#now someone tells me to do hard work and i just. stop breathing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

p1psqueaks · 9 hours ago

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LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — YOU HAVE A BREAKDOWN AND HE’S THERE TO CATCH YOU

a/n: after everything that’s been revealed about mc, she deserves to have a valid crashout. also i’ve made lots of fluff posts recently so it’s time for some delicious hurt/comfort

ZAYNE

You don’t remember pulling the weapon — only the sound of your own breathing, harsh and ragged in your ears, and the way everyone else suddenly froze.

The air is too thin. The world is too loud.

You stand in the center of the room with your hand trembling, knuckles white around the grip. The others have backed away, eyes wide, uncertain whether to speak or run. They're shadows now, irrelevant.

It’s not them you see.

It’s everything else.

Every choice.

Every failure.

Every moment you told yourself it was fine when it wasn’t.

Your vision blurs at the edges, a red haze creeping in, your heart thundering behind your ribs like it’s trying to break out. You can’t tell if you’re furious or terrified. Maybe both.

“Hey.”

His voice cuts through the fog — not sharp, not demanding, but steady.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Zayne.

He doesn’t raise his hands. He doesn’t step back. If anything, he moves a fraction closer, gaze never leaving yours. He’s the only one not afraid of you right now — and somehow that makes it worse.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly.

You flinch, eyes flicking to the weapon in your hand as if you’ve only just remembered it’s there. It shouldn’t be there. It was never meant to be.

“They don’t get it,” you whisper. Your voice cracks in the middle. “They don’t know what it’s like. Everything’s on me. Every time. I screw up once, and it all falls apart.”

You grip tighter, muscles locked like a storm is passing through you and trying to tear you in two.

“I know,” Zayne says. “I know it’s too much. But this isn’t you. This — this is the fear talking.”

Your hand shakes harder. Your throat feels like it’s caving in on itself.

“I can’t — Zayne, I can’t breathe. I can’t fix it. I don’t know how.”

He finally takes a slow step forward. You don’t stop him.

“You don’t have to fix everything alone,” he says gently. “Not with me here. Okay?”

His voice is like a balm — low, patient, warm even in the middle of all this wreckage. It presses into the chaos in your head and makes a little space where you can breathe. Just barely.

“I don’t want to be like this,” you whisper

“I know,” he says. “Then let it go.”

Your grip loosens. First your fingers twitch, then uncurl, the weapon slipping from your hand to the floor with a dull clatter that sounds far too loud.

And then — then it all crashes in.

The sob starts in your chest and works its way out like a scream that never makes it past your teeth. You collapse before you can stop yourself, knees hitting the floor. Arms around your stomach like you can hold the broken pieces inside if you squeeze hard enough.

Zayne is there before you can fall all the way.

He catches you, strong arms wrapping around your frame like they were always meant to be there. He doesn’t say anything at first — just holds you, steady and still, while you shatter.

You bury your face in his shoulder, fingers clutching at his shirt, and cry like the world ended.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice warm against your ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And somehow, even in all the wreckage — you believe him.

XAVIER

You don’t mean to aim it.

You’re not even sure when you drew it. All you know is that the weight in your hand feels both alien and familiar, and everyone’s gone still—like time has snapped tight around you and won’t let anyone move until something breaks.

Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts. Cold sweat trickles down your spine.

They're talking, maybe. Someone's trying to reason with you, but their voice is too far away, like it’s muffled through water. Your heart is pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.

You didn’t want to hurt anyone.

You just wanted it all to stop.

“Put it down,” someone says — but not sharply. Not fearfully.

Xavier.

Your eyes snap to him. He’s standing still, calm but alert, his eyes locked on yours — not on the weapon.

He doesn’t flinch.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says, quiet and even. “You’re not this person.”

Your throat tightens, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. You want to scream, to run, to disappear. Anything but this. Anything but them all staring at you like you’re a loaded bomb.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” you choke out.

“I know,” he replies softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

You shake your head, vision blurring, hands trembling. “I keep breaking things. Hurting people. I can’t think straight — I can’t breathe— I can’t—” You bite off the rest before it comes out as a sob.

Xavier doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t rush you. He just looks at you, with that steady, unreadable expression of his — but his eyes… his eyes are soft. Almost sad.

“You’ve been holding yourself together with thread and wire,” he says gently. “And pretending it’s fine because you thought no one would stay if they saw you unravel.”

You say nothing. You can’t.

“But I see you,” he continues, and there’s something deeper in his voice now — low, almost reverent. “Not just the anger. Not just the fear. I see you. Even like this. Especially like this.”

Your hands shake harder. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.

He takes one step closer. Still not reaching. Still giving you the choice.

“You don’t need to keep fighting everyone. You don’t need to fight me.”

You let out a broken, fragile sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a breath.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Xavier’s voice lowers to a hush, like he’s saying it only for you:

“There is nothing wrong with you that makes you unlovable.”

Something in you cracks. Shatters.

Your fingers uncurl, and the weapon falls with a soft clatter to the floor. A breath rushes out of you like you’ve been holding it for hours, and your knees give out.

He’s there instantly — arms catching you before you hit the ground, pulling you close. You don’t resist. You can’t. The tears come too fast now, hot and silent, soaking into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face against him.

Xavier says nothing at first. Just holds you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm on your spine like he’s anchoring you to the earth.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs against your temple. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.”

You sob harder at that, clutching him like a lifeline.

“And if the world’s too much,” he adds, brushing his fingers through your hair with exquisite gentleness, “then let me carry some of it with you.”

RAFAYEL

One moment you were arguing — no, begging— to be left alone, and the next, your hand was up, aimed with shaking precision. The room froze. Every voice died. Eyes widened. A collective intake of breath, like the whole world was teetering on a ledge with you.

Someone took a cautious step back.

Another reached slowly for their communicator.

Fear bled into the air.

But not from him.

“Hey,” Rafayel says — and it’s not the voice you expect. Not teasing, not smug. Not flippant. Not him, the way he usually is.

No quips. No grin.

Just… quiet.

Serious.

You flick your gaze to him without moving the weapon. He’s standing a few feet away, arms relaxed at his sides, eyes fixed on yours — not in judgment, not in fear, but something deeper.

Understanding.

“You’re not okay,” he says softly.

The words hit harder than any accusation. Not because they’re harsh, but because they’re true. You feel them like a tremor in your chest.

“I said stay back,” you snap, voice cracking in the middle.

He doesn't move. Doesn’t flinch.

“I know what this looks like,” he says, calm and steady. “But I also know you. And this?” He gestures gently toward the weapon. “This isn’t you. This is what pain looks like when it finally gets too loud to hide.”

Your fingers twitch.

“I wasn’t trying to—” You stop. You can’t even explain it. Not to them. Not to yourself.

Your vision is spinning. Your hands won’t stop trembling.

“Everyone always says ‘you’re strong,’” you mutter, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “But what if I’m not? What if I’ve been lying to them — to me — this whole time?”

For a moment, silence.

And then — Rafayel speaks, and it’s the softest you’ve ever heard him.

“Then you’re human,” he says. “Not weak. Not broken. Just… tired. Tired of carrying too much with too little help.”

You look at him, really look, and for the first time, he’s not wrapped in theatrics or ego. There’s no sparkle in his eye, no dramatic hand on his chest. Just him — open, present, serious in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“I always joke because it’s easier than saying what I really feel,” he says. “But I’m not joking now. I see you. I see what this is. And I’m not afraid of it.”

Tears slip past your lashes.

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says gently. “But it’s okay to scare people sometimes if it means someone finally notices you’re hurting.”

The weapon in your hand feels like it’s burning now.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Rafayel continues. “You never did. You just didn’t think anyone would stay if they saw the real you.”

His voice drops to a hush, steady and warm.

“But I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not when it actually matters.”

Your fingers let go. The weapon clatters to the floor like a gavel calling your sentence to an end.

And then it hits you.

The weight. The shame. The grief. The unbearable pressure you’ve carried too long.

You sink to your knees before you even realize it. The sobs come fast and raw, unstoppable, and the air feels too thick to breathe.

Rafayel is there in an instant — no flourish, no bravado. Just him. He kneels beside you and pulls you into his arms, holding you like something fragile and precious all at once.

His hand moves slowly along your back. The other cradles your head as you bury your face in his shoulder and cry like the world cracked open.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, quiet and firm. “I’m not going anywhere. Let it out. I’ll stay until you’re ready to stand again.”

No mask. No performance. Just truth.

Just Rafayel — more real than you’ve ever seen him.

SYLUS

A part of you is outside your body, watching the barrel shake in your grip, watching the way everyone else freezes — afraid, unsure, waiting for someone else to say something.

Your heart’s a war drum in your chest. Your lungs won’t expand. Your fingers are clenched so tight your knuckles scream.

You don’t want to hurt anyone.

You just want it all to stop.

The pressure. The silence. The weight.

They’re talking — too many voices, too many hands hovering, eyes wide and frightened.

And then one voice cuts through all of it like gravel underfoot.

“Enough.”

You whip toward him.

Sylus.

His eyes are locked on yours — sharp, grounded, and not a trace of fear in them. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. He just looks at you, like he’s trying to will you into stillness.

“Put it down,” he says, low and firm.

You shake your head, throat burning. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” he snaps — not cruel, but sharp enough to slice through the panic clawing at your brain. “I get it more than you think.”

You swallow hard. “It’s too much. I can’t keep holding everything together — I’m trying, but I’m not — I'm not enough.”

Sylus steps forward, slow but deliberate. “Bullshit.”

You blink. “What?”

“You heard me,” he growls. “That voice in your head lying to you? Telling you you’re a problem, a burden, too weak? That’s not truth. That’s fear. And fear’s a goddamn liar.”

You try to keep the weapon steady, but your hand’s shaking now. “Don’t talk to me like you know what I’m—”

“I do know,” he cuts in, voice rough but close now. “I’ve seen you bleed for people who never said thank you. I’ve watched you fight when you had nothing left. Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not enough.”

Your lip trembles. Your chest feels like it’s collapsing inward.

“I’m tired, Sylus,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going.”

And then — he softens. Just barely. A shift in his voice. The steel’s still there, but wrapped in something quieter. Something meant just for you.

“You don’t have to keep going alone,” he says, his voice dropping, steady and real. “You don’t have to carry it all. Not with me here.”

He takes one last step, eyes never leaving yours.

“Put the damn weapon down,” he says gently. “Let someone see you for once.”

You stare at him, chest heaving.

And then you drop it.

The sound it makes as it hits the ground is louder than it should be. Like a final breath being released.

Your knees give out with it.

He catches you before you can fall all the way. His arms are strong and solid, pulling you into him without hesitation, like he was waiting for this — for you — to finally break.

You cry like you haven’t let yourself in years. Ugly, shaking, desperate sobs that tear out of your throat like your body can’t hold them anymore.

And Sylus just holds you.

One hand in your hair, the other around your back, firm and grounding.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. “Even when you’re a goddamn mess. Especially then.”

You grip his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you on earth.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Tough,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t just get the pretty parts of love. You get the storm too. And I’m not leaving because it’s raining.”

You shudder against him.

He stays. He holds. He doesn’t let go.

CALEB

You hear someone call your name, but it’s distant — muffled, like it’s coming from the other side of glass.

Your hand’s shaking. The weapon’s raised.

You can’t remember drawing it. You don’t even know who you’re pointing it at anymore. Maybe everyone. Maybe no one. Maybe just the noise in your head that won’t shut up.

Too much. Too fast. Too loud.

All of them standing there, watching. Not seeing. Never really seeing.

And then — his voice.

“Pips, please… put it down.”

You don’t turn, but your body goes still. Everything tightens.

Caleb sounds wrecked. Like something in him is breaking just from looking at you.

“I can’t,” you whisper. “I can’t do this anymore.”

You hear his footsteps — slow, cautious, like he’s approaching something wounded. Dangerous.

“I didn’t see it,” he says, his voice rough. “God, I should’ve seen it.”

You glance toward him, just for a second—and your breath catches.

He’s not angry. Not scared.

He looks destroyed.

“I thought I was helping,” he says. “I thought you were okay. I wanted to believe you were okay.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and your grip on the weapon falters for a split second.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you rasp. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” he cuts in, voice cracking. “You are not a burden. You’re—”

He stops himself. Swallows hard. Takes a breath.

“You’re someone I was supposed to protect. And I missed it. I missed you. And now you’re standing there like you’re at the edge of something you can’t come back from.”

You look down at the weapon. Your hands are trembling so hard now it’s nearly slipping from your fingers.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “It hurts all the time. And I feel like I’m disappearing and no one even notices.”

“I notice,” Caleb says, voice low and raw. “I see you. I always have. Even when I didn’t know what I was looking at.”

He takes one step forward.

“I know you’re drowning. I know it’s dark. But I’m right here, okay? I’m not letting you go under. Not tonight.”

The tears break loose before you can stop them.

You let the weapon fall. It hits the floor with a soft thud.

Then you’re sinking, knees hitting the ground, sobs tearing out of you like something’s broken loose inside.

Caleb’s there before you can even blink.

He doesn’t say anything at first — just pulls you into his arms, holds you tight to his chest like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I should’ve had you sooner, but I’ve got you now.”

You cling to him, crying hard and silent into his shoulder. And still he holds you, arms strong, steady, warm.

“I’m sorry,” you sob. “I didn’t mean to — I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for hurting,” he whispers. “Just don’t ever think you have to hurt alone.”

His hand cradles the back of your head, his other arm curled around your back like he’s shielding you from the world.

“You’re not too much,” he says. “You’re not too far gone. You’re mine, and I’m staying.”

