instructions to the bearded man who's standing in the corner.

"Make sure they don't sleep for at least a couple hours, okay? I know it'll be hard, but try to have them keep pressure on the site."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Remember the usual course, and we're also giving you five opioid pills. Only in case it gets really bad."

"Affirmative."

You know this voice, but when you see the boonie hat and the slightly furrowed brows, a spark of muffled recognition fires off beneath the haze of anesthetic and misery.

"...Old man."

Your voice is slurred, foreign to even you at this point, but he seems to know it, because he sighs frustratedly before taking the chair by the handles and steering your down the hallway out.

"I swear to- mgh, olright. Better than Soap at least."

You're loaded into the back seat of the car with the most basic consideration.

Dumped in like a sack of flour, actually. Your butt hurts now, but there's Kyle.

He snorts when he sees you, reaches forward to wipe whatever is dripping from the corner of your mouth.

It's bloody spit, but he doesn't seem surprised.

The car ride back to base is quiet, but Kyle keeps you awake.

Beyond that, there's nothing you can remember. Not till the next morning.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Johnny is perched at your bedside, scrolling through his phone until he sees your eyes blearily opening, hears your groaning as you recognize a new pain in your cheeks, and he gently coaxes your mouth open to take out the bloody gauze.

"Och, there ye are, bonnie wee thing. You look like an eejit, just thought ye needed to know."

Your tired glare is met with a laugh, but followed shortly by a pat to the shoulder.

"A'hm kiddin', leannan. Just jokin' with ye. Brought ye breakfast."

He holds up a small container of yogurt, shakes it like one would cat treats to entice a stray. You grimace as much as your painfully swollen cheeks allow, but when you open your mouth to tell him off, there's a sharp twinge that makes you close it.

This seems to earn Johnny's sympathies, because he gently guides you so you're sitting up on the bed, holding one of your shaky hands as he peels back the foil on the cup.

"Easy. Still fresh, aye?"

Your wet-eyed nod is met with a sympathetic huff.

"Aye. Dinnae fash. I'll help ye."

You should smack him for implying that you need help eating yogurt, of all things, but... you kind of do need the help.

Your body is still lethargic, sluggishly stumbling through its tasks with hazy edges and poor motor control.

He raises a glass of water to your lips, and has you take a few sips.

Breakfast takes a long time, but before you fall asleep again, he gently sets a painkiller in your mouth, and tells you to swallow.

When you do, he smiles, and bends down to kiss your forehead while you drift back off.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, here's something you didn't know before getting your wisdom teeth out.

You can't swallow for a couple days.

It's gross, yeah, but you're supposed to drool out the bloody spit in your mouth, so you don't get dry socket.

Thankfully, Kyle is there for this.

He sweeps your hair back as much as possible (to the point of getting bobby pins from the corner store for the baby hairs), and rubs your back as you drool out your toothpaste.

"I feel disgusting."

"I know, luv. You're not gonna feel good for a while."

Still, his mother's cure is the only thing he trusts himself enough to use on you. Warm, salty water. A childhood staple.

He's sympathetic to your plights, rubbing your back again as you clumsily swish it by turning your head to the sides, cheeks too swollen to move properly.

"Good job. One more."

A firm, warm hand pats your back again as you "spit" (if you can even call it that) for the final time, offering a sweet smile just for you.

"Perfect. Now you can lay back again, yeah? Nice n' easy."

You're not suffering like you were yesterday. It's new.

Your motor function is back, just sluggish.

No, no, your biggest issue right now is the swelling. Your cheeks were so puffy it hurt, and you had them on ice as often as you could.

This is where you have to thank the lord for John Price. Your captain, distant as he can be, must have at least three sets of cheek-size ice pads, because every time you come into your room, there's a new, fresh set waiting for you.

Kyle gently guides you to sit in your bed, offering a sympathetic smile as he eases you backward until you hit the pillow-ramp Johnny had built so your head would be upright.

"You wanna sleep, luv?"

"No."

Your voice is still quiet, limited by your stupid cheeks, but he smiles anyway, and sits next to you.

"You wanna hang out, then?"

"Yes."

The afternoon is good, for you.

Kyle is there. The whole time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of course, every surgery comes with the odd fuck-up.

No one should be up, but you're going insane with pain.

It's a sharp, stabbing thing, focused in the gum of your lower right jaw. Almost as sharp as the tooth's initial infection, but more than enough to bring significant distress.

Simon is an odd man, and you two have never been the closest, but when he opens your door in a t-shirt and boxers, you don't even care a little bit.

"Wha's happenin'?"

The Mancunian gruffs concernedly at you, watching as you hold your cheek and shakily take in vain breath in the hopes of calming yourself.

"Get an opioid, Lt. Please."

"Fawk."

Right after that, he's off like a horse to the races, and you're in the silence again, holding your cheek as you try to ignore the way your eyes swim with tears that you refuse to shed.

It's a mercifully short two minutes, even if it feels like half an hour.

Simon's hands are gentle, opening your jaw and setting the horse-pill on your tongue, looking into your wet eyes as he raises the glass to your lips.

"I know, I know. Jus' swallow."

He stays with you as you pant for the breath you've lost, wide, scarred hands on your shoulders.

He exaggerates his own breathing so you see the clear rise and fall of his chest. His lips lose their frown as you slowly start to mimic it.

The dispersal of the pain med is fast, thank goodness, but then Simon has a tired you to deal with, still trembling in the fingers from the sudden spike of debilitating pain, though you can't feel it.

"Are those skeleton boxers?"

He's starting to think your favorite pastime is asking stupid fucking questions, but still, some part of him feels relief.

You could have asked about the lack of mask, but you didn't. You just wanted to know about the halloween boxers.

"Sergeant."

His voice isn't as firm as it should be, but when he sees your exhausted look, he still sits down on the mattress with you.

"Stay. Jus' till I fall asleep."

You don't have the balls to ask for it. Not when you're this vulnerable. So you treat it like an order.

Simon won't be chewing you out for it.

Not now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kyle and Johnny stand in the doorway to your room, snickering to themselves.

Never thought they would see big boy Lt with the firecracker that drove him up the wall, surely.

Still, after taking a couple pictures (blackmail for Johnny, photo album for Kyle), they just... stand and stare a little.

"Ye ken... we could jus'... join in?"

Johnny poses the question. Kyle nods.

"Yeah. To make sure they're sleeping well."

They both know damn well that's not why. But fuck it, a cuddle pile never hurt anyone.

Especially not you, considering how gentle the pair are when maneuvering your sleeping form.

If Simon opened his eyes and just so happened to see this buffoonery in action, he closed them right back up after.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Price sighs in exasperation when he sees it, but smiles as he tips down his cap just a little.

"Fuckin' rookie. Gonna be the death of me."

But he knows you won't. Because he sees the way Simon's lips curve up in sleep, or the way Johnny and Kyle cling to you.

He should call Laswell, finalize your placement.

The boys wouldn't complain.

[revelboo]

Idk if you know this but wasps fucking. LOVE sugar and honey. Its what the adults usually eat iirc. Thats why Wasps usually go after bee hives (for multiple reasons, the bees become food for the larval wasps, its basically an all you can eat buffet, its also getting rid of competition, ect)

Anyways. All this to say: Waspinator finding the sugar/honey and being like "What. What is??? Smells weird, like antifreeze a bit. is it antifreeze?? (bc fun fact waaaay back in the day Antifreeze actually had a sweet taste that was super dangerous bc ppl would poison others with it so a bittering agent had to be added but like, i dont think that would be a thing for cybertronians so theyre used to mildly sweet antifreeze anyways-) Then he tastes it and is like OH FUCK YEAH LETS GOOOOOOO. But sadly sugar is SUPER BAD for vehicles like cars and stuff. So i imagine poor Waspinator goes on a sugar bender and then comes to like "Wha happun...." and hes aching and feels AWFUL, sprawled out in the barn, covered in christmas lights from someone else's house and SO much dirt and sand from like 6 different states and the human is just like "So. youre awake. Get up, i got the powerwasher. You're COVERED in dead bugs, youre not coming in my house."

Oh, I love this!

Worker Bee Pt 19

Waspinator x Reader

• Inhaling because you don’t have the energy to deal with his misguided ‘dating’ right now or even to try and figure out why he thinks that could ever work, you yank your hand out of his grip and he makes a noise of whining protest. But you can flex your fingers now even though they’re sore. Magic, alien bug spit. “Waspinator, sweetie. I have to report in to my boss and get some loan applications processed or I’m going to get fired.” And he’s just staring at you, head tilting. You’re pretty sure all he heard was ‘Waspinator blah blah blah.’ Right. “If I get fired I can’t afford food or my house.” That he’s pretty much trashed. “I’ll be homeless.” There’s a reaction, antenna back and wings buzzing. “You don’t want that, right?”

• “No,” he growls, wings humming and flaring out slightly. Because no one is taking little friend’s hive away. And you reach up and pat him on the cheek. ‘Great. So you just go watch cartoons, okay? And be quiet,’ you say, nudging him into the other room and he allows it, because you’re touching him voluntarily. Settling himself on the couch, he fidgets with the skinny control stick that makes the screen work like you’d shown him. Can hear you talking to someone else on the little screen he’s forbidden from touching. Why do you sound different talking to them? Venting in annoyance, he fidgets before slipping out of the hive to patrol. Too agitated at the idea of someone daring to try and take your home, his home.

• Somehow you manage to convince your boss that you’ve not been checking in because you’ve been deathly ill. Too ill to go to the doctor. At least, you pray he brought that lie. Catching up on loan applications, it’s a couple of hours before the quiet really registers. Maybe Waspinator is just being good. Watching cartoons. Teeth gritting, you can’t make yourself believe that. He’s got to be quietly destroying something. Or rooting up someone else’s azaleas to drag in your house to go with the other one. Dating. How are you going to explain to him that’s not happening?

• Roaming the property, his wings tuck close to his back against the cold. Heading through the trees surrounding your home, he moves in a widening spiral and vents softly when he leaves the trees and comes across a series of black boxes. That smell sweet. Circling one and toying with it, that scent is somewhat familiar. Sweet and cloying. Transforming he leans his upper body on the box and uses his mandibles to begin chewing through it to get to that delicious smell.

• Startling when you hear a boom, you inhale. Then there are several more in quick succession, you save your work and get up. Know the guy closest to you is a bit trigger happy, but if he’s shooting at skunks again and you have to smell a dead skunk for two weeks straight again, you’re going to- the house is quiet. Swearing, you run to get your boots and coat after realizing Waspinator isn’t in the house. Why would he go over there, though? The old man is coming out of the woods, face ruddy and wearing coveralls and slippers, a shotgun in his hands when you get outside into the snow. “Are you out of your mind?!” You scream at him, going with righteous indignation. And the old man hesitates but doesn’t lower the shotgun. ‘There’s a monster wasp. I saw it. Tore up my bee hives,’ he says, turning in a circle. “You’ve seen some whiskey. You even hear yourself? A monster wasp?” Feel bad as you say, trying to convince him he’s crazy to get him to leave. “Get the hell off my property before I call the cops!” And he’s scowling at you, insisting he saw it as you dig out your phone in threat and he starts moving. How much are bee hives? Because you’re going to owe him. Waiting until you’re sure he’s long gone, you head into the barn.

• Groaning and shivering uncontrollably, his head lifts when the hay he’d burrowed into is dug away from him. And his little friend has come to see him, eyes narrowed. “Waspinator’s frieeeend,” he drawls, feeling absolutely awful and jittery as he snares you with two limbs and drags you into the hay with him, curling his altmode around you, limbs grabbing on as you wriggle, screeching that’s he’s sticky. Very, very sticky. And feeling not quite overenergized, but close. Processor miserably buzzing as he rests his head on top of yours and curls tighter around your warmth.

• “Let go!” He’s back in his awful giant wasp form and he’s curling up like wasps do when they die. Is he dying? And he’s forcing you into a ball, legs drawn up to your chest as his thorax curls up. He’s humming now. Is he singing? Wait. Is he drunk? Arms now pinned to your chest, you can feel whatever he’s absolutely covered in sticking to you, too. Beehives. It’s honey. He’s covered in honey and dead bugs. And you are, too now. Why? Why is he like this? Legs shifting against you as he slurs ‘Waspinator’s little warm friiiiend.’ Wondering how long it’ll take him to sober up right as he makes a funny hitching noise and you’re thrashing to get away when he shudders and does it again. “Don’t you dare throw up honey on me-Waspinator! Don’t you dare!”

Previous

[jebunkle]

is this the real life?...

806 wc, gn!reader, all of them are having a mental breakdown

i saw some awesome sahsrau (self-aware hsr au) from @aventurineswife and they seemed a bit tired of making it...so i thought i'd give it a shot :p maybe ooc on some parts, sorry

the astral express who, while visiting a planet, begin to sense something amiss. it feels as if something, someone, has eyes on them occasionally.

while you're just logging in to play the game and pulling for new characters, everyone starts to freak out. what is watching over them? it can't be the aeons, something much more divine. hell, maybe even the aeons sense something is different.

himeko brews coffee while chatting quietly with welt, "you've felt it too, yes?" she asked him nervously, as if someone would hear if they were too loud. she sips her drink while glancing around every moment or so, displaying her franticness.

the express notices her off putting attitude, but before they can dwell on it, they begin to feel the same as her. it's almost like an illness, if this plague's symptoms were paranoia and impending doom.

the stellaron hunters are hardly different. kafka's smooth demeanor falters as she gazes off into the deep null of space. "who are you, divine being?" she asks into the nothingness, her sultry voice filling the otherwise empty air. as blade is sat on a couch, arms crossed over his chest, his posture seemed to be more tense than usual. of course, he was always uptight, but his behavior was extra rigid as of lately. silver wolf on the other hand, can't help but chuckle at kafka's philosophical rants and blade's silent pondering. she can tell that they're all puppets on a larger stage, meaning close to nothing in the vast universe — both her universe and yours.

aventurine, ever relaxed, has been carrying himself with a bit more of a troubled expression. his typical flamboyance has faltered and few around him have noticed. as aventurine sits on a red leather chair in an empty casino, he does not feel alone; tossing a golden coin between his fingers, aventurine begins thinking aloud. "i see you've chosen to reveal yourself, huh?" the blonde's voice is low and almost soft, as if he's trying not to offend whoever he may be speaking to.

dr. ratio's hair is a slightly unkempt, his eyebrows are pinched together much more frequently, and his papers and studies are left askew on his desk. a few members of the intellegentsia guild slowly catch onto how he's acting, and it's truly unbecoming of the infamous strict professor. his employees can be seen wearing a concerned expression when glancing over at him, yet are too afraid to inquire on his troubled state. "i will uncover whoever is ensuing this chaos amongst us all." ratio promises himself.

the xianzhou luofu is eerily quiet. the arbiter general himself has gone silent as well, as if the ship has been submerged into an ocean of solitude. jing yuan sits in his chair with his fingers intertwined atop his lap. internally, he wonders about this rumored 'creator'; are they real? is it an aeon? what does this mean for him? his companions? is something terrible on the horizon? his endless inquiries are certainly unlike him, causing the master diviner fu xuan to worry about him.

she feels that the world has been tilted also, however she's more concerned about jing yuan's scrambled state. "please, go home and rest, general." she pleads annoyedly, "mm. give me a moment, diviner fu." jing yuan replies quietly, his words melancholic. "you know as much as i do that something has changed." he states to the shorter woman.

boothill's shoes tap eagerly against the pavement that lined the roof of the building, echoing an ambience of anticipation. "what in the world are you?" the man questions the air rhetorically. he cannot, for the life of him, figure out what's causing such a stir in the mood of everyone, himself included. the silver cowboy's hand is rested on his hip, the other lifted to his neck with a finger pressed to his chin. "i dunno, but yer rackin' all our brains here.." boothill remarks, hoping that whoever is watching over him will hear it.

the enigmatic memokeeper is seen with a more defined smirk recently. black swan has taken interest is this unknown deity that has spiked fear and franticness all over the universe. she rests her palm against her chin, staring up into the stars that decorate the black outside of the express's windows. "i hope you'd be willing to speak with me, demiurge." she exclaims in a calm yet excited tone.

the head of the oak family stands in his obnoxiously large office, hands pressed against the polished table as he stares down at it. there's a few scattered documents thrown astray, but they're not important right now. all sunday can think of is you. he knows you exist, he's sure of it, and he won't rest until the day comes that you visit him and grace the world with your presence.

im so happy the eagles won the super bowl and kendricks performance was goated

dividers by @/hyuneskkami

[korebringerofded]

We Don't Talk About It- Zoro X FReader

Summary- It was easier to be casual, no strings attached with your fellow crewmate, but things get complicated. A/N- In the thralls of depression and managed to write something. No edit. No proofread. Rawdogging life rn. Don't judge me too hard. Warnings- Mentions of sex, fwb, cursing, reader is called 'my girl' by zoro like once, smut at the end, oral (f recieveing), Zoro a has big cock, Zoro almost (but doesn't) kill an npc.

Reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated. All requests are open and you can find my entire masterlist here.

You wouldn’t necessarily say that your relationship with Roronora Zoro was complicated, you two agreed rather early on in your arrangement that it would be nothing more than casual sex, a heated passion of tongues and heat, hands desperately tearing clothes from sweaty bodies when the other felt that hot aching hunger that couldn’t go unsatiated.

Nothing more, of course. Just a fun and harmless way to let off steam. What’s the worst thing that could go wrong with fucking your crewmate anyways, right?

Nevermind all the times you would doze off in his arms, the ocean breeze ruffling his fuzzy green hair as you laid on his chest, all while your fingers easily traced along the sprawling scar across his chest. The whole time you lay there, all the famous sword-fighter can do is set your annoyingly cute face to memory.

You both swore it was casual, even when Zoro bought so many useless, pointless things, for the chance he would get to see your smile, hear the very laugh that kept him up at night. The way fiery rage would boil through him anytime he saw anyone flirting with you, touching you.

But of course, it wasn’t anything serious. Just casual, no-strings-attached, sometimes drunken, sex. Neither of you needed any distractions, after all.

Sure, maybe Zoro daydreamed about your taste, maybe he knew each and every place you liked to be touched. And yeah, maybe Zoro spent hours thinking about your lips on his cock, like you were his only relief, like he couldn’t cum without imagining your fucking eyes fluttering up at him,so glossy and wide, because fuck his own hand was incomparable to yours, no matter how many times he fucked his fist, it wasn’t the same as you.

But that was fine, normal even…right?

That’s exactly why you shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have felt a single thing as you stood at the edge of a crowded bar, the entire crew drinking and chatting and yet despite yourself, despite all the denial, you were noticeably distracted, eyes glued to the bar.

Zoro had (unsurprisingly) over-indulged, leaning against the bar with hazy and glossy eyes, a lazy grin on his face as a stranger, a young woman almost shamelessly flirted with him, a manicured hand trailing up his arm, probably admiring his toned muscles, the ones you had grown so used to, the ones you found yourself missing more and more.

You two weren’t exclusive, you had both fucked other people before and yet…that didn’t change the pang of jealousy that burned in your chest, spreading up and over your cheeks. You let out an audible sigh, making some vague excuse about needing air before pushing through the crowd and out into the cool, empty streets. You swallowed down the fresh air, letting the crisp breeze blow over you to cool your nerves, the heartache you chose to ignore.

You didn’t even need to look up to know who had followed after you, the familiar scent of sake and salty ocean air filling your senses, as Zoro leaned against the wall next to you. He was quiet for a while, the only sound on the near empty street was the festivities inside the tavern.

The entire time you could feel Zoro’s steely eye locked on you, his brows furrowed just slightly. He didn’t say anything, just occasionally glancing at you. You hated how it made you simmer, how much it affected you, even now. It all made your earlier frustrations bubble up as if they were fresh wounds.

You shot him a look, his tilted head, and slightly pink cheeks only making your anger burn and brew in your chest.

“What?” Your tone was sharper than you intended, making you quickly turn away from his annoying face.

"What’s with the cold shoulder?” Zoro huffed, moving to stand in front of you, a hand against the wall behind you, his hand going to your chin.

He leaned in closer and- you could smell that woman's perfume, lingering on his skin and you scoffed, pulling away from him.

“I’m surprised you remembered I was even here.” You rolled your eyes, hating the jealousy that burned through your chest.

Zoro could just blink at you, eyebrows furrowed as you pulled away from him, his eye scanning over you, the clenched fists, the anger that boiled.

“So…you’re pissed at me or somethin’?” He asked, arms crossed over his chest.

“No.” You said sharply. “So go back to your new little friend.” You turned to walk away from him.

“Tsk.” Zoro let out a breath, a pang of irritation rushing through him. “That’s what has you so upset?” He wanted to laugh, his jaw tight.

You took in a deep breath, trying to keep yourself from saying something you’d regret. Still, you hated this nauseating jealousy that was building within your chest. You tilted your head back to look at him, his expression tight as he stared down at you.

“You were flirting with that fucking cook all night, and I get the third degree for talking to another woman?” Zoro laughed darkly, shaking his head as he got nose-to-nose with you.

“Since when do you care about that?” You huffed, tone coming out sharper than you intended. Sure, maybe you had been talking to Sanji that night but it wasn’t like that, not at all.

“I-.” Zoro took a step forward, his eye softening just slightly as his mouth hung open, so many unspoken words that danced on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill over.

“Of course I care.” Was what he wanted to say, was what every cell and atom in his body screamed at him to say.

The silence was so heavy, and your eyes on him so intensely only made it worse, he just wanted to kiss that damn look off your face and be done with this.

Instead, he tightened his jaw and scoffed, shaking his head in frustration.

“I don’t care. Fuck whoever you want. I will fuck whoever I want.” He snapped, hating the way his ears burned, hating the way the words felt on his tongue even as he walked away.

It was a lie, of course it was a lie.

Almost two weeks of the silent treatment from you was enough to descend the swordsman into shambles, his jaw tight and lone eye twitching. The entire crew could sense it, the tension, divide, the way Zoro watched your each and every move and how you, in turn, ignored all of his advances to bridge the ever growing gap between you two.

Maybe you were pushing this all a little too far, being too hard on the swordsman. You never agreed on anything exclusive, had never wanted it to be exclusive before. No matter how many times you tried to remind yourself of that, it didn’t soften the blow.

That heartache was probably how you ended up here, drinking entirely too much in a crowded bar. Nami sat across from you, equally drunk as you were. Countless glasses sat on the table the two of you leaned against.

You had definitely gotten too drunk, more drunk than you had intended to.Your mind was reeling and cheeks pink as you danced incredibly close with a man whose name you couldn’t even remember. You don’t even remember telling him your own name nor him telling you his. His hand curled around your hip, his warmth seeping into you as his leg pressed between your thighs. It wasn’t the same, of course. And no matter how hard you tried to push it from your mind, he wasn’t who you wanted.

You sighed, shamelessly tilting your head back as you felt this complete stranger push his thigh between your legs, bodies pressed so close your breasts pushed to his hard chest, the skirt of your dress pushing up more and more as his hands wandered over your thighs and hips.

And then all at once- as if an unseeable force just ripped the stranger away, leaving you blinking and gasping as your bleary eyes took in the scene before you.

Zoro stood there, his face twisted in rage as held the man up by the edges of his shirt, his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. His eyes full of fiery rage, his breath coming out in deep huffs.

“Get the fuck out of here.” Zoro growled, dropping him and the minute the man's feet touched the ground, he shoved his hand flat against the man's chest, the impact sending a deep crunch echoing through the bar as the man practically flew, colliding with the wall in a sickening crack.

You could just stand there, stupidly drunk, doe-eyed and cheeks so pink it just made Zoro’s head spin more, the beer he had drank that night still simmering in his veins.

“We are leaving. Now.” He said, leaving no room for question as he grabbed your arm and started to pull you after him.

You immediately shoved his hands away, arms crossing over your hips as Zoro slowly turned back to you, the veins in his muscled arms twitching as he got nose-to-nose with him.

“Why did you do that?!” You snapped, shoving at his shoulders, though Zoro could just stare down at you, nostrils flaring.

“Why?” Zoro laughed humorlessly, like ice running down your spine. Zoro inhaled deeply, shaking his head.

Without another word, Zoro had you scooped up and tossed over his shoulder. He didn’t care that everyone in the place had witnessed the scene. He just ignored your curses, ignored the squirms and the way you smacked and hit him you ranted at him. HIs silence only made you more angry as he carried you out of the bar and down the dark street.

“Put me down, you piece of shit!’ You huffed

You hated feeling like this, so vulnerable, so furious, even when you knew you had no right to be.

And eventually he did put you down, waiting until you had stopped cursing and smacking him.

He was gentle as he sat you back down on unsteady heels.You could only glare up at him, cheeks pink from all the drinks you had, definitely too much.

“Do you enjoy fucking with me?” He asked, eye sharp and full of icy rage.

“Excuse m-.” You started, but Zoro moved forward, his hand slamming audibly on the wall behind you, trapping you in with his arms, the muscles twitching and tight.

“You ignore me for days, I go to find you, to try and fix whatever this is.” He waves his hand between the two of you. “And then, I hear from long-nose that you’re going out. I searched every bar in this fucking town and this is what I find.” Zoro growled, his hands trembling.

“Oh, so now you care what I do?” You scoffed, arms crossing over your chest, looking away from his steely gaze.

“Stop with the bullshit.” He snapped, jaw tight. “I’ve been goin’ fucking crazy, I don’t know what you want from me.” His tone was softer now, his eyebrows furrowed. “And seeing you with someone else it-.” Zoro shook his head, rubbing his neck with a sigh. “I almost lost it.”

Almost? You were sure the poor guy had a broken rib-maybe two, if he had even survived that.

“You could’ve killed that guy.” You muttered.

“I should’ve killed him.” Zoro said, a deadly serious look on his face.

There was a silence, a moment of shock between both of you, you were shocked that he had said it, and Zoro couldn’t believe he had been drunk enough to say it. He could just groan, rub his face in irritation before looking back down at your stupidly cute and sweet face.

“I have always cared.” He said suddenly.

“What?” Your voice was meek, eyes and sharp expression softening as you saw the look of desperation, the regret on his face.

“I…didn’t mean to hurt you, to…make you think I don’t care I-.” He stopped, his cheeks burning up and he sighed, leaning his forehead against yours.

“I care too fucking much, actually.” He continued.

“But you- you said.” You started, your heart racing at his closeness, at the rawness in his voice.

“I was just being shitty, I…was acting shitty. I was jealous, that’s it.” Zoro mumbled. “Please- I can’t take anymore of this silent treatment bullshit.”

Seeing how much it had affected him, the true regret and emotion on his face made your eyes flutter, cheeks burn up at his uncharacteristically soft words. The ache in your chest now replaced with a fiery thrum that echoed through your entire body.

“You were…jealous? Of Sanji?” You asked, a teasing smile on your face that only made Zoro scowl and pinch your cheek.

“Of course I was, stupid.” He mumbled. “Did you really think I would want anyone as much as I want you?” He asked, his hand brushing over your cheek, he couldn’t help but savor each touch, each glance.

“You want me?” You asked

He let out a dark laugh, letting his head slip to the crook of your neck so he could take in your scent, your warmth, like he was starved and worn.

“Every second of every day.This face, this body. I can’t think straight when it comes to you” He said in a low voice, his hands gripping your hips as if to emphasize his point.

You were both too drunk, too close and…when he looked up at you, neither of you had a shred of hesitation before your lips collided, neither sure who started it. Only that you both stumbled back to the ship. Hushed giggles and stolen kisses exchanged as Zoro clumsily lead you to an empty room. His hands moved quickly, almost desperately, over your flesh, spreading out under your clothes, his fingers trailing down the expanse of your stomach.

“Zo’, slow down. M’not gonna disappear.” You managed out, giggling softly as Zoro grabbed your legs and dragged you forward so he could press soft kisses down your ankle.

“Maybe I don’t wanna take that chance.” Zoro hummed, his steely eye watching each and every reaction, taking in each sound you made like it was a siren's song.

His rough, tanned hands dragged along your thighs, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch before his fingers brushed over the clips of your heels and he quickly, expertly, unfashioned them, letting the clatter to the floor.

“Ever the gentleman.” You teased, pushing up on your elbows as Zoro tugged off his shirt, his muscles tense and eyes hungry as he stared down at you.

“Gotta treat my girl nice, hm?”

Those words made you pause, your heart racing at the way his eyes locked on yours, the almost nervous expression on his face, like he was worried about what you would say, what you would think.

“I just-” He started, eyes flickering over your blushing cheeks, that damn smile.

It kept him up for weeks, that face.

You chewed on your lip, pushing yourself off the bed and standing before him, hands trailing over his scarred chest, tracing along each line, each mark. His scent made you dizzy, seasalt and cedar, sweat. You could almost feel his own heart beating as hard as yours was. You rested your hand there before leaning in and connecting your lips, it wasn't rushed or rough.

Your arms looped around his neck, neck tilted as Zoro slipped his tongue between your glossy lips, the taste of sake still on his breath as he invaded your mouth, his hands coming up to your hips, gripping the ends of your dress and tugging it up and over your head.

He had seen your body countless times, and yet for some reason this time felt so different, like it was the first time either of you allowed yourself to feel anything real from these fleeting moments. LIke Zoro let himself actually want you.

“S’ fuckin beautiful.” Zoro almost groaned, his fingers trailing over your hips, old scars. His mouth practically watering at your soft skin presented just for him. His fingers tugged away at your bra in a swift motion, a low hum at the hardened peaks of your nipples, the way your cheeks flushed.

His eye scanned down your body, his thumb hooking under the thin straps of your panties before he tugged them down, a starved expression on his face as he gently laid you back on the bed, pressing kisses down your ankle, up your thighs before he was settled between them.

“Been thinking about this for weeks.” He muttered, pressing soft kisses to your clit, around it, his tongue dragging slow and agonizing circles around your bundle of nerves. “Need to taste you, feel you cum until your legs fuckin’ shake.” He groaned, voice muffled and his cock pressing painfully against the bed, desperate for any friction as precum soaked his boxers.

He truly acted starved, his hands gripping your thighs tightly so you couldn't pull away or escape his touch, his hungered movements as his tongue pressed past your folds, curling and lapping up all your essence that he could. He shifted again, moving to suck on your puffy clit.

You were a mess, near sobbing as you came, once twice, coming up on a third time as Zoro continued his assault. He had moved so one of his expert fingers curled and twisted in your tight cunt while his tongue swirled over your clit.

“Z-Zo’.” You whined, a pleading desperate tone to your voice as you tugged at his messy green hair. “N-need you inside.” You whined, eyebrows furrowed and face hot with tears.

He smirked, a wolfish grin on his face as he pulled back, his fingers and mouth leaving your sex just long enough so he can tug his boxers away and leaving you feeling empty, the need and want for him growing even hotter in your core.

You couldn’t stop the gasp as you saw his cock, messy curls at the base and pulsing with need. Zoro had always stretched you out in a painfully delicious way, but it always shocked you regardless of that. Tanned skin, pink fat tip that he pressed against your slick folds, letting out a groan as your slick coated him, your warmth pressed against him and making his hands tighten around your hips.

“How bad you want it, hm?” He chuckled darkly, hips pushing forward so his tip pushed past your walls, stretching and aching for more, desperate for all of him.

“D-don’t be mean.” You huffed out, already panting from your previous orgasam’s, head still spinning and your stomach tight with tension.

“C’mon, you’re so soaked for me. Just wanna hear ya’ say it.” He said, continuing his movements, pushing his tip just past your walls before dragging his fat tip along her clit, her folds.

“Z-zoro. Please, I need you. Only you.” Your voice, the sweetness in your tone was enough to make Zoro snap, his hips slamming flush against yours. You scrambled to cover your mouth to quiet the moans and gasps that came tumbling out.

“That’s right, y-you’re mine.” He grunted, hands spreading your legs deliciously so his tip could burry deep into your plush walls that trembled around him, your desire soaking the bed, your thighs. “Only mine.” He groaned, his tense and fat balls slapping against your flesh as he continued pounding into your awaiting cunt which tightened and pulsed.

Zoro was delirious, drunk on the liquor he had drank indeed but more so with this, the teary look in your eyes, the bruising pace he kept, unrelenting and heavy as his desire boiled over, the cord snapping as he felt you tighten again, and he came deep in your cunt, letting his seed fill your womb. He had to mark you, remind himself you were his, only his.

Exhausted, you both collapsed there, sweaty limbs entangled, drunk on each other, on the passion.

And for once, neither of you left or recoiled. Zoro just tugged you into his arms, holding you there until you both drifted off.

Please do not copy, use my work, or put it through AI without my permission or I'll be really sad about it!!

[sincerelybubbles]

oooo shybau and hoth first kiss!!!

and I do mean you

warnings: lots of kissing, references to christianity, loss of faith, all of the lovely things I selfishly pour into everything I write pairing: hotch x shy!bau!reader

I took far too long with this because it felt like their first actual kiss needed to be so them and I didn't know how to do that until I suddenly did.

||

The night is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep in the bones, the kind that makes everything feel a little softer, a little more sacred. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the lock on your front door clicks shut behind you, muffling the world outside.