And with your face buried in his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you finally, finally let yourself fall apart — because this time, someone’s there to hold the pieces.

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navybrat817 · 3 days ago

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Hold You Tight: Part 25

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 24 | Series Masterlist | Part 26

Chapter Word Count: Over 4.2k

Chapter Summary: You want to feel normal after your ordeal, but change won't happen overnight.

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of violence, crying, assault aftermath, inner turmoil, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight, and thank you for sticking with me! Can you believe it has been almost here since we started?! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby and @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-in-darkness . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You woke up earlier than you expected, but made no move to get out of bed. Your body felt stiff when you tried to sit up, which was to be expected since Clark threw you to the ground pretty hard. Being prepared for it didn’t stop you from tearing up. You blinked the tears away when you realized Bucky wasn’t in the room.

You barely said a word after you left the club, and you didn’t protest when he held you close in the car. It was like he needed you in his arms to chase away his remaining demons, and you needed comfort as well. But once you were back at the penthouse, he led you to the guest room instead of the master bedroom. He let you be while you robotically went through your nighttime routine. And he didn’t make a move when he got in bed beside you.

“I just want to make sure you get some sleep,” he told you, his hold tender instead of smothering.

Before you sleep took hold, you heard him whisper that he loved you.

Had he snuck out during the night, or did he get up not too long ago?

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand that Bucky graciously plugged in, you were glad you were alone. You didn’t want Bucky or any of his men hovering while you called Mrs. Crandle. It was bad enough you were calling in when you just wanted the sense of normalcy and control in your life, but what were the chances you’d make it through the day without breaking down?

You held your breath when you dialed and waited for Mrs. Crandle to answer. It didn’t take long. “Hello, dear.”

“Hi, Mrs. Crandle,” you tried to smile, but there were already tears in your throat. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You are never a bother,” she promised, which only made you feel worse. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“I…” What were you going to tell her? “I’m dealing with something very personal right now, and I don’t… I don’t think I can work today. I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t a lie. You were dealing with something personal. It didn’t stop you from feeling like you were letting her down.

“Oh. Oh, dear. You take the day off, and don’t worry about finding someone to cover for you. I’ll take care of that,” she assured you, knowing you weren’t the type to make excuses to skip a shift.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, that’s your business, but is there anything I can do to help?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. She was so kind, always looking out for her staff. “Just… keep being the wonderful boss and person you are.”

“Oh, I will. And you tell that man of yours he’d better be helping one of my favorite employees with whatever’s going on,” she said.

A laugh almost came out. If she only knew. “I’ll tell him,” you said, sitting up straighter when you remembered something. You were concentrating so much on ther other things last night you had forgotten that Zemo met up with her. How could you forget about that? “Before I hang up, I wanted to ask. Did you win an all expenses paid trip to a flower expo?”

“Why yes, I did! Can you believe it? The man I spoke to actually contacted me this morning to make sure I was still going.” You gripped the phone tighter. Zemo had promised to back off, so why continue the charade of the expo? Unless it was legitimate, and letting Mrs. Crandle go was part of the olive branch to you. “I was going to ask if you possibly wanted to go, but if you’re dealing with something-”

“Then it’s probably best that you bring someone else,” you finished for her. “I understand.”

“It would be nice if you could go. I think you’d like Gotham,” she said, making your heart drop. Gotham, where Clark wanted to take you. “But we can discuss that later. You take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will, thanks.”

You put your face in your hands once you hung up. It was all supposed to be over. You hoped it was. Mrs. Crandle deserved only good things, along with everyone you cared about.

You went quickly through your morning routine, and heard chatter once you finally went into the hall. You stood still, torn between eavesdropping and heading to the kitchen for breakfast. Your curiosity got the better of you and you tiptoed down the hall toward an open door- Bucky’s office.

You stopped when you heard Curtis speak.

“You really think she’ll go for that?”

Go for what?

“You’ve already been keeping an eye on my girl from a distance, but she needs a bit more. She needs a real bodyguard,” Bucky replied, your eyes wide. A bodyguard? How the hell would you explain that to your friends? “Last night proves it,” he added with a bite to his voice.

“Why not Ray? From what I’ve seen, she trusts him,” Curtis said, which was true to an extent.

“I could have Ray be her bodyguard, but then I’d need you to be by my side and we know you don’t like being at the club,” Bucky pointed out. “You barely tolerated being there last night.”

Why did guilt fill you? Was it because Curtis put himself in an uncomfortable situation because of you? If you hadn’t been attacked, he would’ve stayed hidden in the shadows.

“She may be grateful that he helped her, boss, but do you think she’ll want him as her bodyguard?” Ray asked. “Or that she’ll want a bodyguard at all?”

“If not Curtis, who else? It’s the best choice,” Bucky replied, which was met with silence. The men must’ve known not to argue further. “And whether she wants one or not, it comes with the territory.”

You exhaled through your nose. Comes with the territory whether you wanted it or not? It was too early for that shit.

“You know, for starters, it would really help if you all asked me,” you said, making your presence known as you walked in. Bucky stood up, alarm in his eyes, while Ray and Curtis looked at you with unreadable expressions from their chairs. “But I guess we’re right back where we started where what I want doesn’t matter.”

Was Bucky going to make you live the rest of your life like that? Would he dictate whatever he wanted while trying to paint it as doing the best thing for you? How could he call that love?

For a moment you thought Bucky looked upset because you were eavesdropping, but he rushed around his desk to you and you knew that wasn’t the case. “Kotyonok, you should be resting.”

“Did you not hear a word I just said?” you asked, stiffening only for a moment when he got closer and reached for you.

You inhaled and exhaled slowly. Bucky wasn’t Clark. He wouldn’t throw you to the floor. He wouldn’t try to choke you.

“I did, and we will talk about that. I’m just glad to see you still have your spirit,” he smiled softly, slowly framing your face with his hands. Your spirit was both itching for a fight and begging for rest. “How are you feeling?”

“Stiff,” you admitted. A bath in that wonderful soaker tub of his would hit the spot, which you would take advantage of later. “But I don’t need any painkillers before you ask.”

He frowned and dropped his hands. “Lay down,” he urged, nodding toward the sofa a few feet from his desk. “It’s very comfortable, trust me.”

You huffed, but went to lay down as instructed. It was only because you were stiff and still tired. Before you could spread out on the sofa, Bucky took a seat on one end and patted his thigh. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Rest your head here,” he urged, patting his thigh again.

You snuck a glance at Curtis who looked like he was fighting a smile. Ray hung his head a little. “You want me to lay with my head in your lap in front of them?” you asked.

“They're going to see us for the rest of our lives,” Bucky said, tossing an arm on the back of the sofa. “Please, lay down.”

You blinked, remembering the night he broke in and sat waiting on your sofa like he owned the place. The darkness in his eyes, the smirk on his face. But now? He only looked like a concerned boyfriend.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, getting as comfortable as you could while resting your head in Bucky’s lap. You opted to curl up facing away from him so you weren't staring directly at his crotch.

Bucky caressed your arm, his touch featherlight. “Is this okay?” he asked.

You tilted your head back. He was asking if it was okay to touch you? “It's fine,” you replied.

You caught the soft smile he gave you before you faced forward again. It was strange how people called you Bucky’s queen when you didn't feel like one. What kind of queen curled up with a king in front of their council? Didn't queens stand tall and proud?

“You're thinking too loud,” Bucky whispered.

How did he know? “I think Zemo contacted Mrs. Crandle,” you said.

“He did,” Bucky confirmed, continuing to caress your arm when you tensed up. “You didn’t think I forgot about her, did you? I’ve had someone keeping an eye on her since Zemo met her up with her.”

You remembered. No one knew Zemo’s angle at the time. “But I didn’t…” You sniffled and felt Bucky’s muscles tense beneath your head. “I didn’t even ask about her last night.”

You asked about Lois and your friends, but not your boss.

“You were attacked and you’ve been dealing with so much. Last night was about getting answers for you and the fact that you went to the club after what you went through is nothing short of amazing,” Bucky said, refusing to let you blame yourself for any of it or let you argue. “Mrs. Crandle will be fine. Nothing's going to happen to her. Zemo just couldn't back out of the expo because it would've hurt or upset her, which would have upset you.”

“And he wants to stay on my good side after last night,” you guessed. So it was an olive branch of sorts. “It’s taking place in Gotham.”

That couldn't be a coincidence.

“Another possible way to get you out of the city, but there was no way to guarantee Mrs. Crandle would've asked for you to go with her,” Ray spoke up. “Not to mention Zemo would've had to handle her if you were missing, which could get messy.”

You shivered and Bucky suddenly had a blanket over you. It would've destroyed her if you went missing while on a trip with her, and your heart could hardly bear the thought of Zemo hurting her or getting rid of her. “So, she’ll be okay?” you asked.

“She’ll be just fine,” Bucky promised.

Your fingers curled in the blanket. “I’m trusting you, Bucky,” you whispered, hoping it was a promise he could keep.

His hand froze and you could sense the emotion in his eyes without looking at him. “Thank you.”

“Curtis?” you asked, his blue eyes meeting yours to acknowledge you. “I know you suggested Ray and I appreciate that, but would you like to be my bodyguard?”

Having a bodyguard was another step in the path of accepting your place in Bucky’s life. But if there were other enemies out there or anyone simply interested in using you as a means to get some of Bucky’s fortune, it was better to have protection. At least for now.

“I already-” Bucky began.

“I’m asking him and giving him a choice,” you cut him off. Yes, Bucky had his mind made up that Curtis would be your bodyguard, but you still wanted to ask. “I think I’ve earned that privilege.”

“Who am I to argue with my queen?” Bucky teased.

Curtis chuckled and you found yourself smiling a little. Even Ray looked like he wanted to smile. “Since you’re asking, the answer is yes.”

“Thank you, Curtis,” you said, closing your eyes. “Can we sort the details out later?”

“Of course,” Bucky replied. You had a feeling he would be the one handling that anyway. “You just need to relax.”

You were trying, but he was making you relax with him. “I need things from my apartment, like my bridesmaid dress,” you said.

“We’ll handle whatever you need so you don’t have to go back there,” Bucky assured you.

You bit the inside of your cheek. It was still him or his men going through your things, your memories. “I need other things. Stuff to bake the brownies, and things to make arrangements here.”

“Again, whatever you need,” he smiled. He’d probably make you a greenhouse on the roof if you asked.

“And I need to get in touch with Natasha so I can-”

“That doesn’t sound much like relaxing,” Bucky gently said. You huffed in response. Sitting around doing nothing wouldn’t do you any good, even if your body was screaming at you not to push it. “But I am arranging our movie and pizza night tonight, so that should help you relax a bit.”

You did agree to that the night before. “I think I want to go to the library,” you said. It was the one place Bucky said he wouldn’t enter without permission and none of his men were allowed in there.

You held your breath and waited for the argument, for Bucky to tell you to stay put. Instead, he carefully helped you sit up. “I’ll take you there and I’ll bring you something to eat, okay? You haven’t had anything yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” you admitted. You called Mrs. Crandle first thing and went to find him.

“Well, let’s change that,” Bucky smiled, helping you to your feet. Ray and Curtis began to stand before their boss motioned for them to sit back down. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, guiding you out and closing the door behind him.

You glanced back and remembered he had the door open while he spoke with Ray and Curtis. Had he done that as a way to build your trust, to show that he wouldn’t hide things from you? Was he going to make an effort?

Bucky stopped at the library door and kissed your forehead. “I’ll grab your phone for you, too, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, stopping when you took two steps in. “Did you stay with me all night?”

He nodded when you looked back at him. Had he held you? Kissed your forehead? Whispered to you to make any bad dream go away? “I wanted to make sure you slept peacefully, although…”

“You wish I’d sleep in our bedroom.”

His eyes lit up at the realization that you didn’t say his bedroom. “In time,” he whispered, walking away without another word.

You exhaled and went to select a book. Your fingers moved along the spines, recognizing some classics as well as modern titles. But you didn’t pick one, your eyes unfocused.

Curtis was going to be your bodyguard. Your life changed so much that you’d need someone watching you at all times. Would he hang around the shop while you worked? Would he linger nearby when you went out with your friends?

Could you even invite the girls to the penthouse?

You stood at the bookshelf long enough for Bucky to come back and clear his throat from the doorway. “Do you want me to bring the tray in?” he asked, holding it up for you to see. Not only did he have plenty of food, a drink, and your phone, he also had a bright flower in a small vase. It was sweet.

Shaking your head, you went to him. “I can take it,” you said, not wanting anyone in your sanctuary at the moment.

If Bucky was hurt by declining his offer he hid it well. It meant a lot that he kept his word and didn’t go in. That was progress. “You’re not okay, are you?” he asked, your eyes connecting.

You gripped the tray hard when you took it. “I’m just taking it one moment at a time,” you answered. It was all you could do. “Could you please shut the door?”

Bucky didn’t hide the hurt this time. It wasn’t just shutting the door, you were shutting him out. “Sure,” he whispered, the door softly clicking shut when you turned your back to him.

As you sat and ate, you let a few tears fall before you finally selected a book. You were unsure of the next steps, and you mourned, but you weren’t sure exactly what it is you were mourning. A piece of your innocence? A normal future?

Bucky, for his effort, gave you space when you refused to come out after breakfast, leaving your tray outside of the door and refusing to say a word to him. He brought you lunch as well, one of your favorites, and left you another flower and a small sheet of paper that read, “I love you, Kotyonok.” You thought about crumbling up the note, but you put it on the table with the flowers.

Every now and then you’d look around and swear that Clark was there watching you in the shadows. It was your mind playing tricks on you, of course, but you kept your eyes on the door in case someone tried to come in. You swallowed bitterly, hating how afraid you were. How would you conquer that?

The girls in the group chat all mentioned taking it easy today, which brought tears to your eyes all over again. They were taking it easy because they were exhausted, and they were exhausted because they were drugged. All of that because of you. It was your fault. It was all your fault.

No… it was not your fault. None of this was your fault. “It’s not my fault,” you whispered tearfully, gripping your head to quiet the taunting voice that blamed you. “It’s their fault.”

Everything in your mind swirled until it became a tornado, destroying everything in its path. It felt harder to breathe, like something was closing around your lungs. You had to calm down before you spiraled. You needed…

“Bucky!” you shouted.

You barely made it to the door when you heard footsteps race down the hall. The door flew open and Bucky stood with wild eyes, struggling to rush in and pull you toward him since you hadn’t told him to come in. “Kotyonok, what-”

“Tell me you won’t hurt my friends,” you demanded, a sob coming out when you pointed at him. You had to hear him say it. “Tell me.”

Bucky flinched when you gasped for your next breath. “I won’t hurt your friends.”

“Tell me it isn’t my fault,” you continued, shoving him back. You could hear Ray and Curtis in the hall, but you paid no attention to them. “Tell me what happened isn’t my fault.”

“None of this is your fault, do you hear me?” he said through his teeth, his anger directed elsewhere and not at you. “None of it.”

The spiral in your mind began to slow. “Tell me you won’t hurt me,” you barely whispered. “If you really love me you won’t hurt me.”

He made a wounded sound like you saying the words hurt him. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

Your shoulders slumped. You believed him, damn it. Why? “I’m sorry. I…”

Bucky waved a hand for Ray and Curtis to stay back before he extended it to you. “Come with me.”

You hesitated before you wiped your eyes and took it. You didn’t realize he pulled you toward the living room when the scent of freshly baked pizza and popped popcorn reached your nostrils. “What…”

Bucky had pizza, popcorn, snacks, and drinks set up along with blankets. “Our movie night,” he reminded you, guiding you to sit down. Had you been in the library so long that it was nighttime? “But before we do anything else, I need you to breathe.”

“Hurts,” you whispered. It hurt to think, hurt to feel, hurt to breathe. Why did it feel so hard today?

“I know it hurts, but you’ll get through the hurt because that’s how incredible you are,” he whispered back, pulling you into his arms to rock you. He breathed slowly, urging you to follow his rhythm. “There you go. Breathe. Good girl.”

You took another deep breath, ignoring how the praise relaxed you. “I didn’t bake today,” you said sadly. You wanted to make those brownies for Curtis. “I didn’t make any arrangements.”

You didn’t contact Natasha to set up those self-defense lessons. You didn’t figure out when you’d visit Lois. God, you didn’t even take that bath. Wallowing in self-pity led you to hiding in the library all day, but maybe you needed it more than you knew.

“It’s okay that you didn’t,” Bucky said, kissing your temple and wiping more tears away. “I know you want to bounce back immediately, but you have to give yourself grace.”

He was right about that. “I shut you out,” you said. You shut him out in his own home. Why? To punish him for his part in all of this? To be in control?

He sighed and only held you closer. “I deserved it,” he whispered, rubbing your back. “But we’ll be okay.”

He said it like he was fighting for you, for each other. “I just want to feel normal,” you said, giving him some insight into your thoughts and feelings.

“And you will. We’ll take it one moment at a time.”

A few minutes passed while he held you, and you eventually put your head on his shoulder. He held you so much in the last few days. You wanted to feel strong and not feel afraid anymore. You wished that could happen overnight, but you needed patience and grace.

And Bucky, well, he would need to accept his hand in this. He had to see you at a low point so that he’d never want you there again. He had to see you broken so you could build yourself again, with or without his help. Because if he wouldn't love and accept you at your lowest, then he didn't deserve you at all.

“So, what are we watching?” you finally asked.

“You said you wanted to pick the movie,” he reminded you.

He listened. He remembered. “Something funny,” you said. Something that wouldn’t upset you or make you think.

“Comedy it is.”

Bucky waited on you hand and foot during the movie, making sure you were comfortable while you ate. He had an arm around you when you weren’t eating, but didn’t let his touch wander. It took a bit, but you eventually laughed during the silly moments in the film, and he gazed at you like the sun rose in front of his very eyes.

You stole a glance after a few more minutes and found him staring at you instead of the screen. Unable to help yourself, you tossed a bit of popcorn at him. He blinked twice in shock while you tried not to laugh. “Did you just…”

“Toss popcorn at you? Yes,” you said, looking back at the screen before popcorn hit your cheek. “Hey!”

He licked the salt and butter from his fingers. “Oops,” he teased. “C’mon, Kotyonok. I had to defend myself.”

One second you were staring at each other and the next second turned into a full blown battle. Popcorn and candy went everywhere as you threw everything within reach and you found yourself laughing when a piece of candy landed in his open mouth. He growled and gently tossed snacks back at you, making you laugh harder.

It was ridiculous. Silly. Unexpected. It felt like… a real date.

“I’m not cleaning this up,” you giggled once the battle ended, gesturing to the mess. At least you didn’t spill any of the drinks. “And I think I won.”

“I have people for that, and we’ll call it a tie,” he smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Fuck, you have a beautiful smile.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He wanted to kiss you, you could feel it, but he didn’t lean in. He waited for you instead. You didn’t kiss his lips, you were still too raw for that today, but you did kiss his cheek before you put your head back on his shoulder.

“Thanks for this,” you whispered. It was only the first day since the incident, but he was trying and you had to give him that.

“Thank you,” he whispered back, leaning his head on yours. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

And resting in his arms like an actual date, you were blissfully unaware of the missed calls and texts from your mom.

Our poor girl. Let's hope Bucky keeps trying. And let's hope Mom's messages aren't a bad thing. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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rynwrites4fun · 16 hours ago

Text

Across The Hall (5) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: It’s Career Day at school, and your boyfriend, who was supposed to talk about his job as a lawyer, cancels at the last minute due to a development in his case. When you tell Michael, he offers to step in and talk about being an ER doctor instead.

Word Count: 4340

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s)

Authors Note: okay I know what you’re thinking….I know I said the next time I post wouldn’t be until first week of June… I lied…well more caved lol. I’m currently sick and at SUCH an inconvenient time for me. Like all the times for me to get sick and I get sick now. So here I am posting this to make me feel better lol. Anyway here is part 5. This is one of my favorite parts and I think you guys will like it too :) So THIS will have to hold you over until Part 6 that won’t be posted until JUNE lol. Also someone yell or scream at me to write and update Eyes On Me!!! Ya girls been too focused on Across The Hall. I left Jack Abbot hanging. How dare I??? Okay see you June. Freal this time. - ryn

“I can’t make it,” he says through the phone.

“What?” You already knew what he meant—career day. The one he promised he wouldn’t miss.

“We have an important meeting with the man we’re defending…”

“Aiden, you promised. My students are going to be disappointed. They’ve been looking forward to this all week—” Your voice cracks. There’s no backup plan. No one else to step in.

“He’s got something to confess. It’s going to change the entire trajectory of the case.”

And with that, you know. He has to go. It’s his job.

“Okay” you say, swallowing the pain down. “I…I understand”

You try to respond, but the lump in your throat makes it hard. Instead, you manage, “Good luck.”

A soft sigh comes through the line. “Thanks. I’ll call you later.”

No sorry. No “I’ll make it up to you.” Nothing.

Just the dull click of the call ending, like a door closing without a glance back.

You stare at the screen until it goes dark, your reflection staring back—tired eyes, tight jaw, the ache settling in deep and familiar. You want to scream. Or cry. Or both. But there’s no time.

It took everything just to sit up in bed.

You moved on autopilot—shower, clothes, coffee you barely tasted. Standing in front of the mirror, mascara wand trembling in your hand, you told yourself not to cry. Not today. Not on Career Day.

But the tears came anyway. Quiet, stubborn.

You dabbed at your face with a tissue, trying to fix the smudges.

You stared at your reflection, willing yourself to look like someone who had it all under control. Someone whose day wasn’t already unraveling.

Because today mattered.

Your students had been excited to meet a real lawyer, and now you weren’t sure what you were supposed to do. Panic swirled beneath the surface as your mind raced, trying to figure out how you were going to salvage the day.

___

Michael left his apartment, expecting to see you come out. You didn’t. His face fell slightly. It wasn’t like you. Normally you’d leave around the same time he did for work. He stood there for a few minutes.

hen you still didn’t appear, he sighed and headed toward the elevator. The doors slid open with a soft chime, and he stepped inside, trying not to let the quiet absence bother him.

“Wait!” you called out, your sneakers thud frantically against the tile as you rushed toward the elevator at the end of the hall. The doors were just beginning to slide closed, but Michael’s hand shot out, stopping them.

You slipped inside, breathing hard. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

Today was not your morning. Michael could tell the moment he saw you. Michael didn’t say anything right away. He just watched you as you stood there, clutching your water bottle like a lifeline, eyes unfocused and distant.

“You okay?” he asked finally, his voice gentle.

Two words but they cracked something in.

“I have career day at school today,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Aiden was supposed to do a presentation for my students, you know talk about being a lawyer”

Of course it’s something to do with Aiden, Michael thought. It always circles back to him.

“He promised he’d be there,” you continued, voice trembling. “something big came up with his case…”

You paused, blinking hard, trying not to break. “I spent the morning getting ready crying like an idiot, and now I’m just… trying to figure out how to fix it. For them.”

Your eyes didn’t meet his, but he was already moving close towards you.

There was a short silence.

“I could do it,” he said, the words flying out his mouth before he could even think.

You blinked. “What?”

“I said I can do it. Career Day. I’ll come in.” He repeated, more firmly now.

“You’re… serious?”

“Yeah, I mean—I could come talk to your class. About emergency medicine, or the ER, show them some tools, answer their questions… whatever your kids want to know.”

“But don’t you work today? You got a whole ER full of patients and–”

“I’m sure my buddy Abbot would cover for an hour or two.”

“You’d really do that?” you say in disbelief.

He gave a small shrug, but there was nothing casual about the way he looked at you.

“Yeah, of course,” he said—simple, easy. But his eyes lingered.

I’d do anything for you, he wanted to say.

There was something soft in his gaze, something protective. You were sweet—too sweet—and it stirred something in him he didn’t quite know how to name.

“Just tell me when to show up and what you need. I’ll make it work.”

You couldn’t help it, you lit up. A full, radiant smile that overtook your whole face. Michael had never seen you smile like that before, not even on your best days. It was pure relief, gratitude.

You let out a joyful shriek, bouncing on your toes. “Thank you, Michael!” you exclaim, before throwing your arms around him in a sudden, heartfelt hug.

He chuckled at your excited shriek, the sound pulling a smile from him. The hug caught him off guard for just a second—but then his arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding you close. He liked this—holding you. It felt warm. Easy. Right.

You pulled back slightly, still smiling, your hands lingering on his arms. “Here, let me give you my number. I’ll text you the time and details. Exchanging numbers is long overdue"

Michael reached into his pocket for his phone, already unlocking it. “Better late than ever" he jokes. "Go ahead.” getting ready to dial your number.

You rattled off your number, watching him type it in. A moment later, your phone buzzed in your pocket, you pull it out—Michael Robinavitch flashed across the top of a new text.

“Got it" you smile.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

Already stepping out, rushing toward the lobby doors. The weight on your chest felt suddenly lighter.

“I’ve got to run a few things by the principal before first bell!” you added, walking backward for a step before turning to jog the rest of the way.

“You’re a lifesaver!” you called out, glancing over your shoulder.

Michael raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Well… that is kind of my job!”

“I’ll text you soon!” you shouted and vanished out the front doors and into the city.

Michael watched you run off, then slowly stepped out into the lobby. He lingered there before finally pulling out his phone again.

He scrolled through his messages and tapped on a name: Jack Abbott.

His fingers hovered for a moment over the keyboard—hesitant—then he began to type.

Hey, any chance you can cover my shift for a few hours today?

Yeah, I can swing that. Just let me know what time. Everything okay?

Michael paused for a second, thumb hovering over the screen. Then he continued typing:

Yeah. Just need to take care of something important.

A few dots blinked, then the reply came back:

Got it. Hope everything’s okay. Let me know if you need anything.

Michael read the message. Then he locked his phone, slipped it back into his pocket, and finally set off to work.

—-

“Jack! Thanks for coming in, man,” Michael said, pulling his friend into a quick hug as he met him by the employee/authorized personnel entry point.

Jack clapped him on the back. “Yeah, no sweat. You okay?” Jack asked, slinging his army backpack over one shoulder as they walked through the ER.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… my neighbor needed a favor,” Michael muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh…that neighbor, huh?”

Michael looks at Jack, trying to rack his brain. Had he ever brought you up? He didn’t think so. Maybe once, late at night on the hospital roof? Or after that brutal shift, drinking beers on the bench at the park across the street? The memory’s hazy, softened by exhaustion.

Jack breaks the silence. “Dana might’ve mentioned her a week or so ago. Asked if I knew anything. I told her it was all news to me.”

Michael exhales sharply, a tired sigh pulled from somewhere deep. “Of course she did.”

Michael exhaled, already regretting the explanation. “She’s a 5th grade teacher. It’s career day at her school. Her boyfriend, a hotshot lawyer, bailed on her, so… I offered to fill in.”

Jack stopped mid-step, forcing Michael to halt as well. He looked Michael dead in the eye, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You like her.”

“What? No,” Michael said quickly, shaking his head and furrowing his brows. “It’s not like that.”