Aaron lingers in your entryway, hands resting lightly on his hips, exhaling like he’s letting go of something heavy. The case had been a brutal one. It wasn’t the worst you’d seen, but something about it had weighed on him. He hadn't said much on the plane home, but then again, he never really had to—not with you.

Now, in the hush of your apartment, that quiet between you stretches like a held note. The exhaustion clings to you both, but neither of you moves to part ways.

“You should get some rest,” he says finally, voice low and steady.

You nod, though you make no effort to leave, and he doesn’t step away. Instead, he watches you the way he always does—attentively, patiently, like he’s waiting for something you don’t yet have the words for.

Maybe it’s the hours of close proximity, the way his shoulder brushed against yours on the plane, the way he had glanced over at you every so often as if checking to make sure you were still there. Maybe it’s the way your body still hums with adrenaline, or maybe it’s simply because you want to.

But whatever it is, you move before you can talk yourself out of it.

It’s barely anything—a shift forward, your fingers brushing against his wrist. His breath catches. Just for a second. But you hear it.

And when you tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze, there’s something in his eyes—something searching, something unsure but steady all the same. He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t pull you in. He just watches, like he’s memorizing the moment before it happens, as if he wants to be sure.

As if he’s willing to wait as long as it takes.

You swallow, heart fluttering wildly in your chest. "Aaron..."

It’s nothing more than his name, barely a whisper, but it undoes something in him. His hands come up—gentle, grounding—one settling at your waist, the other skimming up, up, until his knuckles ghost over your jaw, tilting your face just so.

He leans in, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath, but he doesn’t close the distance just yet. He gives you that space, that choice, because that’s what he does.

And you—shy, quiet, observant you—you make the choice.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you close the space between you.

It’s barely a kiss at first. Just the press of your lips against his, testing, tentative, reverent. He exhales sharply through his nose, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath either. Then his hand at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his other tilting your chin just enough to angle you to him.

And Aaron Hotchner—who is always so careful, always so controlled—melts into you like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he’s home.

His lips are warm against yours, steady but unhurried. The weight of his hand at your waist keeps you grounded, keeps you from floating away entirely, because that’s what this feels like—like weightlessness, like the moment before freefall.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, and he responds in kind, the press of his mouth growing just the slightest bit firmer. He’s still careful, still giving you time to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

The world outside is silent, the only sound between you the quiet hitch of breath when he shifts, tilting his head to deepen the kiss—just a little, just enough. His thumb ghosts along your jaw, the touch featherlight, reverent.

Aaron Hotchner, composed and measured, is kissing you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

It sends something warm curling through your chest, something that chases away any last shred of hesitation. You lift onto your toes, pressing closer, and that’s all it takes for him to let go of whatever restraint he’d been holding onto.

He exhales sharply, his hand sliding from your waist to splay against your lower back, pulling you flush against him. It’s still soft, still achingly tender, but there’s more now—more intent, more certainty.

You feel it in the way he holds you, in the way his fingers press into your skin like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, in the way he lets out a breath when you tilt your head and let yourself melt into him completely.

It would be so easy to get lost in this moment, to let time slip away entirely. But then he stills, just slightly, just enough for you to feel it.

He lingers, his lips barely brushing yours, and when he finally pulls back, he does it slowly, like he doesn’t really want to.

His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, softly, his thumb traces along your cheekbone. “Are you okay?”

You blink up at him, dazed, the weight of his question sinking in. He’s not asking if the kiss was okay. He’s asking about all of it—about the fact that he’s your boss, about the way this changes things, about whether or not you regret it.

And maybe you should. Maybe you should be afraid of what this means, what it could mean for the two of you, for the job, for everything.

But you’re not.

Because right now, with his hands still holding you close, with his lips still tingling against yours, there’s no space for regret. There’s only this.

You swallow, searching his face, the faint crease in his brow, the way his dark eyes trace over yours, studying, waiting.

And then, finally, you answer.

“I’m good.”

The relief in his eyes is subtle, but you catch it. His lips twitch like he’s fighting the urge to smile.

And for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner lets himself believe that something good—something soft, something steady—might finally be his to keep.

Aaron doesn’t let go of you. His hands stay where they are—one pressed warm and steady against your lower back, the other cradling your face with a kind of reverence that makes your breath catch.

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone again, and there’s something searching in his gaze, like he’s looking for hesitation, for regret. But you don’t give him any.

Instead, you lean in first this time.

It’s tentative, your fingers tightening in the front of his shirt as you tilt your chin up. You feel his breath hitch just before he meets you halfway.

The second kiss is different from the first.

It’s slower but deeper, less of a question and more of an answer. Where the first had been cautious, this one lingers, his lips parting just slightly against yours, pulling you closer, tilting his head to fit against you more perfectly.

He tastes like coffee and something distinctly him, something warm and grounding, something you think you could get lost in if you let yourself.

And it’s clear now—he’s letting himself fall.

The hand at your back slides higher, fingers skimming along the line of your spine, anchoring you to him. Your heart is hammering, but it’s not fear, not nerves—it’s just him. The way he’s kissing you like he can’t help himself, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way you sigh softly into his mouth when he angles himself just right.

There’s nothing hurried about it, nothing rushed or frantic. It’s deliberate, patient, like he’s savoring the moment, like he’s been waiting for this longer than he’d ever admit.

And then—he slows.

It’s barely noticeable at first, but you feel it in the way his lips linger just a second longer before pulling back, in the way his fingers tighten against your back like he’s reluctant to let go.

When he does finally pull away, he doesn’t go far.

His forehead rests against yours, breaths uneven, warm between you. Neither of you speak right away.

Your eyes flutter open, and he’s already looking at you.

His expression is unreadable at first—something caught between awe and disbelief. Like he can’t quite wrap his head around this, around you.

Then, finally, after a long moment, he exhales, voice rough at the edges.

“I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s not just talking about the kiss.

He’s talking about the way he feels about you, the way you’ve slowly unraveled him without even trying.

And God, you don’t want him to stop.

So you tighten your grip on his shirt, tilting your head just slightly, lips brushing against his once more in quiet invitation.

“You don’t have to.”

And with that, Aaron Hotchner—always measured, always careful—lets himself fall just a little bit further.

His presence is steady, grounding, and yet, your heart is anything but steady. It’s quick, uneven, rattling against your ribs with a nervous kind of energy you don’t know how to contain.

You step further into the apartment, away from him, before you can stop yourself, motioning vaguely toward the couch. “You can sit—if you want, I mean—you don’t have to.”

The words tumble out too fast, unfiltered, rushed in a way that makes your face heat. You don’t usually speak without thinking. You’re careful. Measured. But right now, with him standing so close in the quiet of your home, you feel stripped bare.

Aaron doesn’t move to sit. Instead, he studies you with that quiet intensity of his, head tilting slightly, gaze flickering over your face like he’s cataloging every thought you’re trying to bury.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m not nervous because of you.” The words come quicker than you mean them to, and you rush to clarify, stepping forward again. “I don’t want you to think that. I trust you, Aaron. Completely.”

His brow creases slightly, lips parting like he’s about to speak, but you don’t let him—not yet.

“It’s me,” you admit, voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I don’t trust myself.”

His expression shifts, something deeper settling in his gaze.

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Not in the way you think. I just—I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to—” You falter, pressing your lips together. “I don’t want to give you everything and then—lose you.”

The words feel small. Too vulnerable.

Aaron doesn’t hesitate.

His hands find yours, wrapping around them with steady warmth, grounding you in a way you didn’t know you needed.

“You won’t,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “I’m here.”

Your breath catches.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He is here. With you. Always.

And yet, there’s still that voice in the back of your mind whispering that nothing this good ever lasts. That he’s lost before, and losing you might be easier than letting himself risk that pain again.

But then he’s tugging you closer, tilting your chin up with the lightest touch, and suddenly, none of that matters.

Because when he kisses you, slow and deliberate, he doesn’t leave any room for hesitation.

He’s telling you something without words.

That he sees you.

That he’s choosing you.

That he’s not going anywhere.

And for now, that’s enough.

||||

Aaron follows you into the kitchen without a word, his presence close but unintrusive. He lingers near the doorway, watching as you move—still a little careful, still a little hesitant, but steadier than before.

You open the fridge, the cold air a sharp contrast to the warmth settling in your chest. “Are you hungry?” you ask, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, but the question is genuine. You need something to do, something to tether yourself back into the tangible, something to dilute the thick tension that still lingers between you.

Aaron exhales, the ghost of a chuckle beneath his breath. “I could eat.”

It’s such a simple answer, but it makes you smile. A quiet, grateful thing.

You busy yourself gathering ingredients, pulling out what you can with deliberate focus. Bread. Cheese. Something easy, something mindless. You’ve done this a hundred times—after late cases, when your body is too tired for anything elaborate but your mind is too wired to sleep.

Aaron watches, but not in a way that unsettles you. His gaze is steady, patient, like he’s waiting for you to dictate the rhythm of whatever this is.

“You don’t have to stand there,” you murmur, glancing at him as you set a pan on the stove.

He hums, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your side. “What are we making?”

“We?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “I assumed this was a team effort.”

You shake your head, focusing back on the pan as butter melts in the center. “It’s just a grilled cheese, Hotch.”

“Then I’m sure I can help.”

You don’t argue, though there’s something about the image of Aaron Hotchner making a grilled cheese sandwich that nearly makes you laugh. Instead, you hand him a slice of bread and let him take over, watching as he works in comfortable silence.

It’s easy, standing here with him like this.

And for the first time tonight, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this could be simple, too.

The sizzle of butter against the pan fills the quiet space between you, but your thoughts are elsewhere—circling the weight of this moment, the quiet divinity of it.

Aaron stands close, sleeves rolled up, the golden glow of your kitchen light catching the slight furrow in his brow as he carefully presses the sandwich into the pan. He treats it with the same precision he gives everything—handling something as simple as this with the same care as he does a gun, or a case file, or a person he’s sworn to protect.

It shouldn’t feel sacred, but it does.

There is something terrifying in the ease of it—in the quiet devotion of sharing a kitchen, in watching his hands work, in the way he glances at you as if to ensure you are still here, still real. There is something terrifying about being witnessedlike this, wholly and without demand.

It reminds you of stories you read as a child, of devotion poured from one vessel into another. Of sacrifice and faith, of saints and sinners alike giving themselves over to something greater than themselves. All in. No half-measures.

The idea of giving yourself over to someone—to be known like this, in every small and unnoticed moment—burns at the edges of your mind.

Because you see him, too.

You see the way his brows pinch in focus as he lifts the sandwich to check the color, the way he frowns when it’s not quite right. The way he tilts his head slightly, listening for the sound of the crust crisping beneath the weight of his spatula. The way his shoulders settle, not tense but aware of you. Always aware.

It is so easy to fall into this—into him. The ease of this moment is a quiet betrayal of the fear still curling in your ribs.

Because you want this. Him.

And wanting something this much, something that feels so wholly right, is the most terrifying thing of all.

Aaron must sense something in you—some quiet turmoil you haven’t named—because he turns, meeting your gaze with something unbearably gentle. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

And when he hands you half of the sandwich, the warm press of his fingers against yours feels like an unspoken vow.

The sandwich is warm in your hands, but you barely taste it. Your mind is elsewhere, spinning itself into delicate knots you’re not sure you can untangle.

You watch Aaron, the quiet way he eats, the way his fingers curl around the napkin he doesn’t quite use. The way he always chews a little slower than necessary, like he’s learned to be mindful of the smallest things, like he knows the weight of savoring something—how rare it is to be given something simple and good.

He looks at you between bites, not with expectation, not waiting for you to speak, but just looking. Present. Steady.

You wonder what it would be like to let him see all of you.

Not just the quiet, competent agent he trusts in the field. Not just the awkward, hesitant thing you become under the weight of his attention.

But all of it.

The things you keep tucked away, the things you don’t like to look at too closely. The weak, the ugly, the unpolished. The parts of you you’ve hidden behind layers of self-preservation, behind careful smiles and quiet nods and an unwavering dedication to keeping yourself small.

You’ve spent so long convincing yourself that your careful restraint is a kindness—that keeping yourself contained, giving only the good and holding back the rest, is the best way to keep the people you love close.

But Aaron doesn’t take pieces of you. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t dig his fingers into the edges of you looking for something to unfold. He simply waits.

And somehow, that makes you want to give.

To crack yourself open like the fragile thing you are, to pour yourself into his hands and say, Here. Here I am, for better or worse. Do you still want me now?

Would he take the raw, unfiltered version of you? The parts that make no sense, the thoughts that spiral too fast, the fears you can’t name? Would he hold them the way he holds everything—with quiet reverence, with the same careful patience he’s giving this moment now?

Would he love you, if you let him?

And more terrifying still—

Could you let him?

Faith has always been a foreign thing to you—something you were taught to have, something you were told to nurture, but never something you truly felt.

You tried. God, you tried. You folded your hands in prayer as a child, whispered words into the dark, but they never felt like yours. You sat in the pews, still and small, let sermons wash over you like baptismal water, but you never came out clean.

The weight of it—the expectation of belief, the demand for devotion without proof—left you hollow. They told you faith was certainty in the unseen, but you could never find comfort in blind trust.

So, you let it go.

Not in one grand act of defiance, not in a moment of clarity, but in slow, crumbling pieces. You stopped asking for signs. Stopped waiting for answers. Stopped pretending to believe in something that never made itself real to you.

You are not a woman of faith.

And yet.

You believe in Aaron.

It’s a quiet, creeping thing—not the overwhelming, all-consuming devotion you were told faith should be. Not something demanded, not something you owe, but something freely given. Something that grows.

It’s in the way he looks at you now—calm, steady, expectant, but never forceful. The way he waits for you to be ready, to be certain. He asks nothing of you. He doesn’t need your belief, doesn’t press you for assurances you can’t yet give.

And maybe that’s why you want to give them.

The feeling unfurls slow and careful inside you. Not holy, not sacred, but real.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to lay your whole self bare, to place your fragile, beating heart in his hands and trust him not to break it.

But you believe he wouldn’t.

You believe in this, whatever it is, wherever it leads.

And for the first time, faith doesn’t feel like a burden.

It feels like hope.

"You're staring at the bread like it personally offended you."

Aaron’s voice breaks through the thick fog of your thoughts, dragging you back to the present. You blink, refocusing on the cutting board in front of you—half a loaf of sourdough, a butter knife hovering uselessly in your hand.

You must have been standing there for a while because Aaron is leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, watching you with the same mix of patience and quiet amusement he always seems to have reserved just for you.

Heat prickles up the back of your neck. "I—" You clear your throat, forcing yourself to move, to slice the bread like a normal person and not a woman on the verge of an existential crisis. "I was just thinking."

"About?"

About faith. About belief. About giving myself to you in ways I never could with God.

You spread butter onto the slice with too much focus, too much force. "Nothing important."

Aaron makes a quiet sound—something like a hum, something like a laugh. "It looked important."

You chance a glance up at him. He’s still watching you, still waiting, but there’s no pressure there, no push. Just quiet patience.

Your chest tightens.

You nudge a plate toward him instead, deflecting. "Eat your bread, Hotchner."

He takes it without argument, but the way he’s still looking at you makes you think he’s not letting this go.

Aaron takes a slow, deliberate bite of his sandwich, watching you over the rim of his plate. "You know," he muses, "for someone who insists on feeding me, you didn’t exactly make a balanced meal. Where are the vegetables?"

You scoff, setting your own sandwich down. "You're welcome to dig through my fridge and find a carrot stick, but good luck. I think there's a single wilted bag of spinach in there that I bought optimistically and then ignored."

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "That sounds about right."

"You’re welcome to bring me groceries next time if you’re so concerned," you add, flashing him a small, teasing smile before taking another bite.

Aaron lifts a brow, clearly pleased by your rare willingness to push back. "So you’re already inviting me over again?"

You roll your eyes. "I’m just saying, if you’re going to judge my meal prep—"

"I wasn’t judging," he interrupts smoothly, voice warm with amusement. "Just… observing."

You narrow your eyes at him, mock-suspicious. "Observing, huh?"

"Mm-hmm," he hums, finishing the last of his sandwich. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, then leans slightly toward you, elbows resting on the counter. His voice drops just enough to be dangerous when he adds, "Like how you’re getting better at teasing me back."

You freeze mid-chew, suddenly regretting every word you just said. You force yourself to swallow, trying to maintain your composure. "Well, someone has to keep you humble."

"Is that what you were doing earlier?" He tilts his head, faux-curious. "When you kissed me?"

Your entire body tenses.