“That’s not what Dana said” he scoffs a laugh.

Michael runs a hand through his hair. “She’s a kid.”

Even as the words left his mouth, the lie stung. You’re not a kid. You’re a woman—smart, passionate, kind, beautiful—and yeah, younger than him. Way younger. But a kid? No. That wasn’t the truth. Not even close.

And despite everything, despite liking you, he knew one thing for certain: You deserved all the love in the world. The kind that’s attentive. That gives real attention. That cherishes you, sees you, hears you, takes care of you. A love you don’t have to beg for.

“How old is she?”

Michael was hesitant “Twenty-five…”

Jack exhales, loudly, obnoxiously and nods like he’s doing the math in his head.

“Okay, so maybe she’s on the younger side. But so what? If you like her, go for it.” He shrugs

“She’s a sweet girl, but her boyfriend’s—”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend?”

Michael nods slowly. “Yeah. He’s…”

“A jackass” Jack finished, grinning.

Michael lets out a reluctant laugh as they continue walking. “That’s a kinder way to describe him than I would’ve, but sure. I haven’t met the guy officially, but from what I’ve gathered—and what I’ve seen…the way he treats her is infuriating.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the hum of monitors and distant voices filling the space between them.

“I’m just helping her out,” Michael said quietly.

Jack let the silence stretch, then chuckled. “Right. Just doing your neighborly duty.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re stepping in for the jackass.”

Michael sighed. “It’s just career day.”

“With the woman you definitely don’t like.”

Michael shot him a look. “I’m doing a favor for a neighbor. She’s a friend. That’s it.”

Jack didn’t say anything right away. They passed a nurse wheeling a patient toward imaging, a tech calling out vitals, the steady buzz of hospital life around them.

Jack nudged him with his elbow, grinning. “Showing up to a fifth-grade classroom in the middle of your shift—in scrubs, no less—to impress a woman who’s already taken? Damn, I didn’t know you were that kind of guy, Robby”

Michael rolled his eyes, recognizing the teasing tone. Jack was clearly trying to push his buttons and enjoying every second of it.

Michael gives him an exasperated look “I’m not trying to impress anyone!”

Jack chuckled. “Sure. Just keep telling yourself that. I know you man. You're doing that thing where you convince yourself you’re being “noble” when really you just want to spend more time with her.”

He did like spending time with you—God, how he loved it.

Being with you, he felt like himself. He didn’t have to be anyone else.

His feelings had bled into the friendship, slowly, unknowingly, until this moment—when he realized just how deep they really were.

Michael didn’t answer right away. He shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead. “She’s got a boyfriend,” he muttered. “Not my business—”

“—But if it was your business…”

“Jack,” Michael said, his tone warning.

“All right, all right.” Jack held up his hands in mock surrender, still smirking. “I’ll drop it. Just—don’t get your heart tangled up in something you can’t have.”

They continued walking, the hum of the ER fading behind them as they neared the staff room.

Jack dropped his bag onto the bench and glanced over at Michael, who was busy opening his locker to grab his backpack.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two,” Michael said, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

“Well,” Jack replied with a smirk, “all I gotta say is good luck with career day, doc. Oh, and try not to fall in love in front of a bunch of fifth-graders.”

Michael shot him a look.

“Okay, that was the last one, promise,” Jack added, flashing a playful grin.

Michael shook his head, mock scowl in place as he shut his locker. But the laugh that followed gave him away. Jack always knew how to get under his skin—even when he didn’t really mind.

“I’ll see you later,” Michael said, heading for the door.

—

Michael appeared at your classroom door just after lunch. He scanned the room with curious eyes before locking onto yours. You were seated at your desk, pretending to focus on grading, but your shoulders relaxed the moment you saw him.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm, like he’d just stepped into familiar territory.

He was in his scrubs. A backpack was slung over one shoulder, and a large black duffle hung from the other hand. His hair was still damp from the rain, strands falling slightly out of place. Despite it all, his smile was easy and genuine—the kind that disarmed you every time.

“Hi,” you said as you stood, trying to ramp down the sudden wave of relief that swept over you.

“Give me a few minutes to get them ready,” you said quietly, stepping around your desk. “You can hang out over there—or whatever's comfortable.”

Michael nodded and moved further inside, setting his bag down near your desk. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you—curious, observant—as you took charge of the room.

You clapped twice, your attention-getter snapping the students to attention. “Alright, friends—workbooks away and eyes on me. Show me you’re ready.”

There was a shuffle of papers and pencil boxes before stillness settled over the room. You smiled as you looked over your class, then turned toward Michael.

“Fifth graders,” you began, “I mentioned earlier that our original guest speaker for career day unfortunately couldn’t make it today. But we are very lucky, Dr. Robinavitch has stepped in! He’s an emergency room doctor”

Michael gave a small wave, his calm energy immediately balancing the room. “Hi everyone. I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but I also go by Dr. Robby for short. So, who here knows what an ER doctor does?”

A few hands shot up. One student shouted, “You fix broken arms!”

Michael nodded. “Yep. Broken arms, heads, stomachs, you name it. I’m kind of like a detective for people’s bodies—I have to figure out what’s wrong, fast, and sometimes fix it even faster.”

You move toward the back of your classroom, taking a seat off to the side by the last row of students, giving Michael the space, the floor, and the kids’ full attention. Their eyes are wide, some leaning forward on their desks, completely hooked.

Another student asked, “Do you see blood? Like, a lot of blood?”

He chuckled. “More than I’d like before breakfast.”

The class erupted into laughter, and you saw your students leaning forward, totally hooked. Michael had that quiet, steady charm that translated surprisingly well in front of fifth graders.

He pulled a stethoscope from his bag and held it up. “Okay, who wants to hear their own heartbeat?”

Nearly every hand shot up.

As he walked between desks, letting kids take turns listening to heartbeats, he told quick stories—about a kid who came in after eating five magnets, about a teenager who got his finger stuck in a soda can tab, about the night someone walked in with a LEGO in their nose.

Your class hung on every word.

And so did you.

You told yourself it was harmless—just admiration.

He was incredible with the kids. Patient. Warm. Confident without ever showing off. He knelt beside their desks like what they had to say truly mattered. And they loved him for it.

You watched him move through the room with such ease—laughing, listening, crouching like he had all the time in the world. The kids adored him. And honestly… so did you.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a flutter. A pull. A feeling you tried not to name.

He was older. Way older. Old enough to be your father, technically—though he never made you feel small. He treated you as an equal. He was attentive, like what you had to say truly mattered. With him, you felt heard. Seen.

And that was dangerous.

You admired how he carried himself—his quiet confidence, his easy intelligence, his kindness that felt so steady and real. It was natural to admire someone like that… wasn’t it?

But still, you felt it, that creeping awareness that maybe it wasn’t just admiration.

You had a boyfriend.

You weren’t supposed to notice the way Michael’s sleeves were always rolled just above his elbows, or how his voice softened when he spoke to the shy kid in the back row. You weren’t supposed to feel that flutter in your chest every time he smiled.

Aiden wasn’t like that.

He wasn’t an ER doctor who knelt beside desks and told stories that made your class laugh. He didn’t have that kind of calm, steady presence. That patience. That warmth.

You closed your eyes for a beat, trying to push the comparison away before it could settle in too deep. But it was already there, growing.

Because the truth was, your boyfriend didn’t make people light up the way Micahel did. Especially not you.

Michael was just volunteering his time. Helping out. Doing you a favor. And yet somehow, he was more present, more reliable, more engaged than the person you were actually dating.

One of your students leaned over and whispered, “Miss, is Dr. Robby, your boyfriend?” They giggled.

Your heart did a small, traitorous flip.

You cleared your throat and forced a smile. “No, he’s just a friend.”

But in that moment, you realized—maybe you were starting to wish he wasn’t.

Micahel continued to tell stories, answer questions, he eventually brought out his duffle bag onto the carpet and pulled out a CPR training dummy. He demonstrated to the kids how to do CPR, then split the kids into groups and had them practice.

As the visit draws and the last group of students had a turn at doing CPR on the dummy, you headed towards the front of your classroom, clapped your hands once to get their attention.

“Alright, everyone, what do we say to Dr. Robby?”

A chorus of voices rang out, bright and genuine: “Thank you!”

Michael smiled, a hand over his heart. “You’re very welcome.”

“Alright everyone we’re gonna start getting ready for 2nd recess. Go line up by the back door!”

As the students made their way to form a line, you turned toward Michael. He was slinging on his backpack and grabbing his duffle bag, ready to head out.

“Thank you for coming in, Michael. Seriously. The kids loved you.” you said with a smile.

He gave a modest shrug. “No problem. I actually had a lot of fun. Your kids are great. Really bright…Not the little gremlins you always make them out to be.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Don’t let one good day fool you. They were on their best behavior for you.”

“I gotta head to get back to the ER to finish my shift, but I’ll see you at home.”

At home.

The words lingered. A small, traitorous thought crept in.

You knew he didn’t mean it like that. He lived across the hall, nothing more.

You let yourself imagine it. What would it be like if he did come home to you? After a long day at school for you, a long shift at the ER for him. Kicking off your shoes, swapping stories over takeout, falling asleep on the couch together, exhausted but content.

You’d had a little glimpse, a taste of what it could be like that night the two of you had carried your heavy box up six flights. Somehow that led to him staying to help build your shelf. He’d sat on your apartment floor, building and talking to you while you cooked.

You could never forget how natural, comforting, easy—safe—that moment had felt.

It was stupid. Just a fantasy. Just a somewhat innocent thought, but the idea of him and you? That thought made your heart pound.

“R-right, I’ll see you at home”

“Bye” he smiled, before heading out the door

You gave him a small wave “Bye”

—

That night you knocked on Michael’s door.

He opened it, no longer in his scrubs but dressed in a soft, casual t-shirt and joggers. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d finally had a chance to relax.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the frame. “There isn’t a baking disaster, is there?”

“What? No,” you said, frowning slightly, caught off guard. “Why would there be a baking disaster?”

“I don’t know…” he teased, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Last time you came knocking on my door at night, you’d smoked out your apartment baking cookies.”

He chuckled.

“No Garfield PJs this time… No emergency… nothing’s jammed, all is good!” you added with an embarrassed laugh.

“I just… wanted to give you these. There from my class,” you added, holding out a bundle of colorful cards and drawings the students had made.

Michael straightened, surprised, then took the stack from your hands. It was full of crayon hearts, stick-figure doctors, and shaky handwriting that said things like Thank you, Dr. Robby! and You’re cool!

His smile softened as he shifted through them, taking a quick look. “Wow…This is really sweet. Tell them I said thank you”

“I will,” you said, your eyes lingering on him. “But seriously, thank you, Michael. You didn’t just make their day… you made mine, too.”

You gave a small smile, letting it hang for a beat before adding, softer now, “You’re a good man. Thoughtful. Steady. The kind of guy people can count on. You didn’t have to show up like that, but you did."

Before you could second-guess it, you rose up on your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his bearded cheek.

It was gentle. Brief. But the air shifted between you the moment your lips touched his skin.

Michael stood still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat.

That kiss, barely there, soft as a sigh, lingered longer than it should’ve. Not on his cheek, but in his chest.

Your hands drifted down his chest, and he felt every inch like it had been branded.

He should’ve stepped back. Said something.

But all he could do was look at you.

You weren’t smiling, not really—but your eyes held something else. Something braver. Warmer. Something that pulled at the part of him he tried so hard to keep buried.

Before you or Michael could say anything another voice called out through the hall.

“Babe?”

It was Aiden. He didn’t tell you he was coming over. You move away quickly from Michael..

“Aiden? What are you doing here?”

He walked toward you, a bouquet in hand.

“I got you your favorite flowers,” he said, smiling. “Thanks for understanding that I couldn’t make it today.”

You stared at the roses in his hand.They weren’t your favorite. Not even close. But maybe it was the thought that counted.

You stood there for a second too long, your eyes flicking to the flowers, then to Michael—still standing just behind you, quiet, unreadable.

But your mind wasn’t on the bouquet.

It was on the kiss you gave Michael.

You hadn’t planned it. It had just… happened. Soft. Simple. Barely more than a brush of lips against his cheek. But it landed heavier than it should have, echoing louder now that Aiden was here, smiling.

You told yourself it was nothing.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You took the flowers and managed a small smile. “Thank you… they’re beautiful.”

Michael stood frozen, watching the scene unfold in front of his door.

He couldn’t believe the audacity. Aiden actually thought that no apology—and a last-minute bouquet of roses, no less—would make everything okay? Roses weren’t even your favorite flowers. Tulips were.

But what stunned him more… you took them. You actually took them.

He wasn’t just shocked by Aiden. He was shocked by you.

After everything—after how much this day had meant to your students, to you—you still accepted the flowers?

Aiden hadn’t shown up. He hadn’t even acknowledged how important today was. And yet, somehow, that didn’t seem to matter.

You’d been counting on him. And he let you down without a second thought.

Michael’s jaw tensed, but the feeling in his chest wasn’t just anger. It was confusing. Frustration. And something else—something quieter, deeper.

Just seconds ago, you’d kissed his cheek. Soft. Unassuming.

He had no right to read into it. He knew that.

But still—it meant something, didn’t it?

Now, standing there, watching you smile faintly as Aiden handed you flowers like it was enough, Michael found himself asking the one question he couldn’t shake:

Why him?

What did you see in Aiden, really?

Because from where Michael stood, he didn’t look like a partner. He looked like an obligation. A habit. A mistake you hadn’t realized you were still making.

And that bothered Michael more than he wanted to admit.