The playfulness fizzles out of you so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. Your mouth opens, then shuts again, warmth flooding every inch of your skin as you suddenly become hyperaware of everything—of the way he’s watching you, of the ghost of his lips still lingering on yours, of the way your hands twitch in your lap like they don’t know what to do.

Aaron doesn’t push. He just waits, looking far too pleased with himself.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh and immediately break eye contact, staring hard at the counter. "I hate you," you mutter.

"You don’t," he replies, and damn him, he's right.

Aaron doesn’t let up. He leans in just a little closer, just enough to make you squirm. His voice dips lower, deliberate and slow.

"You know," he murmurs, "for someone who kisses like that, I wouldn’t have expected you to get this shy about it afterward."

Your spine straightens like he’s just yanked you upright with an invisible string. "I—"

But you don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to breathe properly under the weight of his gaze, like he’s cataloging every tiny twitch of your expression, every little way you crumble under the heat of his attention.

Aaron, to his credit, looks like he’s enjoying every second of it. His mouth tugs at the corners, his amusement restrained but not hidden.

"That was a compliment, by the way," he adds, as if that makes it better. As if it won’t set you even more on fire.

You cover your face with one hand, willing yourself not to combust. "You’re being mean."

He lets out a quiet chuckle. "I’m being honest."

"You’re enjoying this," you accuse, peeking at him through your fingers.

His silence is answer enough.

You groan, tilting your head back as if pleading with the ceiling to strike you down. "I was having such a nice time eating my sandwich."

Aaron nods, completely unrepentant. "And now you’re having a nice time blushing in your own kitchen."

"I take it back. I do hate you."

"You don’t," he counters smoothly, just like before. Then, after a beat, he adds, "But I do love watching you get all flustered."

You drop your hand from your face just to glare at him properly, but it only makes his smirk deepen, his eyes crinkling with quiet delight.

It’s almost unfair how much of an upper hand he has—how easily he can undo you with just a few well-placed words. And worse, he knows it. He’s reveling in it.

"I’m never kissing you again," you grumble, mostly as a defense mechanism.

Aaron exhales a soft laugh, then tilts his head, considering you for a long, knowing moment. "I don’t believe that," he says simply.

You don’t either.

Aaron leans back in his chair, completely at ease, completely insufferable, and looking so pleased with himself that you kind of want to shove him. Gently. Maybe.

"I don’t believe that," he repeats, smug and steady, like he’s saying something as simple as the sky is blue or I know exactly how to make you melt.

You cross your arms over your chest, mustering up every ounce of composure you have left. "You don’t know that."

He just lifts an eyebrow. "Oh? You’re really never going to kiss me again?"

"Never," you declare, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. "Not once. Not ever."

Aaron hums, nodding along, though there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes. "That’s a shame," he muses, "because I was going to say that I think we should practice more."

You choke on air.

"Practice?"

"Mhm," he says, and then—because he’s the worst—he takes another casual bite of his sandwich, like this is just some regular, normal conversation.

Like he hasn’t just suggested practicing kissing. With him.

You press your hands to your face again. "I hate you so much."

Aaron laughs, soft and warm, and suddenly there’s a gentle touch at your wrist, coaxing your hands away. You let him, mostly because you think you might actually pass out if you try to hide behind them any longer.

"Let me see you," he murmurs, and just like that, his teasing fades into something softer, something that has your stomach flipping for an entirely different reason.

You lower your hands.

He smiles—small, but real. "There you are."

Your heart does something absolutely ridiculous in your chest.

"You are so unfair," you whisper, shaking your head.

Aaron just tilts his head slightly, his expression all warmth and quiet amusement. "I don’t know what you mean. I’m just sitting here, enjoying my sandwich."

"You weaponized a sandwich," you accuse, pointing at him, and he actually chuckles, shaking his head.

"I did not—"

"You did. You used the sandwich as a distraction while you flirted with me!"

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "Alright, you got me. I was flirting with you. And it was very successful, I might add."

You groan, dropping your head to the table. "I am so done with you."

Aaron smirks. "No, you’re not."

You peek up at him. "How do you know?"

"Because you’re going to stay, and we’re going to keep doing this—me making you blush, you pretending you hate it"—and one day, when you’re ready, you’re going to kiss me first."

You gape at him. "Absolutely not."

His smirk deepens. "We’ll see."

You lift your head and squint at him, trying to determine whether he’s a mind reader, a wizard, or just too good at reading you. Probably all three.

Aaron leans forward slightly, lowering his voice to something unbearably fond. "I like you," he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Your stomach swoops.

"You—" You cut yourself off, floundering. "I—I like you, too."

"I know."

You huff, rolling your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips.

Aaron grins. "See? We should practice."

You swat at him, and he catches your hand, laughing, laughing like you’re something light in his chest, like you are something warm and easy and good.

You think you might let him keep you.

You try to glare at him, but it’s useless—he’s already got that insufferable grin on his face, and the warmth in his eyes makes it impossible to hold onto any semblance of frustration.

Aaron still has your hand, his thumb brushing idly along your knuckles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just that unfair.

"You’re too smug for your own good," you grumble, though your voice lacks any real bite.

He tilts his head, considering. "I don’t think that’s true," he says, the teasing still evident, but softer now. He tugs lightly on your hand, coaxing you closer. "You just make it easy."

You scoff, but you don’t resist when he pulls you in. "I make it easy?"

He nods, all confidence, all ease, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like you are.

You should say something clever. You should push back. You should do something.

But then he’s leaning in, and his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, and every thought you’ve ever had vanishes into nothing.

You mean to pull away, to protest but he presses a featherlight kiss to the corner of your mouth, and the words dissolve on your tongue.

"That doesn’t count," you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

Aaron hums, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone. "No?"

You shake your head, though you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince.

"Hmm." He leans in again, and this time he does kiss you—properly, fully, but still playful, still teasing, still drawing you in like he knows exactly how to unravel you.

You do pull away then, just for a second, just long enough to narrow your eyes at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

He smirks. "Undeniably."

You huff, rolling your eyes, and then you’re the one grabbing him—fisting the front of his shirt and pulling him down into another kiss before he can say something else smug.

This time, there’s nothing playful about it.

He makes a low sound in his throat—surprised, pleased, needy—and his hands are on you, warm and steady, one at the nape of your neck, the other settling firm at your waist. You shudder at the feel of his fingers splaying across your skin, like he’s grounding you, like he’s holding on just as much as you are.

You let him pull you closer, let yourself sink into him, into the heat of his mouth, the gentle insistence of his touch. He tastes like peanut butter and something deeper, something heady, something that makes your stomach swoop.

By the time you part, you’re breathless, your fingers still curled into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

Aaron studies you, his gaze flickering over your face, searching. And then—so quietly, so earnestly—

"I would never leave you."

The words hit something deep, something tender, something you’ve tried so hard to keep hidden.

Your throat tightens.

He must see it, because his hand moves, his thumb brushing gently along your jaw. "Never," he repeats, his voice steady.

You believe him.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s not so terrifying after all.

[sheeple]

Part two to this. This series also has a title now: John has liked your photo! Hope you enjoy this as much as last time. Does it also show how little I know about kissing?

The second time you and John see each other in a cafe in the city centre. This time it's you who suggests meeting up. It made John feel giddy and like a schoolboy again when your text lit up his phone screen.

Your anxiousness made you way too early — as usual. But not too soon after, John appears in the cafe, also way too early. It makes you giggle.

"What is your go-to coffee order?", you ask while waiting in line, eyeing the menu and the delicious-looking pastries.

John hums, his hands clasped behind his back. "I hate to disappoint you, doll, but I'm a black coffee guy. Or tea."

Turning towards him with your eyes wide, not knowing if it is because of the nickname or the confession to drink coffee with nothing in it. "Not even some milk?"

He shakes his head with a smile. "None. If I'm in shipped out I'm happy to get a cuppa so I got used to the stuff raw."

Now you feel stupid for your usual very sweet coffee order. John sees the subtility in your face and he bumps his shoulder against yours. "Well, you are what you eat. So no wonder you're so sweet."

It makes your face heat up and you stumble over your words, not sure how to get out a response.

The line quickly moves along and John orders his black coffee and you your white chocolate mocha. Before he has time to grab his wallet, you've whipped out your phone and paid for it. You give him a daring smile while giving your name.

The two of you go sit in a quiet corner and wait for the coffee to arrive. You are telling some story about what has happened at work this week and halfway your name gets called out. John holds out his hand so you can stay put, and he grabs the order.

"Sorry, go on", he says with a smile when he returns with the coffees, placing yours in front of you with the ear facing your dominant hand.

"So", you say after finishing your story, "we haven't really talked about what we seek. You know... with dating and such." You nervously trace the rim of the glass, glancing up at the man.

John's leaning relaxed back into the chair, his legs spread wide and a comfortable smile on his face. "Gauging the vibe, doll?"

You can't help but feel your cheeks heat up again as you slink slightly down. "Maybe. Wouldn't want to waste your time if you want something completely different than me." You shrug, trying to play it cool.

That makes him lean forward a bit. "You sayin' that your time's less valuable than mine?"

That leaves you gaping like a fish. And it makes John crack a cheeky smile, showing he's teasing you.

"So do I have to worry about crazy exes or something?", he asks with a smile.

You shrug, putting your hair behind your ear. "Don't have to worry about something that's never been there", you say casually, taking a sip of your drink.

John's eyes bulge out of their sockets. Did he hear you correctly? Have you never dated anyone? How could such a wonder as you not have boys and men lined up and down the street, jumping for just a glance from you?

"Do I?", you ask timidly at his wide eyes and no response.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he clears his throat. Now is the time to come clean. "I mean... not like you have to worry about her, but there is my ex-wife."

"Wife?!" You clasp a hand over your mouth as you said that a bit too loud. "A-and for how long are you divorced? If I may ask, at least."

John smiles at your bashfulness. "Almost two years. We were married just short of a year. It was impulsive and I quickly discovered that being married to her wasn't as great as I thought it would be."

Unconsciously, you reach out and take hold of his hand. You can understand how hard it is to admit something like that to practically a stranger. "It must have been hard, going through that time in your life. Never mind the judgement of others."

He nods. "Something like that. It was more of the pitying glances of my family and their comments that got me at first. Their opinions about her and me and our relationship weren't always the kindest. But you get used to it and after a while, you get desensitized."

As you open your mouth to say something, a call of your name makes the two of you turn your heads. "Oh lord", you mumble as your aunt and cousin come walking towards the two of you.

"How are you, dear? " your aunt smiles widely, pulling you up for a hug. "I haven't seen you in a while! How's school? Oh, right. Your mum told me you quit and are working now. How do you like it? And who is this?" She turns her attention towards John.

The man dutiful stands up and offers his hand to your aunt. "John Price, ma'am."

From behind your aunt, you see your cousin lean over and mouth the words, "Who's that?", to you. "Date", you mouth back. She checks him once over and nods in appreciation.

"Oh mum, didn't you say you needed to go to that one store before it closes?", asks your cousin loudly, pulling the attention from your aunt.

"Right! It was lovely meeting you, John. See you next time, dear." Your aunt kisses both your cheeks as a goodbye before pulling her daughter behind her. You just know you'll get a text from her later on to demand the tea.

"I am so sorry", you laugh as you sit back down, hiding your face behind your hands.

John joins you and shakes his hands. "It's fine. Aunts are kinda my speciality."

"Really?"

"No", he smiles.

The rest of the afternoon goes by with smiles and laughs and good conversation until the staff has to, again like last time, kick you out and you're reluctant to say goodbye to John.

He walked to your car. It cracked him up to see the bright yellow car that lights up when you press the unlock button. Oh, how fitting of you to drive such an eyesore.

You hoover by the door, fiddling with your keys. "I had a really good time today, John." You shyly look up, your cheeks radiating heat.

John slowly inches closer, laying a hand on your cheek. "I did too." His eyes flicker between your own and your lips. You can't help but swipe your tongue over your bottom lip before taking it between your teeth.

"I desperately wanted to kiss you all day. Can I kiss you?"

Looking at him, you nod, searching for the right words. Stumbling out a 'yeah', John closes the distance and lightly presses his lips against yours.

Not knowing what to do, you lean into the kiss and close your eyes. John slides his other hand around your middle to pull you flush against his body. Your hands feel awkward so you replicate what you've seen over the years in movies and TV and place them first on his shoulders before sliding to the back of his neck.

A soft grumble comes from deep within his chest before you pull back, feeling like you are going to pass out if you don't. Either from the lack of air or your first-ever kiss.

Smiling wide, John rests his forehead against yours. "How am I to drive away from you now, doll."

You shrug, still slightly out of breath. "I'm wondering that myself." A giggle escapes you, licking your lips. "But I really have to go through... My parents are waiting for me. We're going to my grandma..."

"Those blasted parents of yours", teases John, letting go of you. "But if you have to go. Text me when you get home safe?"

You nod, opening your car door. "Will do. You too?"

John nods with a smile and watches how you drive away. Dear God. Is he crazy that he could envision the rest of his life together with you after the second date?

[cambankromyy]

THE ISLAND LOOKOUT (pt.10): get a room - (smau & irl au) childhood bsf!rafe cameron x thornton!reader

series masterlist; general masterlist; taglist

warning/an; kinda? implied smut/sexual content. i think real real smut is coming in ch.12... AFTER midsummers

part 9 - part 10 - part 11

you pull into tannyhill, the headlights cutting through the driveway as you park. the drive from the chateau was quiet, the kind of calm you didn’t realize you needed until you finally had it, especially after almost being caught with jj.

sarah’s already out of the car and heading toward the front door, phone in hand. "need to grab a few things before dinner," she says without looking up. you just follow her inside, not even bothering to answer. you can hear her moving around in the kitchen as you take off your shoes and toss your bag onto the couch.

it’s quieter than usual. too quiet. you glance around, the house emptier than you’re used to.

"where’s everyone?" you ask, scanning the room.

sarah doesn’t even glance up. "wheezie day. ward and rose took her out."

you nod, not needing any further details. you’ve learned enough to know the deal with wheezie and her little trips.

you don’t ask about rafe, though. "oh, i think he’s with topper at the club," sarah adds, clearly not caring enough to offer anything else.

you just shrug. it’s whatever. not like you’d want to hear any more about them tonight.

dinner’s laid-back, comfortable. nothing extraordinary, just easy chatter and the usual back-and-forth. it’s simple. you laugh, maybe share some stories. by the time you finish eating, you're full and content, ready to crash.

you drop sarah back off at tannyhill after dinner, settling into your bed as soon as you get home, scrolling through your phone. the house stays quiet, though you can hear the crashing waves outside and the occasional sound of footsteps outside. at some point, you hear the front door open. voices—muffled, indistinct. you figure topper and ruthie are back, a little earlier than usual— 10 pm. maybe drunk and stumbling, but then the voices fade, and you don’t think much of it.

until you hear it.

a sound. a very specific sound.

your brow furrows. you sit up, listening closer.

moaning.

you immediately groan, flopping back onto your bed. ugh. topper. gross.

it wouldn’t be the first time. he and ruthie were shameless, and unfortunately, the walls in this house weren’t soundproof. you sigh and grab your phone, fingers already moving before you can think twice.

you put your phone down, staring at the ceiling.

it’s fine. you don't care. it’s just rafe. and sofia.

it shouldn’t piss you off as much as it does.

you do not care that rafe is here. you do not care that he’s with sofia. you are completely indifferent.

that’s why you go about your normal night. that’s why you act completely normal as you brush your teeth, change into your pj's, and definitely don't press your ear against the wall to see if you can still hear them.

(you can. you hate it.)

when you get into bed, you try to go to sleep, but your brain is racing. you grab your phone.

sarah doesn't text back after that, probably falling asleep.

you should do the same. but you don't.

the next morning, you wake up early, which is unusual for you. but you refuse to let last night make you weird. you go downstairs to get coffee and pretend nothing happened.

and then you see them.

rafe is sitting at the counter, staring into the void, looking like he didn’t sleep at all. sofia is standing in front of him, digging through the fridge like she owns the place, casually sipping from his water bottle.

topper and ruthie are there too, sitting at the kitchen table, lost in their own world as they eat breakfast. topper’s half-asleep, shoveling eggs into his mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, while ruthie scrolls through her phone, nudging him every so often to show him something. they don’t even glance at you when you walk in.

which is fine. you don’t need them to. you just need to get your coffee and go.

you grab something from the fridge, acting casual, pretending that nothing about this morning is off—that nothing about this bothers you. you brace yourself for something nauseating, some gross display that’ll make you want to walk into the ocean. but then you actually watch them.

sofia’s hand trails over rafe’s shoulder. he doesn’t even react.

she leans in, saying something in his ear, probably something flirty, and he just nods absently, barely paying attention.

when she kisses him, he doesn’t even move forward. it’s all her.

you shouldn’t be, but you are. you’re happy. overjoyed that he could care less about sofia—but it feels so wrong to think like that.

you snap out of it, grab your drink, and practically skip out of the kitchen, knowing sofia is just a stand in. for who? you don't know. but some part of you, a feeling buried deep inside, wishes for it to be you.

tags: @italk2god @angelicameron @marleymarleymarleymarley, @queenvane64, @raeven-marie43 @idiotussupremus @sereneera @yesshewrites1 @inlovewithchriss @ethanthequeefqueen @amterasuu @popou61 @drewsstars @yannew @anothertimegirl @flvredcas @yootvi @mrsdrewstarkeyy @niaunofficial @cooper8224 @rafegetinmybed @pogueprincesa @6r4cie @adalia-lovelace @bee-43 @drewrry @masongetinmybed @defnotayonna @lcversvoid @my-name-is-baby @lolasangelz @polli05927 @laniirackssss @rafecameronswifeyy @starsval @hypnotizedstarkey

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴍʏ ᴇᴀʀ

…𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭

angst, smut (mostly descriptive), friends to lovers, unresolved, no happy ending, suggestive, making out, heartbreak, emotional manipulation, self-destructive behavior, toxic dynamics, fluff if u squint, romance, intimacy, friends with benefits, betrayal, unrequited love?, slow burn, self-sabotage

listen to the song that inspired this fic while reading!

word count - 3k

Matt has a scar on his temple. She’s always liked to run her hand over it. The first time she tried, he flinched, batted her hand away, mumbled something about personal space.

She stopped after that. Until one day, he caught her staring.

"You wanna hear a story?" he asked, grinning like he had a secret. "Got mauled by a bear once. Barely made it out."

She almost called his bluff. Almost.

Instead, she smiled, seeing it for what it was... permission. To touch him. To know him in ways he wouldn’t always say.

Maybe she loves that he never tells the truth straight. Maybe she loves that she doesn't really understand him.

Maybe she just loves him.

It was not always a thing. Her… curiousity. Affection. Desire.

When they were very little, she used to follow him and his brothers around. It was easy to. Not to mention that people liked them, because they were charming, and funny, and genuine. She stuck by Matt's side through school, feeling safe and protected under his wing like a small bird. He teased her, sure, even back then. Always sitting beside him, walking directly behind him, looking out for his reaction when she told a joke or shared a story.

Eventually, they reached that age where it was only natural for her to distance herself slightly. Things became less ritual, less assumed, and she found herself asking for permission, looking for his affirmation, seeking out his validation.

Sometime after 10th grade, she started spending the night again. Mostly in Matt’s room. He let her in. And she took what she could get. They didn’t ever cuddle or anything. Mostly Matt would talk, and she would listen. She absorbed everything, every word, every silence. The care she had for him ran so deep she felt it inside sometimes, to the rhythm of her heartbeat, spreading through her like oxygen. He asks her questions sometimes, questions that a part of her finds silly and stupid, his boyish brain not quite at her contemplative level. She forced herself not to mind. To appreciate it.

When she does talk, in those late hours, staring up at the ceiling, she can tell he’s not really listening. He’s too… wrapped up in himself. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He’s probably just stressed. 

She hopes Matt cares. Maybe he does, just not as much as her. He likes the safety of the distance between them. But just enough, sure, maybe he cares.

That night, they end up in his room. He always lets her stay when the world gets too loud. Everything feels too quiet, too intimate here. It’s a comfortable space, familiar in a way that makes her want to curl up and stay forever. She rests her head against his pillow, the soft fabric of his sleeve brushing against her forehead as she stares at the ceiling.

When she wakes, they’re the closest they’ve ever been. The sunlight manages to shine directly into the corner of her eye, so she squints. And then she sees him. Feels him. He’s holding her, his arm draped over her waist, hand grazing her stomach as her back leans against him. She sees him so clearly. Pulling her toward him in the most innocent of ways.

She feels the goodness radiating off her bones and she becomes fearful. That he’s probably known all along, even when she hasn’t. That she likes him. Really, really likes him. 

The heat doesn’t overcome the fear then, it doesn’t pool in her stomach until much, much later. It’s not till they’re eating cereal, all of them together, and someone is telling a story, and all she can do is watch as Matt suppresses his laughter. She can’t help but see the little boy in him, always. Nothing about him is malevolent to her. Even when he smirks, teasing or mocking her, she feels nothing but warmth.

She goes to parties, tries to find another guy, another boy to kiss to avoid even thinking of Matt like that. It doesn’t work of course.

She gives away her virginity to the boy in her math class. The one who didn’t mean any harm and therefore, doesn’t cause her any. He doesn’t make her feel good, but she holds him close to hide his face so that she can tug on the brown hair and pretend all is well.

And then one night, when she finally admits to herself that none of it is working, she allows her mind to wander. To truly contemplate, what it might be like. To be loved like that. By him. 

She doesn’t drift for more than mere seconds before she finally feels the warmth return. In her mind, her thoughts recall how Matt's lips hover above her ear at parties just before he leaves her alone in the corner. She could come already, it’s pathetic.

The fantasy is shattered when she remembers him kissing another girl right after.

She’s not jealous. She doesn’t need to, doesn’t want to feel special. He lets her in, and that’s enough.

She touches herself to kill the emotion, replaying the scene from an outsider’s perspective. His lips on her ear. His lips on her ear. His lips on her ear. It rewinds and distorts but it’s no matter. She’s already sticky and shameful, childlike. 

She doesn’t dare to do it again, she already regrets it and can’t look him in the eye anymore. It’s almost like he knows about the sick fantasy, and he's constantly trying to catch her with his eyes like a hunter. 

It’s only because of this that she pictures him beneath her. His eyes so wide and disconcerted, like a deer in headlights. Just like a baby animal, and her fear dissipates to the rhythm of her touch, pretending, praying that the emotion will die once more if she gives the fantasy just enough room to breathe.

And then one night they’re talking about love, true love. Their beliefs, hopes and truths, and she lies, she lies like she loves him and wants to protect him. Treats herself like the one in the wrong. She knows that this conversation is only happening because nothing will ever happen between them. She hopes that that's true because she can’t handle the end of her love, not in the way he can.

Sometime between their complete and utter closeness, they both find comfort in others. She still searches for Matt though, always, always, always.

Sometime between the external comfort, they find their way back to his room, his bed. And he holds her again, more and more these days and she wonders why.

And it’s sick and twisted because it happens. In his bed. His lips hovering on her ear, expressing his shallow gratitude. She can’t help it, she gasps lightly. It’s the best she can manage without taking advantage of his closeness.

Unfortunately, Matt notices it, and he whispers again. 

“Do you like it, baby?”, she feels his warm breath coat her like the sun, “My mouth on your ear?”

Something shrivels up and dies inside her then, the reluctance, the pre-emptive disappointment, and she nods, squirming in his grip. “Mhm,” she whines. They fall asleep like that, cuddling like lovers as Matt whispers in her ear, sending her into a beautiful trance.

In the morning, they don’t speak of it. He’s there, a vessel of her comfort as always. Days pass, and she touches herself again, thoughts of Matt creeping in as always. 

They remain who they’ve always been to the outside world. Friends. Good friends. But back in his room, as she leans against the wall his bed touches, she doesn’t feel anything like that. 

He’s sitting at his desk, back to her.

“Matt,” she says, her voice quiet, but he turns around as the silence hangs in the air between them, sharp and fragile. “Do you ever think about... us?”

He looks at her, his brow furrowing slightly, and for the first time, she sees something flicker in his eyes. Uncertainty. He chuckles, but it’s not his usual carefree laugh. It’s tight, almost defensive.

“What do you mean, ‘us’?” he asks, trying to mask the tension in his voice with the ease he’s perfected over the years.

She takes a breath, the weight of her own words heavier than she expected. She knows this is risky, but it’s impossible to hold it in any longer. “I mean… us, as more than just…” She gestures between them, frustrated, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding foolish. “More than just… how we are. What we are.”

He shifts, his posture stiffening. His hand tightens against the armrest, his jaw set. “We’ve always been like this,” he says, and there’s that familiar nonchalance, the wall he’s always built between them. “Don’t need anything else. It’s enough.”

Her chest tightens, the words falling flat even as she tries to smile. “Maybe,” she whispers, but her voice shakes. “But what about me?”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat that lingers too long in the air between them. And for the briefest moment, she swears she sees something flicker in his eyes. Something softer, something afraid.

But then it’s gone, hidden behind that same smile that’s never quite reached his eyes.

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” he says, more to himself than to her, his voice a little too calm. “You know that.”

She nods, the weight of his words sinking in. She’s heard this before… just never to her. She should know better, shouldn’t she? But it feels different this time. It feels like a denial, not just of her feelings, but of something they could have shared. Maybe she’s been fooling herself all along.

“I know,” she says, her voice small, barely audible over the noise. “I know.”

It's still not over after that conversation. She’s still completely at his mercy and she can’t bring herself to walk away, to shatter. It’s like she wants him to hurt her. For it to be his fault, and not hers. She tells herself she can move on, that she can bury the feelings that have only been growing with each passing moment. She’s had enough of the games. Enough of the waiting. Even edging herself and relieving herself does little good.

It’s just not that simple.

The next few days pass in a blur. She tries to keep her distance, but something keeps drawing her back to him…like a magnetic pull she can’t escape, the years, the way he’s always been there. And then there’s a moment, late one night, when everything just cracks. They’re in his room again, the same room that’s always felt like home and a cage at the same time. She’s sitting on the edge of his bed, talking about nothing and everything, and then he’s there, too close again.

And before she even knows what’s happening, his lips are on hers.

It’s not like the kisses she’s had before, quick and careless, stolen moments that never meant anything. This one is different. This one makes her feel like she’s floating, like she’s finally found a place she’s meant to be. She’s shocked, clawing at the air for a second. Then his hand cups the side of her face, and she presses closer, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt, pulling him in.

It’s a moment that feels like everything. Like it’s all been leading to this. And for a little while, she forgets about the rules he’s laid down. She forgets about the distance he’s kept between them. She just lets herself feel it, the heat, the intensity, the way his lips move against hers like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

He groans into her mouth, and pulls away abruptly. But she’s desperate, kissing him again as they fall down onto the bed, their chests pressed against each other. 

Somehow the moment is passionate, the way he undresses her, caresses her, tells her she’s beautiful. He whispers in her ear as he moves within her and she whimpers, closer and closer to the high she’s been yearning for. 

His mouth trails over her chest as she arches her back away from him. He cups her breast with his warm hand, kneading it and massaging it. “I love how you respond to me, to my touch.”

He enters her slower, deeper, “I want you to feel it, baby. I want you to feel good. Feel loved.” She moans at his words and looks back, staring into his eyes, the innocent gaze of a friend she’s known for as long as she’s known her own name. They both come with a final rough movement from him and collapse onto each other.

It feels loving, like devotion, and when he eventually pulls out, she feels full of bliss. 

He gets on his knees pulling on his shirt before glancing back at her. She pours all of her love into her post-orgasm stare. He smiles, shy, before looking back down and kneeling down to kiss her core. Slowly but surely, he overstimulates her, making out with the most private part of her, cleaning her, loving her.

She smiles, content. Empty, but newly joined. Hopeful. 

But the next morning, everything is different.

He’s distant again, almost like nothing happened. His eyes avoid hers, and the silence stretches between them like an ocean, too wide to cross. He doesn’t mention the kiss. Doesn’t acknowledge what happened after.

This time, it’s different though. She knows it, and he knows it. The unspoken tension hangs in the air between them, undeniable. They don’t say the words, but there’s a shift. A silent agreement in the way he watches her when he thinks she's not looking, the way she can’t stop looking at him, even as she tries to pretend like it doesn’t matter.

Eventually, after days of this unspoken tension, Matt says something. Casual, almost teasing, like they’re joking, like nothing matters.

“You think we could do this... and whatever? A compromise?” he says, voice low but eyes still holding hers.

She knows what he means. And she knows that this isn’t the kind of thing that can be taken back. It’s an offer, a dangerous one, and she’s so close to refusing, but instead, she finds herself nodding. She’s done pretending. She’s done with the half-truths.

“I’m fine with it,” she murmurs. “Don’t need much more.”

Matt looks at her, eyes sharp. “We can make this work,” he promises, but the words are hollow. She knows that. The question hangs there between them, a fragile thread strung across a chasm of things unsaid. He knows it too. But he won't say it.

They’re tangled together in the silence that follows, a pact neither of them can take back. It’s something they’ve both tried to avoid for so long. But now, in the wake of everything they’ve built up and torn down, it feels like the only thing left to do.

The bed feels too small for both of them, a tight coil that she can't escape. She lies back, her head sinking into the pillow, the weight of the room pressing down on her. Matt’s silhouette stands over her, a shadow she can’t shake off. The space between them is thick, suffocating. She breathes in, and the air feels heavier, as though every inch she takes toward him is another step toward the inevitable.

She tells herself it’s fine, that it’s just for now, just something to fill the space between them, to fill the gaps in the way they’ve always existed. No expectations. No pressure.

But as they fall into each other again, the boundaries blur, and everything shifts. The kisses feel deeper, the touches linger longer. He holds her. He holds her. His mouth over her ear.

She’s still scared, still bracing herself for the inevitable crash, the heartbreak she knows will come when it’s over. But right now, she can’t bring herself to care.

She should feel anger, or sadness… maybe both. But instead, she feels something worse: a sick, hollow longing. It's the kind of want that gnaws at her, the kind of want that tells her that even knowing this will hurt her, she would still do it. She would still step forward. Because for the first time in too long, something feels real, even if it’s doomed..

She’s already made her bed. She might as well lie down with him.

She’s always known this would happen. She’s always known Matt would leave her wanting, never giving enough to truly stay, yet always giving just enough to keep her hooked. But now, with the decisive touches, the silence, the empty space between them, it’s different. The fear she used to feel…fear that he might hurt her, might break her heart, is gone. There’s no surprise in it anymore. There’s only a cold certainty, a sharp knowledge of how deep the hurt will run.

And somehow, she feels it before it even happens… the ache of knowing this will end badly. But there's a strange warmth in the hurt. The promise of it. A twisted comfort, like preparing for a storm you can't stop, but somehow want. The thought of it burns, and she lets it. 

She knows how it will feel when it all unravels, but she can’t help the thrill that shivers up her spine. She can’t help the way her chest tightens with anticipation, knowing just how bad it will get.

She’s looking forward to the kill.

She’ll lie in this bed she made, her heart tangled in him, and she’ll let it consume her, because it’s the only thing that’s ever felt true.

creds to rose @bernardsbendystraws for the dividers!!!

+ thank u @cowboylikenat for ur feedback <3

a/n: i swore i'd never write smut yet here we are.

taglist: @blushsturns @sturnslutz @snoopychris @sturnshood @sturns-mermaid @chrissweetheart comment to be added to my main (non-au) taglist!!

till next time!!!!

[rik0shii]

Hihi! Can I request an angst fic for g dragon and kpop idol reader and they broke up after a while of being together (they were like the IT couple of yg and the Internet) and haven’t interacted since but just stolen glances in public but then meet again after his comeback era (maybe reader was in 2ne1 group 👀)

Sorry if this isn’t specific enough ^^”

I'm so grateful and happy that you and the other writers decided to write for bigbang. AND NOT YOU SPOILING US WITH FICS EVER NOW AND THEN you eat everytime istg

Lysm <3

Lost in the Echo

Years after their breakup, G-Dragon and the reader reunite at a YG concert, exchanging stolen glances and unspoken words. When they finally meet backstage, the past lingers—but before they can confront it, they part ways once more, leaving everything unfinished.

part 2

hii tysm for requesting! im glad you enjoy my writing<333 reposts and comments are appreciated!

The energy inside the Seoul Olympic Stadium was buzzing. The YG Family Reunion had been years in the making—nostalgia wrapped in flashing lights, explosive beats, and voices that once defined an era. It was a dream for the fans, a moment frozen in time for the artists who had built their legacies under the same roof.

But for you, it was something else entirely.

It was a battlefield.

The dressing rooms were loud with stylists running back and forth, fixing makeup and adjusting outfits, but you barely heard any of it. The weight of anticipation pressed down on your chest, and despite the years that had passed, you knew exactly why.

Kwon Jiyong.

You hadn’t spoken to him in years.

Once upon a time, you had been inseparable—the golden couple of YG, the muse and the mastermind, the chaos and the calm. There wasn’t a headline you didn’t dominate, fan edits that didn’t romanticize your love, songs that weren’t indirectly about each other. You were the epitome of what it meant to be untouchable in the industry.