Aiden pulls you into a hug, and kisses you on the forehead.

“Who’s this?” Aiden asked, nodding toward Michael.

“Oh—this is Michael, my neighbor. Michael, this is my boyfriend, Aiden.”

Aiden stepped forward, offering a hand. “Hey, how’s it going?”

Michael didn’t move. “Hey,” he said flatly, eyes cool, hands gripping the notes and drawings your students had made him.

The shift was immediate. Just moments ago, Michael had been teasing you, relaxed and easy. Now, he stood like a brick wall—closed off, unreadable.

And you noticed, you felt it.

Aiden awkwardly retracted his hand.

“I’ve got a double shift, so I should head to bed,” Michael said abruptly to you.

“Oh…okay, well–”

“Goodnight,” he cut in, already turning away. A moment later, the door shut firmly behind him.

The thud of the door causes you to jump slightly.

Aiden scoffed. “Jeez. That guy’s rude. What's his problem?” He turned toward your door. “Hey, have you made dinner yet? I’m starving.”

He walked inside without waiting for an answer.

You stayed where you were, fingers still holding the flowers, rooted outside Michael’s door. You didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

Your eyes stayed on the door he’d shut, like he was in a hurry to get away.

You told yourself not to take it personally. He was tired. It didn’t matter.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had just slipped away.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967 @lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy @steviebbboi @alliegc28 @catmomstyles3 @ardentistella @madprincessinabox @circumspectre @the-one-with-the-grey-color @thatchickwiththecamera @violetswritingg @valutfromlune

#michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #noah wyle

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aingeal98 · 11 hours ago

Text

Couldn't stop thinking about this au so here have this snippet:

The mercenary blinks slowly from the other side of the screen. Cass can tell it's not the Internet connection. He's just confused. She keeps her face perfectly still and cold, eyes hard. He's too well trained, would be able to sense weakness even through a zoom call.

"So you want me to destroy the lab, free all the animals and human test subjects... Without killing anyone involved?"

"Correct." Cass adds a hint of boredom to her voice. "You are skilled enough to do so, yes?"

"Of course." The mercenary bristles at the implication. "What I don't understand is why. The former heads of the League never-"

"The former heads are dead." A lie, but one Cass has spoken enough to make sound like the truth. "You are under... new management. Get the job done or resign if you are not capable. Goodbye."

She ends the call and takes a breath. The words were dangerously close to slipping towards the end there. A single stutter, a stumble or mispronounciation, and she'd lose some of the respect and fear she saw in his eyes.

Running the League is hard. She hates it. But she's doing good, saving lives and soon... Soon she'll even be able to bring people back.

One step at a time. For now, she has a visit to make.

The room is dark when she enters. Talia sits in the chair, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. Cass offers her some tea, and she takes it without moving her gaze.

"How are you feeling today?" Cass sits down opposite her.

Slowly, Talia drags her gaze away from the wall. She blinks at Cass, face blank.

"Lucid." She says at last. "Or I think I am. It's quite hard to tell these days."

"I'm sorry."

"You killed my sister. You did this to me."

A lie. A necessary one. Cass will bear that burden and harden her gaze until Talia is ready for the truth. She is a killer after all, just not Nyssa's.

"I did." Cass sips her tea. "She brainwashed you."

"No." Talia's lips twitch. "She made me. I was someone else and she killed that person. Over and over again, erased all trace of them. All I am now is what she crafted in her image."

"You can be more than that."

"You sound so certain."

"I am." Cass takes another sip of her tea. "I was born to be crafted into a weapon. When I rejected that I had... Nothing. But I'm still here. You will survive too."

Talia studies her, and Cass is relieved to see the sharpness in her gaze. It's a good sign. Better than yesterday.

"You think you can help me. That we are alike."

"We are."

"Not enough." Talia closes her eyes. "No one understood me like Nyssa did. No one cared for me like she did. She was all I had. Without her there's just... Emptiness."

"I don't believe that."

"Then we must not be as alike as you hoped."

"You have a son." Talia's eyes fly open, wide and scared. "A child of the Bat, just like me."

"What about him?" She's tense now, calculating ways to attack Cass if necessary.

"You didn't tell Nyssa about him." Cass has no fear and she let's it show in her relaxed shoulders and crossed legs. "You left him hidden the entire time."

"I barely know him. It wasn't relevant."

"Would you like to know him?"

Talia stares at her. Cass stares back, calm and confident despite the voice inside her that sounds like Barbara telling her that she's playing with fire.

"Not like this." Talia replies eventually. "Not when I'm... Dangerous."

"You don't want to hurt him. Because you care about him." Cass leans forward. "Because he's an innocent child, and he's your child. That's not Nyssa, that's Talia."

"Get out. Please."

Cass stands and leaves. It's slow, but it's progress. She has time.

Barbara would be proud, Bruce too. Cass likes to think so anyway. And even if not Cass is proud of what she's doing. They don't have to understand, or even know about it.

She'll come home when she's ready. With Stephanie, Talia and Damian by her side.

Until then, there's work to be done.

AU where instead of going back to Gotham after the end of her og Batgirl series Cass instead vanishes on a quest to revive Steph from the dead. Because she's died twice and been revived, which means everyone else in the world deserves at least two do overs as well.

Bruce panicks and represses, Babs openly panicks and freaks out, Tim is... Not fine but doing better than the other two, because Cass texted him about it before dropping off the face of the earth, basically letting him know she was going to try and bring Steph back from the dead and asking him if he could look after her rose in the manor. A second text came in ten minutes after that informing him that the rose's name is Bob.

So Cass, like in canon, ends up taking over the League for a bit. Only this time she's doing it to learn more about resurrection. She doesn't kill Nyssa, but she does fake her death in front of Talia, because she can clearly see that something isn't right. Cue Nyssa being locked up, Cass trying to figure out how to unbrainwash Talia, and Damian meeting his future sister absolutely disgusted that someone is daring to usurp his birthright.

Cass: Oh I don't actually want this job, no worries. But uh... You're Batman's son, yes? I will be taking that job later. Sorry.

So Cass uses the League's resources to find out ways to bring Steph back, while also turning the organisation into an entirely nonlethal operation. They do some good work, she's not willing to throw them all out. They're wounded damaged assassins, of course she's going to look at them and go "I can fix them."

She eventually tracks down a device that can warp reality, (personally I'm thinking a Kheran Dream Engine, because Cass would listen to the warnings of it possessing you and the only way to get free being torture and death and be like nice. Let's give it a shot) and uses it to rewrite the universe so that Steph was just recovering with Leslie, undoes Talia's brainwashing fully, and also makes it so that Bludhaven never got nuked. She tells no one that she's planning this of course, so it ends up being a very emotional and confusing day for Leslie and Dick.

She then buries the device in the middle of nowhere. Because wayyyy too much power. Heads back to the League where she gets Talia to torture her to death and then drop her in the Pit so that she's free from the influence of the reality warping device. This is not a pleasant experience for either of them. Damian tries to watch and Talia uses her mom voice for the first time ever to tell him absolutely fucking not.

It works in the end. Talia offers to take the League back from Cass but Cass can tell her heart's not in it and is like nah. You go do your own antihero espionage stuff, you deserve it. And Talia's like that sounds wonderful but what about Damian?

And that's how exactly a year and a half after cutting all contact, Cassandra Wayne, The One Who Is All, head of the League of Assassins, comes strolling into a Wayne gala with Stephanie Brown on her left, Talia Al Ghul on her right and Bruce's unknown biological son in front of her.

Bruce shatters his champagne glass. Babs drops hers on the ground. Tim passes out and Dick is in too much shock to catch him.

"Hi." Cass grins. "I'm home."

#dc #cassandra cain #batfam #dc rambles #Talia Al Ghul #My fics

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bespeckledstars · 3 days ago

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I was thinking about how Scratch leaves the party to go live with a little girl in Baldur’s Gate, and I can understand why. He’s been adventuring with the team that stopped the end of the world, and though you and the Tadfools obviously shielded him from The Horrors, he obviously deserves a nice comfy place without any stress, lots of fetch, and all the treats and snuggles he can handle.

But if you go with Astarion on more adventures, I don’t think you’d give him up. But he can be a distraction, according to the elf.

One day you’re resting at an inn, or in your home in the Underdark. It’s mid-day, and light is pouring in through a window in the room you, Astarion, and Scratch are resting in. He’s been moody all week, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your torso and burying his face in your hair, as well as asking to feed from you more than usual. He’s in some clingy state of mind, and you’re perfectly content with it. While you have been busier than normal, it’s not been anything the two of you aren’t used to dealing with. And yet, he won’t let you out of his sight for more than a minute. He’s too busy staring at you with his signature brooding face.

Sitting on a sofa facing a kitchenette, you rest comfortably in his lap while Scratch gives you the biggest, saddest, wettest eyes you’ve ever seen. So used to taking “Speak with Animals” you ask, “Oh, is someone feeling a little hungry? Does someone want a wittle snack?” in your best baby voice. You pet and pat his face as you always have, watching his face squish around in the cutest way possible. You pepper little kisses on his silky white fur, and as you do you hear the most annoyed of scoffs hit the side of your head.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask him.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all,” he says, with all the weight of the world bearing down on him, clearly.

The two of you have been working on taking each other at your words, so you decide to wait for him to share his feelings without pushing him or accusing him of lying.

Slipping off your elf is a bit hard with a dog in between your legs, but you manage without falling over. At the kitchenette, you prepare a quick meal for the Bestest Boy, but you can feel a prickly sensation at the back of your neck as you do so. Almost like two little eyes boring through your neck. Or perhaps two sharp fangs. Either way, when you set out Scratch’s bowl in the room over and return to your vampiric lover, he’s sitting with his arms crossed and sporting a scowl sour enough to make a lemon scrunch up. His foot is tapping a mile a minute and you know he’s getting ready to talk, just that he’s letting out his anger before he speaks.

“Are you ready to talk now?” You say, parking yourself in front of him.

His face scrunches up farther than you’ve seen it do in quite some time. He lets out a breath before slipping on a version of his old mask.

“You’ve been forgetting something, darling,” he says like dry ice.

“Oh.” You reply. Now that he’s actually saying something, especially something you’ve forgotten, it worries you.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say for yourself? All week I’ve been doing everything in my power to give you hints. Affection, intimacy. And yet, nothing! You’ve neglected me at every turn! What do you have to say for yourself?” he cries.

You take a moment to think of all the things you and he still need to do, and all that you’ve completed this week. Your to-do list is near its end, he’s always fed and you haven’t missed any scheduled times to spend time together. It has been busier lately, but you can’t think of anything. Until it hits you: you haven’t given him a single kiss in days.

Ever since you modified your mornings at the beginning of the week to accommodate a large-scale event at the end of it, your entire routine has been totally messed up. Each morning you start by kissing your partner’s face, and he bemoans it, and you know he loves, and then he tells you as much in hushed and someone stinky whispers. You never mind his morning breath as you lazily let your lips collide, and he doesn’t seem to mind yours either. You can’t say for certain, but you think your strict routines and schedules are just as helpful for him as they are for you. He knows what to expect, and can plan for it. It demystifies his life and calms his anxiety. But now that things have been different, he’s clearly more elevated.

When you zone back in (when did you zone out?) you can tell he’s been talking for a while. His hands are more animated, his voice is just like when you first met with all those silly theatrics, and there’s just a hint of a glimmer in his waterline. Your eyes lock and then you step to him, bending down and capturing behind his neck all in one graceful arc of your body and hands.

When your lips press against his, his eyes go wide and the most precious little yelp sounds off from his throat. You don’t need to see anything else, so you close your eyes to lose yourself in the feeling of his tongue and yours reintroducing themselves for the first time this week. And when you settle yourself over him to get better access to his shoulders, he whimpers at the feeling of you resting over his most vulnerable parts. And when you wrap your arms around him, his hands fly to your back and hold you like you’re the last thing on Faerun.

Each press of your lips to his is carefully calculated to make sure all of your mouth is available to him. So cautious have you both been to never nick your lips on his fangs, but now, you throw that caution to the wind. Each connect and disconnect of you and he is languid, wet, and sensual. You know now the neglect he speaks of, and hopefully, the smooth glide of your tongue across his lips can make up for it.

Running your hands through his hair, caressing his neck as you lap and suck at his ears, and most importantly, laying thousands of kissing on every part of him you can reach, all contributes to the blushing, heaving elf in front of you presently. His chest rises and falls in time to his quickened heart, and you make no indication you recognize the effect you’ve now had on him. You brush your nose across his like a kiss all its own, and settle one last brush of your lips against his, like an invitation. When you rise from his lap, you will never confirm nor deny the brushing of yourself against him is purposeful. But when you glance over your shoulder, he jumps at the chance to follow you, and you know you’re more than happy to make up for as many neglected days as he asks.

★｡･:*:��ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★

Haha who said that? Anyways…

#baldur’s gate 3 #baldur’s gate three #baldur’s gate iii #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x you #reader insert #self insert #autistic reader #bg3 fanfiction #astarion bg3 fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion fanfic #astarion romance #i woke up this morning and was like yeah i could write this scene #if you see a typo no you don’t #I’m finally feeling good enough to write so hopefully I can get cranking this week!

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callme-holly · 1 day ago

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Can you please do a “Dallas Winston purposing to reader”? Basically after a rumble y/n is cleaning Dally’s wounds and her just looks into reader’s eyes and realizes he wants to spend the rest of his life with her and so he’s like “marry me” and she’s like “did you hit your head?”. And they have this adorable back and forth which ends with reader saying yes and they get married?

𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐞 - 𝐃.𝐖

a/n. i love this sm. thank you so much for the request <33. tried my best to keep it true !!