Until you weren’t.

The breakup had been inevitable. Too much pressure, too many expectations, too much everything. It had ended without a dramatic scandal, without a public fallout. Just an understanding—a quiet, painful one—that loving each other wasn’t enough anymore.

And since then, silence.

No texts, no late-night calls, no accidental run-ins.

Just stolen glances when fate was feeling particularly cruel.

But tonight, that distance would be shattered.

“Unnie,” Minzy’s voice pulled you back to the present. “You okay?”

You blinked, exhaling sharply before forcing a small smile. “Yeah. Just nerves.”

Minzy gave you a knowing look but didn’t press. CL, on the other hand, wasn’t as subtle.

“He’s up next,” she murmured, handing you a mic. “You sure you’re good?”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the cool metal.

No.

But that didn’t matter.

Because just as she said it, the stage lights dimmed, and the first beats of his new song Power boomed through the speakers.

And then, there he was.

G-Dragon.

The crowd erupted.

Dressed in all black, his platinum hair messy yet somehow intentional, Jiyong commanded the stage with an effortless arrogance that only he could pull off. He rapped with the kind of fire that made him untouchable, like he owned every inch of the stadium, every heartbeat in the crowd.

And then—he looked at you.

You weren’t sure if it was intentional, if he had known exactly where you stood at the edge of the stage, waiting for your cue. But the second his dark eyes met yours, the air shifted.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Not quite surprise, not quite pain, but something dangerous.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“Missing you” started playing, your song, a song that between his powerful rap you can almost hear the laughs and “i love you’s” that you guys shared while producing it.

The song continued, the moment swallowed by the deafening cheers, but your pulse was racing. It felt like those stolen glances from across award show tables, those fleeting seconds in airport lounges where neither of you spoke but everything was too much.

Except now, there was no escaping it.

By the time his set ended, your heartbeat was still erratic. And before you could steady yourself, a staff member was already ushering you and the rest of 2NE1 towards the stage.

Your legs carried you forward out of habit, but your mind was somewhere else. On him.

On the way his voice had faltered for half a second when he saw you.

On the way he had smirked after, like the ghost of something familiar.

The music started. You went into autopilot, singing, performing, doing what you were meant to do. But you could feel his presence lingering just offstage, watching.

And the worst part?

You were watching too.

Backstage was suffocating.

After the final bow, after the encore, after the screams of thousands faded into the distance, you slipped away from the crowd. Your heartbeat hadn’t slowed down since the moment you’d seen him again, and it was infuriating.

You had moved on.

You were supposed to have moved on.

But the past had a cruel way of dragging you back, no matter how much distance you put between you and it.

“Still running away from me?”

The voice stopped you cold.

You turned, pulse jumping, only to find him standing there, leaning against the dimly lit corridor wall like he hadn’t just ripped open every old wound you had carefully stitched shut.

Kwon Jiyong was a lot of things, but subtle was never one of them.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you met his gaze head-on. “I’m not running.”

He arched a brow, the corner of his lips tilting up in amusement. “You sure?”

You hated that he could still do this to you—make you feel like you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something intoxicating.

“You did well out there,” he said, after a beat of silence. His voice was softer now, lacking the teasing edge.

You swallowed, unsure of how to respond. Instead, you nodded. “You too.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

The silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid, everything unfinished.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he admitted, and for a moment, you thought you heard something real in his voice.

You hesitated, the weight of years pressing down on your chest. “Yeah… me neither.”

And there it was again—that flicker of something in his expression, something like regret, like longing, like the echo of a love that had never fully faded.

But before either of you could say another word, before the past could demand to be rewritten, the sound of approaching voices cut through the air.

The moment shattered.

Jiyong sighed, running a hand through his hair before stepping back, retreating into the shadowed hallway. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you standing there, heart still racing, drowning in the echoes of what could have been.

[reidingandallthat]

what's in a name?

a last late night conversation, where you confront lauren and start questioning if that's even her real name.

emily prentiss x reader words: 1.8k genre: angst cw: set in when emily was undercover as lauren, reader's role isn't mentioned, feel free to assume. lyric prompt: I will not ask you where you came from, I will not ask and neither should you. honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.

a/n: my submission for my beloved @mggslover 's event, lovers1kevent, again congratulations lovely. tried something different so im terrified. ill just hide out after i post don't hmu kekfjrlfk. idk if the stove and fire thingy worked out as I wanted but oh well.

Nightfall fell like a blanket around the cold winter, three steps into the kitchen with just a lamp on. Dim lights remind you of the same moment just a few months ago, hurried hands roaming through kitchen drawers, hoping for just one clue. 

You take a knife, an untoasted piece of bread laid out on a plate, not much patience to turn on the stove so you spread out jam over it. Cold to touch, just like she was before the calamity. 

The thought was scary, not very surprising, but you had your suspicions. You only hoped for them to not be true. 

A clutter shakes you awake, looking around for any intruder or perhaps Declan, maybe he had a nightmare. The sound was brief as if the intruder had only realised the sound they made but you had heard it. 

Slow and tentative footsteps, careful to never make a sound, you try to decipher the direction of the sound. It's hard, now that it's so quiet. 

But then you hear it again, the scraping of a drawer. So you take the knife left on the kitchen counter, yielded in front of you as a warning. 

Just three more steps till you find out who's here but something stops you. You only see a glance of it, but it's all too recognisable. It's her. 

Her expressions are calm but her hands tell a different story. She doesn't dare look up, her eyes glued to the file she's holding open, determined to look at every word on the paper. 

“She must have stayed over,” You think as you see Lauren hurriedly turning over pages. 

Her looking through anything in the house isn't that much strange to you, but it's the middle of the night and her breath quickens at every second that passes. You know there is nothing normal about this. 

But you rest your weapon anyway, making sure to make a sound so she can hear you coming. And as you anticipated, her body reacted instantly, the file being closed and hidden, her hands busying themselves with the water bottle on the table. 

You slowly walk in, suspicion clouding your face. You don't know yet, but she can tell. She can pick out everything you want to say just by seeing your face, but you don't know that, yet.

“Hi.” You say,

“Hey,” she chuckles, “I was just making a sandwich, do you want one?” she asks, a smile betraying her narrow escape, and perhaps even the objective of her arrival, but she doesn't know that yet.

The red color of the jam stares back at you in fluorescent lighting, eyes strained from being open for too long. 

You're not even hungry anymore.

You can sense her now, a presence too heavy to ignore. You haven't looked up in a few minutes but you could feel her staring at you, brown eyes too enticing to ever look into. 

“You should eat,” she says. 

Your eyes close heedlessly, a sharp stab of pain you desperately hoped you never felt, but it was common nature now. You look up and force a smile, not caring much to make it look natural, she can always tell anyway. Another thing that haunts you most days. 

It's very hard to hide from her, but you can never find her, always looking at a distance, never too close or too far.

You’ve told her it's unfair, she only laughs. Cruel.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” 

She smiles, amused, endeared. Cruel.

“So you were sleep cooking?”

You're grateful she can't see you smiling, you don't want to give her the satisfaction. So, so cruel of you. 

“Don't make me laugh.”

“Is that a crime now?”

The garden was more beautiful to you at night, the smell of jasmine was much more prominent but you had to stay away, if you got too close it made you dizzy. 

You hear a sound, but instead of panic a warmth causes goosebumps all over your body. 

You know how you can tell someone's footsteps apart? 

Hers are unmistakable to you, you're positive you can tell her breathing apart from a crowd of thousands. But that's not appropriate to say out loud.

You learned that pretty quick, nothing was to be said out loud, it made it too real. You can't really tell why she comes every time you call, or why you oblige to her insistences, but you do anyway. Why would she kiss you senseless then laugh and tease, why would she let you roll your eyes at her? Why was it fine by you to sleep next to her when no one was home, why did you let everything happen even if it killed you, little by little? 

You’d asked her once, her fingers tracing meaningless patterns on your face, running a line up and down your nose. 

“Memory of a goldfish. Do you know how long that is?” She asks.

“A few seconds.” You answer.

“You think we can be goldfish?”

You laugh, it's music to her ears.

“Strange way of foreplay, but sure.”

She laughs, it's music to your ears.

“Schadenfreude,” You say as you assemble another piece of bread with the jam covering only one side of it.

You turn on the stove, I don't want to eat it cold justifying your actions but you know it's not accurate. Excuses, excuses.

It's because she's talking to you, and a sick need to hear it again and again and again until it grates your ears but that moment never comes. Somehow you're always looking for reasons to extend the time, finding excuses to turn on the stove. 

“Taking pleasure in other's misfortune.” She explains and you roll your eyes, of course she knows.

“Mhm. Good job.” You bite into a separate piece of bread as you wait for the pan to warm.

“Why is that relevant right now?”

“You're a classic example.”

Her eyebrows crinkle in offense and you want to laugh but it only pesters your heart, a rope tightening around your neck. 

“I don't take pleasure in anybody's pain,” She clutches her heart, mock pain, and it's a joke for her, but it's three in the morning. And you're tired. 

“You take pleasure in my pain,” an emphasis on the word ‘my’. 

Her eyes turn knowing, pitiful and sorry and you hate it. You hate that she has the upper hand, that she can tell you're a desperate, pathetic mess. 

“I don't take pleasure in your pain, honey-”

“Don't you fucking honey me.”

You think you can hear your heart beating, you can feel it in your neck, as if it will jump out any minute. The light sound of the clock ticking fills the silence. The pan is too warm now, so you turn down the heat. You don't want to burn your sandwich. 

She knows not to push, it's a known routine now. It stays silent until you take another piece of bread when she speaks again, just like clockwork, memory of a goldfish.

“Why did you turn on the stove if you were just going to eat them like this anyway?”

“I have free will, go away.”

“Just warm them you already have the stove-”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Okay, what's going on? Why are you being so dismissive?”

“Because I can-”

“Y/n.”

You only look at her, it's too hard to string together sentences anymore. This is one of the few select times you're grateful she can read you like a book. She knows what this is about. 

“What's your name, Lauren?”

It's only the second time you've asked that question. The first time the consequences felt too real. Her eyes hold betrayal, anger and every other thing you can think of. 

She should have been confused, dumbfounded when you asked her the first, she should have brushed you off. But she was angry, the biggest mistake on her part.

“What are you asking me??”

“Your name isn't Lauren.”

“How would you know?” 

“Because you don't answer me when I call you Lauren, it's someone else. It's not the same person who responds when I call her honey, sweetheart, angel, just anything else.”

It felt like a dare, who could win the argument, who would say the harshest words, ask the hardest questions.

“You promised not to ask.” It's an accusation.

“You won't tell me your name Lauren.”

“I can't.”

Your head hangs low as you take deep breaths. Fire burns underneath the pan, small and timid like it's tired. You put the sandwich on the stove, not keen on asking anymore questions, they never get answered anyway. 

You don't notice her get up, or walk towards you. You were hoping she'd just disappear, like none of this ever happened. But her hands cup your face and force you to look up. You keep your eyes closed, too afraid you'll recognise the look on her face. 

The same one she adorned when she was looking for answers, begging you to not ask anymore. 

But you're tired.

“You don't have any secrets? What is this then?” She gestures between the two of you, and a shadow falls over your face. It's unkind of her to ask this, it's not a fair question. She knows that, but she asks anyway.

“Are you kidding me? Are you seriously saying that? You?”

“We all have our secrets. You have yours, I have mine.”

A ringing alarm sound breaks your memory. Her hands leave you, hurrying to turn off the sound, to not wake anyone up. 

She flips the sandwich over, and the other side is burnt, too dark. 

“I don't feel real,” You say. It's a quiet admission, only meant for her. You're not even sure if you yourself want to listen to it.

“You're not real, Lauren. Neither of us are.”

You take the sandwich off the pan, soothing your fingers after the hot surface touches your fingertips. 

You look at her and she looks puzzled, it's adorable. The inexplicable urge to kiss her pesters you again, you had vowed not to do it, but she's too close for you to not to, so you reach her lips anyway, just for a second. But she keeps you in place, just a few more minutes, a phrase you've heard too often when sunlight starts peeking through windows. 

You turn the stove off as she lets you go, you take her silence as an apology. You don't think you could take anymore reasonings and explanations. 

...

The everyday noise of the mornings shakes you awake, you can't even tell when you fell asleep. It's only eight am, you've definitely not gotten enough sleep, but you force yourself off the bed.

The housekeeper is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with the same knife you held last night.

You can't really tell if it was real or a dream, if you imagined a horrible goodbye or if that was it. 

But you hear Lauren giggling in the living room, and you hear Declan’s laugh accompanying hers. 

The dream was real, you know now but you don't try very hard to convince yourself that it was real. It's better off as a dream, you think.

As you look at the scene in front of. you, you think of the same sentence you've thought every morning for the past few months, Memory of a goldfish.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: Lost Time

You didn’t mean to forget.

It was just that life had been moving at a relentless pace—school drop-offs, doctor’s appointments, laundry piles that never seemed to shrink, and the constant whirlwind of raising kids. By the time you had a moment to sit down and breathe, the day was already slipping away, and there was always something else to do.

And then, the realization hit you like a gut punch.

You were supposed to be on a plane.

Your stomach dropped as you stared at the time on your phone. Your flight to LA had taken off an hour ago. The trip to visit Marshall for the weekend—just the two of you—was something you had both been looking forward to for weeks. It was rare, getting time alone together, and now you had completely missed it.

Your hands shook as you picked up your phone, heart pounding as you scrolled to his name and hit call. It rang twice before he picked up.

“Hey, baby.” His voice was warm, but you could hear the exhaustion behind it. “You landed okay?”

You swallowed hard, pressing your fingers against your forehead. “Marshall…”

Something in your tone must have told him everything he needed to know, because there was a pause.

“…What happened?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I—I forgot,” you admitted, voice thick with guilt. “I missed my flight.”

Another silence stretched between you. The disappointment was palpable, even through the phone.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, and it made your stomach twist even more.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t even have a good excuse. I just—everything’s been so crazy with the kids and running around, and I lost track of time. I didn’t even realize until just now.”

Marshall let out a slow exhale, and you could picture him rubbing his hand down his face the way he always did when he was frustrated but trying to keep his cool. “Damn, baby,” he finally said, voice softer now. “I was looking forward to seeing you.”

“I know,” you said quickly. “I know, I was too.”

You could hear the hurt in his voice, and it broke you. Marshall never asked for much—he understood how busy life got, how much the kids needed you, but this was supposed to be your time. And now you had let him down.

There was a long pause before he spoke again. “You could try and get another flight tomorrow,” he suggested, but you already knew it wasn’t that simple.

“Marshall… I don’t think I can. The kids—”

“I know,” he cut in, but there was no anger in his tone, just understanding. And maybe that made it even worse.

You closed your eyes, willing the lump in your throat to disappear. “I feel awful.”

“I know you do,” he said, quieter this time. “But I get it, babe. You got a million things on your plate.”

You wiped at your face, hating that you were tearing up. “I just—I don’t want you to think I don’t care. Or that I don’t want to be there.”

“Never,” he said immediately, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice. “You do everything for us, for the kids. I know you love me. I know you wanted to come.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I really did.”

Marshall was quiet for a beat. Then, he sighed. “I miss you, though.”

The admission made your chest ache. “I miss you too,” you whispered.

There was another pause, then his voice turned a little softer, a little playful. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“You owe me.”

Despite the guilt still hanging over you, you couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “Oh, do I?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Big time. I want a whole weekend when I get back. No interruptions, no running around—just me and you.”

You exhaled, already nodding. “Deal.”

“Good.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, just sitting in the quiet together. Even from miles away, he still had a way of making you feel grounded.

“I’ll call you later?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Get some rest, baby. You work too damn hard.”

You smiled, even if he couldn’t see it. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

As the call ended, you sat there for a moment, still kicking yourself for forgetting. But if there was one thing you knew about Marshall, it was that he’d always understand. And you’d make it up to him—one way or another.

---

The guilt still sat heavy in your chest, even after Marshall reassured you he understood. Missing your flight wasn’t just about forgetting a plan—it was about forgetting him, even if just for a moment. And you never wanted him to feel like an afterthought.

So, you were going to fix it.

The kids were finally asleep, the house was quiet, and after staring at your phone for a few minutes, you decided you weren’t just going to wait until he got back. You could still make the weekend about him.

You called him.

It rang twice before he picked up, his voice groggy. “Babe?”

“Hey,” you whispered, biting your lip. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” he exhaled, and you could hear him shifting. “I was just laying here. What’s up?”

You hesitated for half a second before deciding to just go for it. “I wanted to make it up to you.”

Marshall chuckled, low and rough. “Oh yeah? How you gonna do that from a thousand miles away?”

You grinned, settling back against your pillows. “I have a few ideas.”

Silence. Then—“Shit.” His voice was lower now, already catching on. “You tryna kill me, woman?”

“Maybe,” you teased, running your fingers lightly over your bare skin. “You said I owe you. Figured I should start paying up.”

Marshall groaned, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine. “You got my full attention, baby.”

~~~

The next morning, you woke up to a text from him.

Marshall: Damn. Now I really can’t wait to get home.

You smirked, typing back.

You: Told you I’d make it up to you.

A second later, another text popped up.

Marshall: Oh, you’re not off the hook yet. I’m making you pay up in person.

You bit your lip, already feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

You: I’m counting on it.

---

The second you saw the flight tracker update, confirming Marshall was on his way home, you sprang into action.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love having the kids around—you did. But after missing your weekend together, you owed him something uninterrupted. No little voices calling for you, no last-minute homework emergencies, no laundry, no distractions. Just you and him.

So, you started making arrangements.

By early Friday evening, the house was quiet. Your daughters were off at their friends’ houses, giggling about sleepovers and promising to text if they needed anything. You stood at the door after drop-offs, staring into the empty house, nerves buzzing in anticipation.

This was actually happening.

It had been so long since you and Marshall had a weekend to yourselves. Between parenting, his career, and the never-ending responsibilities of life, time together had been sacrificed more than either of you liked. But now, for the next two days, he was yours.

And you were not going to waste it.

You sent him a text as you walked through the quiet house, already thinking about what to wear, what to do, how to make this weekend one he wouldn’t forget.

You: House is empty. Just me waiting on you.

A moment later, your phone buzzed.

Marshall: That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Plane just landed. Be home soon.

You smiled, your heart hammering in your chest.

Time to welcome him home properly.

~~~

You were practically pacing by the time you heard the front door open.

Marshall barely had a second to step inside before you were on him, arms wrapping around his neck, pressing yourself against him. His duffel bag hit the floor with a thud as his arms instantly circled your waist, holding you close.

“Damn,” he murmured, burying his face against your neck. “Missed you too, huh?”

You laughed softly, tilting your head so he could press his lips against your skin. “So much.”

His hands tightened around you, like he didn’t want to let go. “Thought about you all weekend,” he admitted. “Then you go and tell me the house is empty? You tryna kill me, baby?”

You smirked, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You said I owe you, right?”

His blue eyes darkened, hands sliding lower on your waist. “Damn right you do.”

You bit your lip, grabbing his hoodie and tugging him toward the bedroom.

“Then let me start paying up.”

---

The second the bedroom door shut, Marshall wasted no time. His hands were on you before you could even take another step, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through his hoodie and jeans.

“You really sent the kids away for the whole weekend?” he murmured, his breath warm against your jaw as he pressed lazy kisses along your skin.

You hummed, sliding your hands under his hoodie, fingertips tracing over his stomach. “Mmhmm. No distractions. No interruptions. Just you and me.”

Marshall let out a low groan, gripping your hips. “You tryna make me fall even more in love with you or what?”

You grinned, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck. “Maybe.”

He exhaled sharply, then suddenly, his hands were on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. He carried you to the bed, dropping you down onto the mattress before climbing over you, caging you in.

“You don’t know how bad I needed this,” he admitted, his voice rough, his eyes locked on yours. “Needed you.”

Your fingers tangled in the front of his hoodie, pulling him down until your lips brushed against his. “Then take what you need.”

And he did.

~~~

Hours later, you lay tangled together in the sheets, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers traced lazy circles along your back, his touch light, comforting.

“I should’ve just flown home early,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “Screw LA. This is where I wanna be.”

You smiled sleepily, pressing a kiss against his skin. “Well, you’re here now.”

He sighed, squeezing you closer. “Yeah, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You shifted, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could look at him. “Promise?”

He cupped your cheek, his thumb grazing over your skin as his eyes softened. “Swear on everything.”

Your heart swelled, and you leaned in, pressing your lips against his in a slow, lingering kiss.

For the first time in weeks, there were no schedules to keep, no places to be. Just you and him, making up for lost time.

---

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. You stirred slightly, shifting against the warmth wrapped around you, only to feel Marshall tighten his grip. His arms were locked around your waist, his face buried in your hair, his breaths slow and steady against your skin.

"Mm-mm," he murmured, voice thick with sleep. "Not movin' yet."

You smiled, stretching slightly before settling back against him. "Not even to eat?"

Marshall let out a groggy sigh, but instead of answering, he kissed the top of your shoulder, his lips lazy and warm. "M’too comfortable," he admitted. "Stay a little longer."

You turned in his arms, brushing his messy hair back from his face. He looked softer like this—sleepy, relaxed, the weight of the world momentarily lifted.

"You wanna take a bath?" you offered, running your fingers lightly over his jaw. "Then I’ll let you go back to being a human blanket."

His eyes cracked open just enough to look at you, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, alright," he muttered. "Long as I don’t gotta do any work."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "Just sit there and be pretty, babe."

He chuckled, stretching before finally releasing you from his grip, letting you drag him out of bed.

~~~

The hot water soothed your sore muscles, but the real comfort was the way Marshall held you. He sat behind you in the oversized tub, his arms wrapped around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder. His fingers traced light patterns along your stomach as the steam curled around both of you.

"Could stay like this forever," he murmured, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your neck.

You smiled, tilting your head back slightly against his chest. "We kinda have to eat at some point."

Marshall huffed, but reached for his phone resting on the edge of the tub. "Fine. What do you want?"

"Surprise me."

"You say that now, but if I order somethin’ weird, you’re gonna give me that look," he teased.

You turned your head to glance at him. "What look?"

"The ‘Marshall, what the hell is this?’ look," he mimicked in a higher-pitched voice, making you laugh.

"Just order, dork," you said, nudging him.

He smirked, placing the order before setting his phone aside. "Done. Now stop distracting me, I’m tryna relax."

You rolled your eyes, but secretly, you loved how soft he was being. He wasn’t always like this—he had his tough exterior, his walls, the weight of his career always hanging over him. But with you, in moments like this, he let himself just be.

And you cherished every second of it.

~~~

By lunchtime, the food had long since been eaten, and you were curled up together in bed, mindlessly watching something on TV. But as you looked over at Marshall, you could tell his mind was elsewhere. His brows were drawn slightly, his jaw tense, fingers absently tapping against his stomach.

You reached over, running your hand along his arm. "What’s on your mind?"

He exhaled sharply, his fingers stilling. "I dunno," he muttered. "Just… been thinkin’."

"About what?"

His eyes flickered toward you before he sighed. "Does it make me a bad dad that I needed this? Like, two weeks away from the kids, and instead of gettin’ home and spendin’ time with them right away, I just—" He gestured vaguely between you two. "I just wanted this. You."

You frowned, sitting up slightly. "Marshall—"

"Nah, I mean, I love them more than anything, you know that," he said quickly. "Just… what kinda dad dips out for two weeks, then sends them away for the weekend soon as he gets back?"

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "The kind of dad who also needs to take care of his relationship," you said softly. "The kind of dad who gives everything to his kids, but also deserves time for himself. And with me."

Marshall exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "I just don’t ever want them to feel like I’m not there enough."

"You are there," you assured him. "And they adore you. But you can’t pour from an empty cup, babe. We needed this time, too. You needed it."

He let out a slow breath, nodding slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, you’re right."

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You’re an amazing dad, Marshall. The girls know it, I know it. And this weekend doesn’t change that."

He gave a small, grateful smile, tugging you closer. "Love you," he murmured against your hair.

"Love you too," you whispered.

And as he held you tighter, you could feel the tension finally start to melt away.

---

The weekend had been everything you and Marshall needed—slow, intimate, and uninterrupted. But as Sunday afternoon rolled around, reality crept back in.

You were curled up on the couch together, your head resting on his chest while he mindlessly ran his fingers through your hair. The TV was on, but neither of you were really paying attention.

Marshall sighed, his grip tightening around you. “Guess we should probably get the kids soon, huh?”

You hummed, tracing light circles on his stomach. “Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

Marshall let out a low chuckle. “We’re terrible.”

You grinned, tilting your head up to look at him. “Or maybe we just really needed this.”

His blue eyes softened as he brushed a thumb over your cheek. “Yeah… we did.”

You leaned into his touch, savoring the last few moments of quiet before everything picked up again. “But we should go before they start thinking we abandoned them.”

Marshall sighed dramatically, shifting under you. “Fine. But only ‘cause I don’t want them tellin’ their friends their dad ditched ‘em for their mom.”

You laughed, pushing yourself up. “C’mon, let’s go get our babies.”

~~~

The drive was filled with comfortable conversation, Marshall tapping along to the beat of a song playing low on the radio.

“You think they missed us?” he asked as he pulled into the driveway of your oldest’s friend’s house.

You smirked. “I think they missed you more. You’re the fun parent.”

He scoffed, throwing the car in park. “Nah, they just like me ‘cause I let ‘em stay up too late.”

You laughed, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Exactly.”

The front door swung open before either of you could get out, and your daughter came sprinting toward the car.

“DADDY!”

Marshall barely had time to react before she jumped into his arms, wrapping herself around him.

“Damn, girl,” he grunted, catching her with ease. “You act like I was gone for a year.”

She giggled, squeezing his neck. “Two weeks is a long time!”

You watched as his entire face softened, his arms holding her tight against him. That doubt he had earlier about needing time with you? Gone. Because no matter what, your girls knew he loved them.

And as your other daughter came running from the house, yelling “Daddy!” just as loud, you knew there was no place he’d rather be.

---

The house was filled with warmth, laughter, and the soft hum of a movie playing in the background. The four of you were curled up on the couch under a pile of blankets, limbs tangled together as you soaked in the simple joy of being close.

Marshall sat in the middle, your youngest daughter curled up against his chest, her tiny fingers clutching onto his hoodie like she was afraid he might disappear again. Your oldest was tucked under his other arm, her head resting against his side. And you? You were right next to him, your legs draped over his as he absentmindedly traced circles on your thigh with his fingertips.

“This is the best night ever,” your youngest mumbled sleepily, nuzzling further into her dad’s chest.

Marshall smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah, baby?”

She nodded against him. “Mhm. I like when we’re all together like this.”

You glanced at him, and the way his eyes softened made your heart clench. He had spent so much time worrying about being away, about taking time for himself and for you. But right now, in this moment, it was obvious—he was exactly where he needed to be.

“Me too, baby,” he murmured, holding her a little closer.

Your oldest yawned, shifting to get more comfortable against him. “Can we do this every night?”

Marshall let out a soft chuckle. “If it means I get to cuddle with my girls? Hell yeah.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “Guess that means we’re never leaving this couch.”

He turned his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a beat longer than necessary. “Sounds perfect to me.”

The movie played on, but none of you were really watching anymore. The girls slowly started drifting off, their soft breaths mixing with the low hum of the TV.

Marshall exhaled, his arm tightening around you. “This,” he murmured, voice low, like he didn’t want to wake them. “This is all I ever need.”

You looked up at him, your heart full. “Me too.”

And as you sat there, wrapped in the warmth of your little family, you knew—there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

[cardsweetheart]

Celebration Dinner

S: Leona treats his dorm well when they deserve it. In a dorm full of animals, sometimes that means feeding their instincts as much as their stomachs. When you insist on sitting in on one of these feasts, just be careful you're not mistaken for part of the meal.

------------------------------------

Raw meat night sounds worse than it is. The initial thought that comes to mind is dishes coming out in waves. A dorm full of beastmen ripping into rare steaks, claws and all. No cutlery to be seen. Plastic laid down for easier clean up of the mess made of the boys and tables. Uproaring and laughter from the crowd of students. Their reward for passing exams well earned.

Okay, maybe it was a bit worse than you'd think.

Instead it's surprisingly quiet. At least to start. The anticipation a buzz throughout the Savanaclaw dining room. It's sitting at the head table and feeling the tension rising in the air. Snarls and growls of frustration slowly making themselves known as the seconds tick by.

Leona stood next to you, watching over as the masses grow restless. He'd warned you that it would get brutal. That the small bits of kindness that was found in the cracks of the dorm would be lost. He'd do all he could to make sure there was no real danger and that he wouldn't drift too far from you just in case, but he also liked to partake to the fullest. You'd promised you can look after yourself and he shrugged.

Soon the sound starts to become more apparent. It's moved to anger. Restrained frustration. An audience ready to riot at their leader if the hunger is denied any longer. For a moment you realize how out of place you were. How easily you could have just made yourself a sacrifice to some demented magical event you didn't understand.

Once he's decided they've reached the edge, Leona gives the signal. The large doors to the hall open and you hear it. The sound of countless paws, hooves, claws all rushing in at once. The room is overrun by a stampede of wild animals you haven't seen since you've arrived to the campus. Antelope panic to find solid footing. Rabbits dart around the room at an alarming speed. A variety of birds swoop through the air.

You catch the eye of a large buck that led the pack of prey. In a second, you see Leona appear out of nowhere, taking the animal's antlers in his hands and lifting it to it's hind feet. Teeth sink into its neck, and you watch it go limp. A moment shared before the pure chaos breaks.

It's first blood. The king has his kill. The rest of the pack can finally eat.

The first noise you pick up on is the crack of bone. Muscle tearing. Tendons snapping. The final cries falling on deaf ears as starving men dig into their catches. The beginnings of territorial fights solved by a passing fox or hog. Scampering as students you'd been in class with only hours before, chase their dinners like its a game. The wet sound of blood doesn't get the chance to echo in all of the mayhem. As the minutes passed, all you can see is red. The stench of viscera hits your nose and you shift in your seat.

It's dangerous. To feel the way you do in this environment. A hall filled with carnivores in their pure instinctual states. When you look across the table, you spot a familiar hyena. The usual charmer you remember is missing. Ruggie is hunched over a chunk of what you can barely identify as Leona's deer. He truly was a scavenger at heart.

Blood coats his hands. Spreading up his arms. It drenches his clothes. Following the lines of his body, you see the soaked face shredding flesh from its mass. The hints of bone peeking out from between ligaments and marbled fat. Fangs properly on display as they rip through the tender meat. A hunt well worth reveling in. He indulges like his typical starving self, but with a newfound desperation. Scarfing down every morsel he can find like it's going to be ripped away the second he hesitates. A low growl ever present at the base of his throat.

The smallest noise you make drags his eyes to you and you can see how they've dialated. Terrified you've angered him, you begin to slip down into your seat. Hoping if you make yourself as non threatening as possible, he will ignore you and go back to the more appealing meal in front of him.

This does not work.

Even as the overwhelming environment does it's best to distract for you, clearly it's not enough to cover for you. Your hands go to the hem of your skirt, as if pulling it down will disguise the smell of your arousal. You know how disgusting it makes you. How abhorrent it is that all this is such a thing for you. If you'd known it would be such a display, you would've never agreed to attend. Never would've put yourself in a situation surrounded by hunting predators when you're attracted to danger, fear, teeth, blood, violence. The concept of being prey yourself being one of the fantasies that has done nothing but reluctantly bloom in the presence of Leona and Ruggie.

So making eye contact with the equivalent of a wild animal a few feet away as you feel the stain on your panties growing, is not the most ideal situation for you. Especially as he drops the slab onto the table with a sopping thud. Alarms scream in your head when it seems forgotten in favor of your attention. A hand presses against the flooded table and he rises from his chair. A slow lean forward and you wish for nothing but to disappear. Visions of broken necks and torn limbs cross your mind. Ruggie's dripping face breaks your comfort zone. Your chest rises and falls as your heartbeat quickens. You wonder if it's loud enough for everyone to hear or if the pounding just in your own ears. If the pulsing between your legs was as obvious as it felt.

"Hey." His old smile was back, but his voice was not his own. It was low and almost distorted.

Throat dry, you struggle to speak at all, let alone clearly, "Y-yeah?"

His eyes look you up and down. The smallest bit of slack goes to his shoulders, almost like he was intoxicated. A chuckle mixes with intention, "You smell good."

A disgracefully loud yelp comes out of you. Surprising even yourself. The minute that passes is painfully long as you both ponder what the next move is. The room feels quieter. Leona's laugh cuts through it all and you whip your head to face him.

"Shut up!" You shout at him. "I need to go!"

You stand, wobbly and weak on your feet. Praying that you can make it out of the dining hall unscathed. With a single shred of dignity left in the morning. That the entirety of the dorm will simply forget that you were even present this evening. Trying not to slip on pools of discarded elk or boar as you do your best to storm out.