The scent in the room was poignant, a mix of copper and mud, enough to make your stomach churn and your throat tighten with each breath. It was something you should be used to by now, a smell that permeated your space enough to be almost natural…

And yet you never quite adjusted to the sight of your boyfriend, bloodied and beaten, bruises blossoming across his skin, lounging back on your mattress.

He was dirtying your sheets, no doubt, the mud caking every inch of him rubbing off and staining the pretty floral patterns you’d just scrubbed clean.

“I told you to take your jeans off.” You mumbled begrudgingly, sitting down opposite him, opting to breathe through your mouth to avoid the lingering stench of the rumble: sweat and pain.

Dallas just shrugged, his reticence unnerving. He often got like this after a fight; quieter, brooding, like he had a thousand thoughts he wasn’t willing to share. It was hard to tell how he’d respond to your touch, whether he’d be compliant and as willing to move as putty in your hands, or if he would be coiled like a spring, irascible to your every word.

With a heavy sigh, you begin working, starting at the weeping gash across his brow, soaking up the crimson staining his milky skin. It was gory, a tell-tale sign of his pent-up anger, and something about seeing every little wound made your blood run cold.

“You really should stop.” You tried, trailing off before you could continue.

It was no use. Trying to convince him to stop fighting was like trying to convince a dog to stop begging for scraps. No matter how much training and discipline you put them through, they'll never truly stop.

“I can’t,” he scoffs, tilting his head to let you get the blood that had matted into the hair curling at his ears. “You know that.”

And you did. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you did know. It was impossible to change him.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t keep trying.”

He’s silent at that, dropping his gaze, eyes suddenly thoughtful. You hated when he did this, shutting you out like he could avoid the help you were offering.

“Dally,” you pull your hand away, letting it drop uselessly to your side, blood-gauze still held tightly in your hand. “Talk to me. Don’t just…” You gesture idly, your exasperation clear.

He shook his head slowly, leaning back on his hands, and for a moment the only sound that filled the space around you both was the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the windowpane, trailing down the glass in rivulets.

And then, like it was the only reasonable thing to say, as casual as when someone asks about the events of your day, he says something that makes your whole body freeze, your muscles locking up.

“Marry me.”

“What?”

His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you, something akin to boredom in his eyes. “You heard me.”

Heart thundering in your chest, you reach out to touch his temple, cupping his cheeks, checking his pupils, lips parting and closing like a fish gasping for air. “How hard were you hit?”

The words come out in a pitiful squeak, and Dallas chuckles, brushing you off. “Not hard enough to discount the question.”

The huff of breath that leaves you feels as if someone has punched you in the gut and winded you, revoking you of your rights to catch your breath.

“Marry you?”

He nods once. simply.

“I— Dally. I can’t just… You… What?”

“It’s a yes or no, sweetheart. No rocket science.”

But it was. BEcause the man who didn’t settle down, the boy who treasured love like he treasured gum wrappers, had just asked you to marry him. No ring, no speech, not even a real question…

Just a demand, sitting on your bed, bloodied and dripping on your rug with who knows what, his eyes raw and filled with a fear that only you had come to see.

“Okay. Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Dallas smiles, leaning back against the wall and sniffs, wiping away the blood beading on his lips with the back of his hand.

“Good.”

And just like that, like he’d never asked, the world goes back to normal, turning as it should, the rain resuming the silence once more, like the distant buzz of static.

And you said nothing, but you weren’t sure whether he meant it or not or whether this was just a fleeting emotion brought on by the concussion he’d quite clearly been riddled with.

Either way, you could only hope he was being truthful and that the amorous look in his eyes meant he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you cleaning him up…

tag list. @mrsdillonx , @goingdelux18 , @princesshailierawr , @r0seb100d , @groovydonutpost

#the outsiders x reader #darry curtis imagine #darry curtis headcanons #darry curtis x reader #darrel curtis x reader #dallas winston x reader #dally winston x reader #dallas winston imagine #steve randle x reader #johnny cade x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #soda curtis x reader #sodapop x reader #ponyboy x reader #ponyboy curtis x reader #pony curtis x reader #two bit matthews x reader #two bit x reader #two bit mathews x reader

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alittlegiraffe · 1 day ago

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heyyy, how do u do?

I love your stories, u make my days better, hope u never stop 💓

Anyway, do u have any ideas for new stories? I loved drowning, its my favorite, do u think ur going to do smth like that soon?

Hugs

Title: “What Ifs”

You didn’t remember the sound of your own voice much these days.

Only the sounds that haunted you: the sharp beeping of machines, the hiss of oxygen, the coded phrases doctors used when someone was slipping away. They played on repeat in your mind like a lullaby written by grief itself.

That night was a blur—your fingers clumsy as you dialed 911, your voice breaking as you begged them to hurry. The image that never left was the way he looked slumped over in the bathroom. Lifeless. Blue-lipped. Cold.

They said it was close. Too close.

He came back to you.

But something inside you never did.

At first, you held it in. You smiled when the girls came home. You washed the blood out of the bathroom tiles before he ever saw it. You curled into his side in the hospital bed when he was lucid enough to know you were there. And you whispered, “Don’t you ever fucking leave me again.”

He promised he wouldn’t.

But now… weeks later… maybe months? You weren’t sure anymore. The days blurred. The promise didn’t silence the fear.

You couldn’t stop imagining it happening again. Every time he was late getting home. Every time you heard a siren in the distance. Every time you walked past the bathroom door and had to breathe through the memory of him on the floor, pupils blown and pulse fading.

You were stuck there. Still there.

You didn’t tell him. You couldn’t. Not when he was trying so hard. Meetings. Therapy. Sober. Focused. Present.

Everyone was so proud of him. You were proud of him.

But you were also terrified. And so, so tired.

Some nights, you stood in the kitchen with your hands braced on the counter, eyes shut tight against the crushing silence. The kids were asleep. He was working late. And the house felt like a tomb filled with echoes of almost.

Almost lost him. Almost widow. Almost gone.

You hated yourself for it—how you’d sit on the edge of the tub, shaking, your mind whispering things you didn’t want to hear.

He’s going to do it again.

You’ll find him again.

You’ll be alone.

The thoughts circled like vultures. You couldn’t outrun them. Couldn’t talk them down. You just let them whisper. Because fighting took too much energy. And honestly… part of you didn’t want to fight anymore.

Whitney was the one who cracked the surface.

Marshall had been gone for twelve hours—late session, he’d said. You knew he was probably just tired. Probably sober. Probably fine.

But that didn’t stop you from sitting on the couch in the dark, biting the skin around your thumb until it bled.

When he came in around midnight, Whitney was still up. She’d been sleeping poorly lately, climbing into your bed more often. You hadn’t questioned it.

But that night, she tugged on his hoodie and whispered, “Daddy… why does Mommy cry when you work late?”

He froze.

He told her he’d be right back. Kissed her forehead. Tucked her in.

And then he came into the living room and looked at you like he was really seeing you for the first time in weeks.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even look at him. Just stared at the turned-off TV screen like it might offer an answer to the ache in your chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice low.

You flinched. Your voice was hoarse. “Tell you what?”

“That you’re not okay.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. “Would it have helped?”

He sat beside you. Not too close—like he was scared he’d break you if he did. “I almost died,” he said slowly, carefully. “But I didn’t. I’m here.”

“And what if you hadn’t made it?” Your voice cracked. “What if next time you don’t? What if I walk in and find you again? What the fuck am I supposed to do then, Marshall?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Because there was no answer. Not one that could make this okay.

You shook your head, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek. “I can’t breathe when you’re gone. I can’t sleep. I can’t function because I keep seeing you like that. And I know it’s selfish. I know you’re trying so hard. But I’m not... I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since they put you in that hospital bed and told me you might not wake up.”

He looked like he wanted to reach for you. Like he wanted to fix it. But he couldn’t.

You stood up before he could say anything. “I don’t need a speech. Or more promises. I just need… I need space to be fucked up about this, okay?”

He stood too. Hesitant. “You’re not alone.”

“I feel alone.” The words sliced the air between you. You didn’t mean them to hurt. But they did. For both of you.

He stepped closer. “Then let me help.”

Your eyes met his. And for a moment, you wanted to believe he could.

But that weight in your chest—the one that had settled in the night of the overdose—it didn’t lift.

You let him pull you into a hug. Let yourself cry into his shoulder. But even as he held you, the thoughts were still there.

Still whispering.

What if he relapses.

What if he dies.

What if you can’t survive it next time.

You wanted to believe you’d be okay. That you would heal the way he was trying to. But the truth was you didn't know if you ever would be again.

---

The house was quieter without him.

Marshall had flown out to L.A. to work on a new album—only for a week, maybe two—but it felt like months were being carved out of your chest with every hour that passed.

You told him you were fine. That you were managing. You kissed the phone camera when he FaceTimed you and said all the right things: The girls are great. We miss you. I'm proud of you. Just focus on the music, baby.

He believed you. Or maybe he wanted to.

You were getting better at lying. Smiling with dead eyes. Keeping your voice steady. Laughing just enough.

The girls didn’t notice.

Or maybe they did and just didn’t want to say anything.

You packed their lunches every morning, double-checked their homework, asked about their friends. You braided Whitney’s hair before school and helped Alaina pick out outfits for her internship. Hailie texted you often from campus: Love you. You okay?

You always replied: I’m good, promise.

But underneath it all, the what ifs were eating you alive.

What if he didn’t come back?

What if something happened to him out there?

What if he relapsed and no one saw it coming?

You didn’t sleep anymore. Not really. Maybe two hours a night if the fear didn’t spike hard enough to pull you out of bed. Sometimes you wandered the house like a ghost, sitting on the stairs until dawn, just to hear the girls breathing in their rooms.

They were your reason to stay. They had to be.

But some nights, even they couldn’t silence the scream inside your skull.

On the sixth day, the house felt wrong. Like it had been hollowed out and filled with fog.

The girls were at school. The morning sun was pouring through the windows. You stood barefoot in the kitchen staring at a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, hands trembling slightly.

You couldn’t remember if you’d eaten. Or if you’d showered. You looked down and realized you were still in the same clothes you’d worn yesterday.

The silence felt louder than your thoughts.

You couldn’t call Marshall. Couldn’t text him this. What would you even say?

Hey, I’m falling apart again and all I can think about is dying while you’re out there building a new chapter of your life.

No. You wouldn’t do that to him. You wouldn’t drag him down with you.

You went outside instead. Let the sunlight hit your face. The pool shimmered in the backyard, reflecting a sky that was too blue for how numb you felt inside.

You sat at the edge of the water, fingers ghosting across the surface. It was cool. Calming.

And for one long, breathless moment, the thoughts grew louder than ever.

What if you just let go?

What if you slipped in and didn’t come back up?

It would be easy. So quiet. So peaceful. No mess. No pain.

The girls would be okay. They had Marshall. They had each other.

They didn’t need you. Not really. You were just the one holding it together by bloody fingernails. You were the one who couldn’t sleep. Who couldn’t breathe. Who kept picturing the worst case in every moment, every phone call, every silence.

You stood up.

And stepped into the water.

The cold shocked your skin, but you didn’t flinch. You kept walking. Deeper. Until your toes lost contact with the floor.

You sank.

Eyes open. Hair fanning around your face like seaweed. Sunlight shimmered above, but you let yourself float down until it all blurred.

And you thought—this is what peace feels like.

The splash was loud, but you didn’t hear it. You were already fading out.

Then: a second, heavier splash. Strong hands grabbed under your arms. You broke the surface coughing, choking, flailing weakly until a voice grounded you.

“What the fuck—what the fuck are you doing?!”

Nate.

His voice cracked with panic as he dragged you toward the edge of the pool. You tried to speak, but water and shame clawed up your throat. You collapsed against him, gasping.

He pulled you up onto the pool deck, chest heaving, his hands shaking as they hovered over your soaked clothes, your wide, dazed eyes. “Jesus Christ. Jesus. I thought you were fucking dead.”

You blinked up at him, trembling. Your lips moved, but no words came out.

“I—I just…” You shook your head, voice barely a rasp. “I didn’t mean to.”

But you did.

God help you, you did.

He cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his wet hair. “Marshall told me to check on you. Said he had a bad feeling. Fucking hell, he’s gonna—” He stopped himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “Let’s get you inside. C’mon.”

You didn’t fight him when he wrapped a towel around your shoulders. You didn’t speak when he sat you down on the couch and handed you a glass of water with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.

You just stared at the floor.

The silence stretched too long. Until Nate finally said, voice low and uncharacteristically gentle, “You gotta tell him. You can’t hide this anymore.”

Your throat closed up.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t cry. You just stared at the wet footprints across the floor and thought about how easy it had been to start sinking.

And how close you’d come to not coming back.

---

Your skin was still cold, even wrapped in the towel Nate had thrown around you. The chill wasn’t just from the water—it came from somewhere deeper. Bone-deep. Soul-deep.

You sat curled on the couch, dripping onto the hardwood floor, your fingers white-knuckled around the glass of water in your lap.

Nate stood across the room, pacing. Cursing under his breath. His soaked clothes clung to him like guilt.

Then he pulled out his phone.

You knew what he was about to do. Knew the name he was about to tap.

You were on your feet before you even realized it, water sloshing in the glass as it hit the floor. Your hand lashed out and snatched the phone from his fingers.

“No!”

He stared at you—stunned.

You held the phone against your chest, breath ragged, your voice rasping and broken from the water still burning in your throat.

“He can’t know, Nathan.”

Nate’s brow furrowed, hardening with disbelief. “You almost drowned, and you don’t want me to tell your husband?”

Your voice cracked as you forced out, “You can’t tell him.”

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head, frustration flaring behind his eyes. “You think he won’t notice you tried to kill yourself? Jesus, he sent me here because he knew something was wrong.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” You stopped. The words caught in your throat like thorns. “I just… I just wanted it to stop for a minute. The noise. The fear. I wanted to feel nothing.”

Nate scrubbed a hand over his face, turning away for a second like he couldn’t stand to see you like this. “That’s not better, [Y/N]. That’s not something you hide from him.”

“He’s working,” you whispered. “He’s doing better. He’s healing. I can’t—” Your voice broke completely, your knees starting to tremble again. “I can’t be the reason he falls apart. Not now.”

“He won’t,” Nate said sharply. “He’d fly back tonight if he knew. He’d drop everything for you, and you know that.”

You closed your eyes, a tear rolling down your cheek and slipping into the corner of your mouth, still tasting like chlorine. “Exactly.”

That silenced him.

Because you didn’t need to explain it any further.

You were afraid that if he came back and saw what was really left of you… it would break him.

He was still holding his sobriety together with raw hope and new habits.

He needed distance to stay strong.

He didn’t need to be dragging your dead weight with him.

“I’ve already taken enough from him,” you whispered. “I can’t be the thing that ruins his recovery.”

Nate stared at you for a long moment. The fight slowly drained from his face, replaced by something heavier: sorrow. Helplessness.

“I get it,” he said finally. Quiet. “But what if next time I’m not here in time?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

You held out the phone to him with shaking fingers. “Please… don’t call him. Just… give me time. I’ll fix it. I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t take the phone.

But he didn’t call Marshall either.

He just sank down on the arm of the chair across from you, eyes never leaving your face.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the damn floor if I have to.”

You didn’t argue.

You just sat there, soaked and silent, shivering in a towel that didn’t warm you.

Because the truth was: you were afraid of being alone.

You were afraid of what your mind would do with the silence.

---

The plane touched down just after noon.

Marshall hadn’t planned on coming back early—but something hadn’t felt right for days. Your texts were short. Flat. Off. Nate had been oddly cagey too, even through phone calls.

Marshall had a sixth sense for this kind of shit. And when he didn’t feel you at the other end of the line anymore, he packed his bag and got the next flight home.

The house was quiet when he got in. Too quiet.

You weren’t at the door.

The girls weren’t home from school yet.

But Nate’s car was still in the driveway.

Marshall frowned, dragging his bag inside and kicking off his shoes. “Yo?” he called.

No answer.

He found Nate in the kitchen—leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow. The moment he looked up and saw Marshall, his face dropped.

“Shit.”

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Marshall asked, eyes narrowing. “You were only supposed to check in. That was six days ago.”

Nate didn’t answer right away.

That hesitation was enough.

Marshall’s stomach dropped. His heart started to pound.

“Nate.”

Nate looked like he was chewing glass as he put his phone down. “She told me not to call you. Begged me not to.”

Marshall’s voice sharpened. “Why? What the hell happened?”

“Something bad.”

Marshall moved so fast the chair scraped behind him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“She walked into the pool.”

Silence.

Just—dead, suffocating silence.

“What?” The word came out like a whisper, like the breath had been punched out of him.

Nate swallowed hard. “I found her floating. Unconscious. Half-drowned.”

Marshall staggered back a step, eyes wide. “You—You didn’t fucking tell me?!”

“She made me swear. She was a wreck. She thought if you knew, you’d drop everything and relapse or spiral or—hell, I don’t know, man! I didn’t know what to do. I stayed. I didn’t leave her alone once. I slept on the goddamn floor like a watchdog, but I couldn’t call you. She wouldn’t let me.”

Marshall’s hands curled into fists at his sides, shaking. His jaw was tight enough to crack a tooth. “And you listened to her?”

“I thought it was one-time. An episode. She said she’d be okay. I believed her.”

“You lied to me.” His voice was low, guttural. Dangerous.

“I did,” Nate said quietly. “Because she looked me in the eyes and said she’d kill herself if I made that call. What the fuck would you have done?”

Marshall spun away, running both hands over his face, tugging at his hair. His entire body was vibrating with tension, with rage and panic and grief. “I would’ve come home. I would’ve come the fuck home, Nate.”

“She didn’t want you to fall apart, man.”

“I am falling apart,” he snapped, turning back toward him. “You think I can breathe knowing I was across the fucking country while she was drowning in our backyard?!”

Nate didn’t speak.

There was nothing else to say.

You heard the yelling before you saw them.

Your heart dropped as you descended the stairs, still in the hoodie you hadn’t changed out of since yesterday, sleeves pulled down over your wrists like armor.

Marshall saw you the moment you stepped into the hallway. The look on his face made your breath hitch—anger, fear, betrayal all crashing together in one devastating storm behind his eyes.

He stepped toward you.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You froze.

“I—I couldn’t,” you said, voice rough. Raw. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I needed to see you like that!” he shouted, chest heaving. “You think protecting me means hiding the fact you were ready to die? You think I’m so fragile you’d rather drown alone than pick up the fucking phone?!”

Tears hit your eyes instantly, hot and blinding.

“I didn’t want to break you,” you whispered. “You were finally doing okay.”

“And you’re not!” he exploded. “Jesus, [Y/N], I almost fucking lost you. You think that helps me stay clean? You think knowing you were ready to let go while I was in a studio thousands of miles away keeps me steady?! It makes me wanna fucking crawl out of my skin.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, barely standing. “I’m so fucking sorry, I just—I didn’t see any other way out. Everything’s too loud. And I was so tired of pretending to be okay for everyone else.”

His eyes glossed over. He stepped forward again, slower this time, the fury in his face giving way to something softer—more shattered.

He reached for you. You flinched.

That killed him.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice cracking. “Don’t pull away. Not from me.”

You let him touch you this time—let his arms wrap around you and hold you like he’d never let go again.

And maybe he wouldn’t.

But you didn’t feel saved. Not yet.

You felt seen.

And somehow, that hurt even more.

---

The house was silent now.

Marshall had closed every door behind him like he was afraid the noise might break you. Like even the slam of a cupboard might shatter what little was holding you together.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a different hoodie now—his. You couldn’t look him in the eye. You hadn’t since he pulled you into his arms hours ago and realized how thin you’d gotten, how distant your skin felt.

He was pacing in the bedroom, slow and tight, arms folded across his chest like he was holding himself in. He hadn’t raised his voice again. He hadn’t accused you. He hadn’t even looked angry—at you.

But every time the floor creaked in the hallway, every time Nate’s footsteps moved downstairs, something in Marshall twitched.

You finally spoke, voice barely there. “You’re mad at him.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Yeah.”

You nodded like you understood. Because you did. But also… “He kept me alive.”

Marshall ran a hand over his face, sighing hard. “He shouldn’t have had to.”

You looked down at your hands. “He was scared.”

“I’m scared,” Marshall snapped, more bitter than loud. “I’ve been scared since the second I walked in this house and realized something was wrong. But you don’t lie to someone about that kind of shit, [Y/N]. You don’t sit there texting me ‘everything’s fine’ while you’re drowning in the fucking pool.”

You didn’t argue.

You couldn’t.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping a sliver of space between you—like he was afraid to crowd you, but more afraid not to be close.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again, but gentler this time. Softer.

Your throat ached. “Because you were happy.”

“That doesn’t mean I stop loving you.”

You didn’t realize tears were falling until he reached over and brushed them from your cheeks, his fingertips careful, like you might bruise.

“I love you when it’s dark too,” he said. “Don’t shut me out when you’re hurting. That’s when I need to be there.”

You leaned into his hand, your body giving in even if your mind still wanted to run.

After a moment, you whispered, “Don’t be too hard on Nate. Please.”

He pulled back slowly, jaw clenching. “He should’ve fucking told me.”

“I begged him not to.”

He shook his head. “He could’ve told me without you knowing. He could’ve lied to you and told me the truth. Hell, I would’ve lied to you, if it meant keeping you safe.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

He wasn’t wrong.

He stood again and crossed the room, tension radiating off him as he stared out the window. “He’s sleeping here again tonight?”

“Yeah. He said he’s not leaving until you’ve calmed down enough to punch him or forgive him.”

Marshall scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck.

You shifted slightly, voice softer now. “He sat by the bathroom door every time I took a shower. Slept downstairs with one eye open. Took the knives out of the kitchen. He didn’t just keep a secret, Marshall. He kept me. Here. Breathing.”

He didn’t say anything, but you saw his shoulders dip. Just a little.

“I’m still mad,” he muttered after a moment.

“I know.”

“But I’m… grateful, too.”

“I know that, too.”

He turned back toward you, eyes tired, face worn. “I’m gonna talk to him.”

You nodded. “Just don’t yell.”

“I won’t.”

“...Don’t hit him.”

He almost smiled. “I probably won’t.”

You breathed out a weak laugh. It hurt, but it felt good, too.

He crossed back to you, pulled you in with one arm and kissed your forehead. “We’ll get through this,” he murmured. “Okay?”

You nodded into his chest, letting yourself believe it. Just a little.

Even if the shadows still pressed close.

Even if the ache didn’t go away overnight.

Even if you didn’t feel fixed.

At least now—you weren’t pretending anymore.

---

The house was quiet again by midnight. You’d fallen asleep—finally—curled up in the corner of the bed, wrapped in one of Marshall’s hoodies like a blanket made of memories. He’d watched you for a long time before leaving the room, the sound of your breathing anchoring him to the floor.

Now he stood in the kitchen, jaw tight, fists looser than before but still not fully unclenched.

Nate sat at the table, arms folded, like he’d been waiting all night for this.

“You lied to me.”

Marshall’s voice wasn’t raised.

It was worse than that.

It was quiet.

Nate let out a long breath. “Yeah.”

“I needed to hear it from you. Not walk in on it days later like a goddamn stranger in my own life.”

“I know.”

Marshall moved to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water just to give his hands something to do. Something that wasn’t breaking a wall or slamming a door.

He unscrewed the cap but didn’t drink it.

“Why?”

Nate’s jaw twitched. He looked up finally, and his eyes were already red. “Because she asked me to.”

Marshall’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “And that was enough?”

“No,” Nate snapped, louder than he meant to. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, it wasn’t fucking enough. I’ve been sleeping with one ear open for six days wondering if she was gonna disappear between breaths. Do you know what it feels like to check if someone’s still alive every hour?”

Marshall’s spine stiffened. His anger started to simmer again, but before he could say anything, Nate stood up.

“She’s not just your wife, Em,” he said, voice low, but full. “She’s—she’s the first person who ever gave a shit if I was okay. She used to sneak me out of school when our mom forgot to pick me up. She used to buy me birthday presents when Deb forgot. She’s the first person who made me feel like I was part of a family and not just some extra piece of trash left behind.”

Marshall stared at him, stunned.

“I was a kid, man. And she didn’t treat me like a burden. She let me tag along on your dumb-ass dates, she taught me how to use the washing machine. She parented me more than our own fucking mother ever did.”

His voice cracked.

“I watched her come apart in that house and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I kept thinking, ‘How do I save the person who always saved me?’ And I thought—I thought maybe if I just kept her breathing long enough, you’d come home in time.”

Marshall felt his throat tighten.

“I didn’t tell you,” Nate said, voice smaller now, “because I didn’t know how. Because I was afraid saying it out loud would make it real. And I couldn’t handle losing her. Not her. Not like that.”

Silence fell over the room like fog—dense, inescapable.

Marshall sat down slowly across from him, eyes still locked on his brother.

“You should’ve called me,” he said again—but there was no venom in it now. Just pain.

Nate nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I know.”

Marshall swallowed hard. “But I get it.”

That landed like a weight in Nate’s chest.

“I get it,” Marshall repeated. “Because I would’ve done the same thing.”

His voice dropped.

“She’s more than just mine, man. I forget that sometimes. But I get it.”

Nate’s shoulders sagged, finally releasing tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

Marshall looked away, throat working like he was fighting something back. “I’m sorry I yelled. I was scared.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a while, the kind only brothers can share. Where every unspoken thing is heard anyway.

Finally, Marshall sighed. “You still sleeping on the couch tonight?”

“Unless you’re kicking me out.”

“Nah. But I’ll take first watch.”

Nate looked at him.

Marshall gave a small, tired smile. “Old habits.”

Nate nodded once, lips twitching upward for the first time in days.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

Because between them stood the same truth:

You had held both their broken pieces once.

And now, it was their turn to hold yours.

---

It had been three days since Marshall came home.

Three days of too-quiet breakfasts and awkward silences and forced smiles that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.

Nate still slept in the guest room.

You still barely left the bedroom.

And the girls—God, the girls were watching everything.

You could see it in Hailie’s long glances, the way she lingered in doorways like she was waiting to overhear something. In Alaina’s soft reassurances, her too-casual questions like, “Do you need help with dinner?” when she never used to ask. And Whitney—she was the sharpest of all. Small but perceptive. Quietly confused.

It was a Saturday morning when the question came.

You were all sitting in the living room, scattered in loose, unspoken formations—Whitney curled beside you on the couch, Alaina thumbing through her phone on the floor, Hailie helping Marshall fold laundry across the coffee table, and Nate in the kitchen nursing his third cup of coffee like it was penance.

The tension felt like old paint—cracked and visible if anyone looked too closely.

But it was Whitney who said it first.

“Why’s Uncle Nate still here?” she asked, head tilted. Her tone was innocent. Curious.

She was always good at asking the questions no one else dared to.

The room froze.