The final mistake you make is looking back over your shoulder. Seeing that your boyfriend's gaze has followed your movement through the room. Eyes glowing and obvious against the newly satiated pack. His hunger remained. You witness his head turn for a moment to look to Leona. Wordlessly they share an exchange. A simple smirk and head tilt from your partner and Ruggie is climbing onto the table. Every nerve in your body screams to run.

You know it will do nothing but urge the pair of them on further, but maybe this was to everyone's benefit. A confession without admission. A discovery made without needing a lengthy and embarrassing conversation. Easier to be thrown in the deep end.

Or in this case, chased through the halls of Savanaclaw as the new prey of choice.

[halfway-happyyy]

It'll All Work Out

summary: you are casually involved with a one Mister frank castle, but still have unfinished business with one of his biggest adversaries, matt murdock. angst and soft feelings ensue.

warnings: brief mentions of violence

pairings: frank castle x reader, matt murdock x reader

You awaken in the morning hush to the familiar sounds of the city coming to life around you. Millions of dust particles dance and shift in a ray of 5 AM light from the crack in your curtains. A warm weight shifts next to you, and an impossibly toned arm circles your torso ever tighter. For some inexplicable reason before you turn, you half expect to find a shock of unruly umber hair and ruddy, stubbled cheeks beneath a pair of gorgeous hazel eyes. 

And then, a barely noticeable smile lifts Frank Castle’s lips skyward, and you’re back where you’re supposed to be, as if you’d never left at all.

“Mornin’,” He murmurs and lifts the back of your hand to his lips, brushing it softly.

“Morning, Frank.” You kean into his touch, craving more of it always, as if enough of it will make you forget the way that he felt beneath you.

Frank traces a deliberate fingertip down the bridge of your nose, his molten bronze eyes alert and shining brightly in the inky light of dawn. “Last night was nice.” He offers.

And he’s not lying.

You can still feel the scorching heat from his fingertips on every inch of your body; an inexplicably satisfying ache still exists at the apex of your thighs from being stretched a little too fully by him… “Every time with you is nice.” You take cover from his gaze in the hollow warmth of his neck. The low reverberation of his chuckle against the top of your head causes a tremble to wrack your body, and his hold on you tightens involuntarily. 

When you’re close like this- when there’s no telling where either of you end or begin, it’s entirely too easy to lose yourself in all of it. Your home has been a safe space the last six months. There are no cuts to be patched up, no ghosts in the shadows, no goodbyes.

No Matthew.

“You’re a million miles away.” 

His gravelly tone is teasing, but there is a hint of something else beneath it that causes tidal waves of guilt to ebb away at you and you swallow thickly before answering- “I’m right here.” It’s as much a reassurance for him as it is for you.

A sudden vibration pierces the imminent stillness of your bedroom, the sound of it foreign and unfamiliar, and you frown against the jut of Frank’s collarbone. “Who’s even up at this hour?” His voice is thick with the weight of recent sleep. 

The ringing stops, and you think with relief, that it’s the end of that, but less than a minute later, it starts again and you groan in unconcealed frustration. 

“Whoever it is needs you.” 

Turning in Frank’s embrace, you reach for the phone on your bedside table and blanch at the name flashing across the screen. 

MM.

Frank recoils against you; it’s so quiet in the bedroom that you can hear the particular hitch of his breath as it catches in his throat. He doesn’t have to ask what MM stands for. “Better answer it, sweetheart.” His tone is frigid, touching dangerously close to full-on hostility. He presses a final, chaste kiss to the rounded curve of your bare shoulder, lifts the duvet from his body and swings his legs over the side of your bed.

You watch the muscles in his toned back ripple and flex as he bends down to retrieve the pieces of his clothing abandoned in the searing heat of passion the night before. 

“Frank, I don’t want you to go.” And it's God's honest truth.

A melancholy laugh exits his mouth in the form of a huff, as he shrugs his shoulders. “I’d be lying if I said I wanted to leave, sweetheart.” 

So stay…

“He’s never stopped loving you.” His voice was a wine glass on the precipice of shattering entirely. “And maybe I was on my way there, too.” 

God, this was never part of the plan.

Frank clears his throat, trying in vain to rid his voice of emotion. “I’m confident in my feelings for you. Have been from the moment you poured me that damn cup of coffee,” The creases next to his eyes deepen as he revisits the memory. “But the fact of the matter is that he beat me to it. And as nice as the last six months have been, there are three of us in this bedroom and it’s getting a bit crowded.” Where you expected his gaze to be angry or accusatory, it’s anything but.

Tears prickle threateningly behind your eyes as you hug your arms tighter to your frame. “I’m sorry, Frank.” 

He’s fully dressed now and standing at your window, his hulking figure silhouetted by the breaking morning light is a sight for sore eyes. He shrugs after a while. “He needs you.” 

And what about you?  You want to ask. Don’t you need me to?

But it’s Frank Castle. And he hasn’t really needed anyone for a long time- at least not the way that most people do. 

So, he gathers you in his arms for a final time, presses his lips to your forehead, and takes his leave to go. But before he vanishes from sight completely, he hesitates on the landing of your stairway and turns back to you, his penetrating gaze still just as dazzling as ever. “Right person, wrong time.” 

Right person, wrong time. 

From where you are, you hear the sound of your front door opening, but miss the sound of it closing. Instead, an indecipherable noise emanates from Frank, followed by a humorless laugh. “Well, this is rich.” 

Your heart skips a beat as you throw on an old shirt and take the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, you’re met with a scene that’s still difficult to piece together. Matt is hunched up against the side of your house, beaten and bruised from what looks like a brutal fight. Taking inventory of the damage, you notice a violet bruise blooming beneath his left eye, a shallow cut on his cheek seeps crimson blood, and he’s favouring his ribs. 

“You always were a little too good at taking a beating, Murdock.” Frank spits. 

Matt shifts, wincing from the pain. “If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.” 

“This isn’t funny, Matt.” 

He won’t look at you. Not yet. 

“Do you need a hospital?” Frank asks, finally. 

Matt shakes his head. “Just rest.” 

And it’s the look that Frank leaves you with as he climbs onto the back of his motorcycle; he needs you. He disappears at the end of your street and you find yourself missing his strong, protective reassurance almost immediately. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Matt’s voice is hoarse, and causes goosebumps in waves on your arms. 

“And yet somehow, you always manage to.” You sigh and slide down the wall next to him. Taking his hand in yours, you’re shocked at how cold it is and you turn to him, concerned. “How long have you been out here?” 

Matt clears his throat. “A couple of hours, give or take.” 

“You can’t keep doing this, Matt.” Your statement is quiet, almost lost to the white noise of the city around you. “It’s just too painful.” 

His unseeing gaze is focused on something ahead when a single tear cascades down the front of his cut cheek. It’s an unfamiliar sight; in the many years that you had known him, he’d only let himself cry once or twice. Placing an arm around him, you pull him to you and hold him as tightly as he allows you. When a light rain begins to fall, you tell him it’s time to go in. 

He reluctantly gets up, groaning in pain as he follows you back into your house. While the bathtub is filling, you get to work searching for the proper supplies to start patching him up. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” You ask, and take a step between his parted thighs. “Or shall I rely on my imagination?” 

He gazes up in the direction of your voice, and you can not help but lose yourself in his beautiful hazel eyes. “Lately, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat,” His voice is low and raw with emotion. “And I worry because I don’t feel anything. I just don’t feel anything.” 

His eyes close and you feel your heart splinter.

Ripping open an alcohol swab, you take the back of his head in your hands and warn him that what you’re about to do will sting. You pass it over the cut on his cheek and he flinches against you, his body rigid with discomfort. 

“I get worried that I’ll stop feeling everything one day.” He grunts.

So, under the cover of darkness you become the devil of hell’s kitchen and start fights you’re not always sure you’ll win. 

“A valid fear,” You agree. “You did feel that, though.” You gesture to his cheek, and he only frowns in reply. 

Matt clears his throat, his expression suddenly earnest. “Frank-” You shake your head, your heart twinging at the sound of his name out of Matt’s mouth. The rest of the words fizzle and fade in his throat. 

“Stand up.” You instruct, quietly. And he does as he’s told. You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and carefully lift it up over his head. “Jesus Matthew…” You release a pent-up breath as you notice the smattering of fresh bruises that decorate his upper body like a warzone. He recoils when you pass a delicate fingertip over a particularly dark spot. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks, kid…” 

The sound of your nickname makes you falter. It had been years since you’d last heard it, and where it should have incited immediate frustration, you are surprised to find you’d missed it. Next to go are his pants, which pool on the floor around his feet. Stepping out of them, he shimmies the black boxers from his body and steps into the all-encompassing comfort of the steaming bath. 

Turning to make your exit, a fragile noise rips from the hollow of his throat before he asks if you’ll stay. After a couple of minutes of silent deliberation, you nod your head and take a seat on a stool next to the bath. 

Matt sits in silence for a while, the only other noise in the room is the subtle pitter-patter of rain on the skylight above you. Scars of varying degrees of seriousness decorate the expansive planes of his alabaster chest, and it’s all you can do to keep from reaching out and tracing them. When enough time has passed, you fill a jug from beneath the sink with warm water and pour it over Matt’s head. Pouring a dollop of shampoo onto his head, you work the mixture into a lather in his hair and rinse that out as well. When you’re finished rinsing out the conditioner, he stands up for you in preparation of the body wash. You watch, wide-eyed as water drops race themselves in misshapen lines down the length of his lithe body, and your mouth goes dry at the sight of it all. Taking the soapy sea sponge in your hands, you make quick work of his entire body. 

“Feels good,” He murmurs when you’ve poured the final jug of warm water over him. 

While he finishes up in the washroom, you make quick work of changing over your bed. He wanders in a little while later, his hair still slightly damp despite him toweling off. Lifting the corner of your weighted duvet, he sidles in next to you, and all of it is almost painfully familiar; like he’d been here all along, like he’d never even left at all. 

You both are nose-to-nose now. Every scar, every fleck of green suspended in a sea of hazel is on display for you, and any resolve you might have had before fades entirely. “I did mean what I said earlier, Matt.” 

He reaches a warm palm up to caress your cheek. 

“You pick and choose when it’s convenient for you to let me in and I just… I can’t keep doing it. You’re breaking my heart.” A single tear slips from the corner of your eye, and he doesn’t see it- cannot see it, but his thumb catches it and brushes it away. 

He’s never stopped loving you.

“You’re it for me, kid. I’ll never leave you again.” He doesn’t say what you both know is true; that he’ll never stop doing what he does to protect the city he cherishes so deeply, but there is a truth to those pretty words that simply wasn’t there before. “That is, if you’ll have me.” 

You capture his lips in a kiss that might as well be the last one you’ll ever have, and when you eventually pull away, you’re both breathing hard. Wordlessly, you guide his hand to the spot above your rib cage where your heart beats a slow, steady rhythm. 

“I love you, Matthew.” 

I love you, I love you, I love you

[pacofprunes]

‘gentleman’

k x reader (bad and crazy)

WARNINGS — noncon, use of the word rape

by clicking read more, you consent to reading 18+ content

he’s always been a gentleman. he’s always held the door open for you, always bought you flowers, always grabbed whatever you needed so that you wouldn’t have to get up. he did everything for you at the drop of the hat. so he just wishes while he pressed into you slowly and while you took all his length, that you could just appreciate how kind he’s been and just lay there quiet and pretty.

he’s taking care of you. he’s being gentle. the only thing making it not so kind is the hold he’s got on your wrists so that you can’t get away. but everything comes with a little pain! can’t you see? you have to like him too, there’s just no way you don’t. he’s done everything to help you. he’s been the kindest man in the world to you, he’s treated you like you’re his world. and you are! so can you maybe just let him get a little…compensation?

he knows it’s wrong. he feels bad when he sees your tears rolling down your cheeks, and that’s why he stops looking at you. that’s why he shoves your face into the pillow. that’s why he stops being such a gentleman and starts slamming his hips against you, just chasing his own pleasure. he can’t take it anymore. can you just stop crying? he doesn’t want to see the tears staining the sheets. he doesn’t want to see the tears dripping onto the shirt he left untouched on you. he doesn’t want to see the tears on you and he can’t stand to hear the actual crying. so he just holds your wrists in one hand and your head with the other.

he’s fucking himself out so much that he almost forgets to let you breathe. he wasn’t looking at you after all. he knew he was hurting you and he didn’t want to look up. so he just kept his eyes on your pussy and listened to her sing. when he lets go of your head and you’re finally silent so that he doesn’t shove your face back down he lets out a breath of relief. he doesn’t speak at all to you besides a few “shhs”. he doesn’t want to hear your protests. he doesn’t want to feel your protests. he doesn’t want to see them. so when he finally feels you squeeze around him he smiles and finally lifts his head to meet your eyes, his hair sticking to his forehead and that psychopathic smile on his face. he didn’t look like a gentleman right now. he didn’t look like the k that you had grown to know. none of this felt real and you kept blinking your eyes open just hoping you’d wake up and be at home surrounded by the bunches of flowers and letters he leaves you. but when you felt something warm slipping out of you and leaking down your legs and you felt his grip on you loosen just slightly and you feel his droplets of sweat smacking you in the face, that’s when you knew it was real. and when you felt his lips press against you for the first time, you laying there still in shock not knowing what to do, that’s when you knew it was all real. and when you look towards the corner towards all those once beautiful bouquets of flowers, it’s as if they’re crying too. their once perky stems drooping down and the beautiful pink they once were turns into an almost black shade. you didn’t even know it was possible for the petals to wound up that dark. but then again, you didn’t know it was possible for your best friend to rape you either.

[devixxish]

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x gn! Reader

Word Count: 644

Tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, already existing problems in the relationship, reader doesn't hate the ex, they just hurt,, nothing heavy tbh

A/N: (honestly, idk what this is) I wrote this with Gojo in my mind, but you can imagine anyone tbh, nothing is specified. Uhh take this as you will :D Aight, enjoy ♡

The rain hadn't stopped all night. It hit the windshield in heavy drops, blurring the passing city lights into colorful streaks. You sat in the passenger's seat, legs curled up, fingers lazily tracing invisible shapes on the fogged-up glass of the window. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other idly drumming against the gear shift, music playing low through the speakers.

Neither of you said much. You never really did on nights like this.

You turned your head, your gaze landing on him; watching him in the dim glow of the dashboard. He looked tired- he always did. Eyes fixed on the road, lips pressed together and jaw tight like he was chewing on something he couldn't quite voice. You knew that look all too well. You always knew. It always came when he was thinking about him.

It had been long. How long exactly, you couldn't be sure. Maybe too long. Too long since you had comforted him through the worst of it, since you had picked up his pieces, since you had crossed the line from friends to.. whatever this was. Too long since you had last told yourself it didn't matter, that the past was the past. But the past always had a way of lingering, heavy, unrelenting. And no matter how often or how hard he tried, you could feel it; you weren't the only one lingering. And, perhaps, he knew it too.

"I think about him sometimes," you suddenly spoke up, voice quiet, almost drowned out by the angry thuds of the rain.

His grip on the wheel tightened. "What?"

It took a moment for you to answer. "I see him. In my head.", you clarified, head now turned to the other side as you traced a raindrop down the window. "Like he's still here."

You didn't have to explain further. He knew exactly what you meant.

A deep breath, then a soft sigh. "He's not."

You almost hated how broken he sounded when he said that. Almost.

"Do you see him, though?", you pressed, voice timid as you turned again to face him. "When you look at me, do you ever wish it was him?"

The pause was just a second too long.

The light ahead turned red, and he slowed the car to a stop. The rain only got worse, hammering against the roof of the car, filling the silence he wouldn't.

The air between you had thickened with unspoken truths and unshed tears. You wanted to ask more- Did he love you better? Did he know you more? Am I just a replacement of what you lost? -but you feared you already knew the answers to each and everyone of those questions. And you weren't so sure you would be able to handle hearing the words from his mouth.

You looked down at your hands on your lap, curling and flexing your fingers as if you could shake the feeling away that way.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter," you muttered, reaching for the door handle. You wanted to get out of there. You needed to get away.

But his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist. Warm and steady against your cold skin.

"Don't.", he said, voice low, tired. "Don't do that."

You exhaled shakily through your nose, eyes glued down on where his fingers pressed into your skin.

"Then tell me," you whispered, voice equally as broken and tired as his own, as you lifted your gaze to meet his. "Tell me I'm not a replacement. Tell me I'm not here just 'cause you miss what you lost."

The light turned green. He didn't move. Didn't let go. Didn't speak.

Outside, life kept going. Cars sped past, people hurried under their umbrellas and life kept moving forward like nothing had changed.

But in the small space of that car, everything had.

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