Every muscle in your body stiffened beneath the hoodie you’d barely taken off all week. You stared at the television, watching a cooking show neither of you were really following.

Marshall looked up from a towel he was folding, his expression faltering. “Uh…”

Hailie shot him a glance.

Alaina looked at you.

Nate didn’t even pretend to be casual—he just stared into his coffee mug like he wanted to fall inside it.

Whitney blinked, oblivious to the panic fluttering beneath everyone’s skin. “He used to only stay when Daddy was gone. But now you’re back. So… why’s he still here?”

Silence.

Marshall cleared his throat. “He’s just helping out, bug.”

“With what?”

Another beat of hesitation.

Then Nate muttered, “Just… being around.”

“Okay,” she said, dragging out the word slowly. “But—is Mommy sick?”

You flinched. Your heart stuttered.

Marshall looked at you.

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

“Mommy’s just tired,” Hailie said, gently. Too gently.

Whitney narrowed her eyes. “Is it because she was crying when Daddy was in California?”

That silenced the room completely.

Marshall's hands stilled. Alaina’s phone slipped from her fingers. Nate froze in place.

You couldn’t breathe.

Whitney looked around at all of you. “Did she cry because he was gone? Or because she was scared?”

No one answered.

She was only ten. But she knew. Kids always know more than you think.

After a moment, Marshall got up and crossed the room, sitting on the armrest beside you, his hand resting lightly between your shoulders. “Mommy’s going through a hard time right now,” he said softly. “And sometimes hard things are easier to handle when there’s family close by. So Uncle Nate’s here to help us for a while. That’s all.”

Whitney stared at you, like she wanted to ask more. Like she already knew more.

You managed to whisper, “I’m okay.”

She didn’t believe you.

But she didn’t say anything else.

Later, after the girls were upstairs and the house had gone quiet again, you stood in the hallway near the stairwell, arms wrapped around yourself. You didn’t hear Marshall come up behind you until he placed a hand on your waist, anchoring you gently.

“She knows,” you said, not turning around.

“Yeah.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

You exhaled slowly. “What if we already broke something in her?”

“You didn’t,” he said, firm but soft. “She’s not broken. She’s just… watching us survive. And maybe that teaches her something, too.”

You didn’t reply.

You didn’t believe him yet.

---

It took two weeks for the noise to come back.

The house was asleep.

You weren’t.

You hadn't slept in what felt like days. Not really. Maybe you'd drifted, maybe you’d pretended. But real sleep—the kind that reached down and held you—hadn’t touched you in weeks.

You walked barefoot through the hallway, careful not to wake anyone. The floors creaked under your weight like they were warning you not to go.

But you went anyway.

The back door slid open with that familiar sound, the one that used to mean summer and laughter and splashing. Now it just felt like a memory you couldn’t crawl back into.

The night air kissed your skin. Cold. Unforgiving.

The pool glowed faintly under the moonlight, a rippling mirror that looked too calm for what it had done. Or what you’d done. Or almost done.

You stepped closer.

You told yourself you just needed air.

Just needed a second.

But your eyes wouldn’t leave the water.

It looked like peace.

Like silence.

Like a way out.

You stood at the edge, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, the chill seeping through your hoodie, your breath fogging faintly in the air.

Your mind was screaming again.

What if he leaves? What if he relapses? What if the girls see you fall apart for real this time? What if this never gets better? What if you’re broken forever? What if they’d all be better off if you just—

You choked on a sob, biting it back into your teeth like it had no right to escape.

You took one step closer.

The edge of the concrete dug into your toes. You could almost feel the weightlessness of letting go, the rush of cold. The instant relief that might follow. Or not.

You don’t have to do this, a voice whispered somewhere faint in your chest.

But it was quiet. And the louder voice—the one that said you’re a burden, you’re unraveling, you’re too much—was screaming.

Your foot shifted.

And then—

“Don’t.”

The voice stopped you cold.

You spun around, startled, nearly slipping, heart hammering.

It was Hailie.

She stood in the doorway barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, her hair a mess of sleep and worry. Her eyes weren’t angry. Just wide. And scared.

She looked so much like Marshall in that moment it broke something in you.

“I—I wasn’t—” you stammered.

She didn’t say anything. Just walked over, slowly. Carefully. Like you were glass.

When she reached you, she took your hand. No force. Just warmth.

“Come back inside, Mom.”

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t know how,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to come back.”

She squeezed your hand tighter.

“Then I’ll stay with you out here until you do.”

And she did.

---

The chill of the night pressed down like a second skin, but you didn’t feel it.

Not really.

Not with Hailie beside you.

She didn’t let go after she pulled you down into the old wooden deck chair, the blanket she’d brought barely big enough to cover you both. Her arms wrapped around your middle like she was afraid you might slip through the cracks of the world and vanish. You held her without thinking, instinctively, like muscle memory. Like breathing.

And she just… stayed there.

She didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t tell you it was okay.

Didn’t try to fix you.

She just held on.

And after a while—after the sobs stopped and your heart stopped racing, after the pool stopped looking like an answer—her grip loosened, her body relaxed, and she fell asleep with her head tucked beneath your chin.

Your fingers moved slowly through her hair, the way you used to when she was little. When monsters still lived under beds and you were her shield from all of them.

Now she was yours.

And that broke you more than anything else ever could.

You didn’t sleep. But you didn’t move, either. Couldn’t.

Because she was warm. And real. And here.

And even though your mind still whispered what if, what if, what if on a loop that never ended, her breathing gave you something to hold onto. Something to stay anchored for. Even just for one more minute.

The sky turned gray behind the trees.

And then light crept into the yard, soft and golden and undeserved.

You didn’t hear the sliding door open, but you heard the gasp—sharp, strangled—followed by fast footsteps across the deck.

“Oh my God—”

Marshall.

You looked up, blinking blearily, eyes raw and aching.

He was already crouching in front of you, hands gentle but frantic, touching your face, your arms, Hailie’s back.

“Jesus, babe, what—what the fuck—why are you—”

“She’s okay,” you rasped, voice hollow. “She found me.”

Marshall stared at you, at Hailie curled against you like she was still ten years old and scared of thunderstorms.

“She wouldn’t let me go,” you added.

Behind him, Nate stood frozen at the edge of the deck, his face pale, eyes wide, like he’d just walked into a funeral.

Again.

You looked at them both. Couldn’t find words. Couldn’t even lie.

Marshall knelt there for a long moment, trying to gather his breathing. Trying not to yell. Trying not to cry.

He looked up at you, eyes shining.

“I thought we were past this,” he whispered.

“So did I.”

He swallowed hard. His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You leaned your head back against the chair, eyes slipping shut. “Maybe we don’t. Maybe we just… get through one more night.”

He nodded slowly.

Then, gently, he brushed the hair from your forehead and leaned forward to press his lips to it.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Hailie stirred faintly but didn’t wake.

No one said it out loud, but you all felt it:

You were still not okay.

Not yet.

Maybe not for a long time.

But this time, you weren’t alone on the edge.

---

By noon, the pool was already halfway drained.

You heard the whirring first—low, mechanical, relentless. Then the footsteps. The scrape of boots on the deck. Male voices outside. Something shifting, water gurgling like a wound being opened.

From the bedroom window, you watched a man in overalls feed a wide hose into the deep end, water rushing up through the pipe and out into a truck parked on the side of the yard. The blue glow of the water darkened as it lowered, leaving behind slick tiles and echoes.

You didn’t ask.

You already knew.

Marshall stood by the pool, arms crossed, jaw tight, a phone clenched in one hand. His posture was a storm held just beneath the surface. A storm that had nowhere to go.

You opened the sliding door slowly, stepping out barefoot. The deck boards were warm under your feet now, touched by the rising sun.

He didn’t turn around.

“How long have they been here?” you asked, voice hoarse from the night before.

“Hour and a half,” he said. “They’ll be done by four.”

You looked past him to the water, still draining, still shifting.

He finally turned, eyes shadowed, voice low. “I’m not leaving that thing full another goddamn day.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not the pool, Marsh.”

“I know,” he said. “But it doesn’t get to stay. Not after that.”

He looked at you then, and something in his face made your throat tighten. Not just anger. Not just fear. But helplessness. The kind that lives in a man who’s already watched someone flatline once.

“I can’t watch you go under,” he said. “Not again. Not even in my fucking dreams.”

You stepped closer.

“I wasn’t trying to die.”

He let out a rough breath. “Then tell your face that. Tell your fucking eyes.”

You blinked hard, fighting the sting.

“I didn’t know how else to make it stop,” you whispered. “I just wanted quiet for five minutes. Five.”

He nodded, swallowed, nodded again.

The water behind him kept draining.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I’m mad at the part of me that missed it. That left you here thinking you had to hold all of it alone.”

You didn’t reply.

There was nothing to say that could undo it.

He closed the distance between you and pulled you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you with that same urgency as the night he found out. Like he still didn’t trust you wouldn’t slip away if he blinked too long.

You let yourself be held.

The draining continued.

Later, Hailie asked if something happened to the pool.

Marshall just said, “Yeah. It stopped feeling safe.”

And she didn’t question it.

---

After the pool was drained you tried harder. Determined to fight alongside Marshall and your family. You were trying to not just act better but feel better.

It was supposed to be a good day.

The first one in a while.

The sun was out, a soft spring breeze threading through the trees, and for once, your body didn’t feel like it was trying to collapse in on itself. Nate had suggested the walk—just around the neighborhood, just to get some air—and somehow, you’d said yes.

Hailie and Alaina walked ahead, earbuds shared between them, bickering quietly over a playlist.

You stayed behind with Whitney, who’d brought her favorite stuffed unicorn along for the ride, its sparkly horn bobbing in rhythm with each of her skips. Nate walked beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie, glancing over every few steps like he still didn’t trust you not to disappear.

It was peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

It happened in a blink.

The unicorn slipped from Whitney’s hands, bounced once on the curb, then tumbled into the street.

“Oh no—Starbeam!” Whitney squeaked and darted forward before you could stop her.

Nate lunged instantly, calling her name, grabbing her arm just in time to yank her back to the sidewalk—but the toy was still out there.

“I’ll get it,” he said, already stepping toward the road.

Time slowed.

You didn’t hear the car at first—just a dull hum, distant. But then it turned the corner too fast. Too fucking fast. And Nate didn’t see it coming.

You did.

Your throat ripped open before you even registered the scream.

“NO—!”

Your body moved on instinct.

You didn’t think.

Didn’t weigh the consequences.

Didn’t hesitate.

One second you were on the curb, the next you were shoving Nate with both hands, hard, out of the car’s path.

Then—

Impact.

Sound exploded. Bone met steel. The world spun.

You didn’t feel pain at first. Just a jolt. A cracking thud. Your body flung sideways, weightless for a second, then slammed into the asphalt like a dropped puppet.

Everything went quiet.

You tasted blood.

You couldn’t breathe.

You stared up at the sky, blue and impossibly bright, and the only thing you could think was, At least Nate's okay.

“MOM!”

“Oh my God—”

“CALL AN AMBULANCE!”

“Don’t move her! Don’t let her close her eyes!”

“Why is there blood—”

The voices blurred together.

Whitney was screaming.

Alaina was crying.

Nate was already at your side, hands shaking, face white as paper, voice cracking as he begged you to stay awake.

You blinked up at him, vision swimming.

“I’m okay,” you tried to say. But nothing came out.

Just more blood.

And then—blackness.

---

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader #gracie answers #reader requests

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sadnymi · 5 hours ago

Text

Dark haven

singledad mattheo riddle x reader

Chapter four >> chapter five

The guards looked at you like you were a damn criminal. One even subtly reached toward the wand on his hip when you passed, like you were going to stab someone with a spoon or smother Kai with a pillow. You had tried to tell them you were the nanny now, but judging by their silence and stony glares, they don’t really care.

You sat stiffly on one of the sleek black chairs in the marble-floored hallway, watching the enormous front doors like they might swing open at any moment. Time passed. The lights dimmed. The silence thickened.

Eventually, your body gave in. Your head drooped against the high-backed chair, knees pulled to your chest for warmth, arms wrapped tightly around them. You didn’t mean to fall asleep. You just… waited. Until sleep took you like a thief.

A noise woke you.

A soft creak—leather shoes against polished floors. Your eyes snapped open, blurry and stinging. You sat up fast, spine aching, blinking rapidly as you saw him—Mattheo—moving up the stairs with his back to you.

Your voice broke the silence. “Mattheo!”

It was probably stupid. Your back throbbed, your neck stiff, your face still puffy from sleep. But after everything that happened that day, after everything you heard from Kai… the idea of missing him now, missing your chance, felt unbearable.

Mattheo stopped mid-step, head turning slightly.

He looked down at you, one brow raised, tired and dark and cold.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped. “Why are you—”

“I was waiting for you,” you said, cutting him off.

Your eyes had adjusted now. You could see more clearly—and what you saw made your breath catch.

His hands… were covered in blood. Smears along his knuckles. Dried red flaked under his nails. There was blood on the collar of his shirt, his neck, even a streak across his jaw like war paint. And still, his expression didn’t falter—calm, detached, dangerous.

You stood up fast, legs shaky but steadying. “Are you—are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave you that warning glare. “Mind your business.”

You exhaled. “If Kai saw you like this,” you said softly, “it *is* my business.”

He turned sharply at that, eyes cold.

“My job,” you added, straightening your spine.

He blinked, paused, then scoffed like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You took a slow step toward him. “Let me help you.”

He didn’t move as you passed him. Didn’t stop you as you quietly walked into the bathroom and gathered what you needed—a damp cloth, gauze, ointment, peroxide. The whole time, he stood near the window, back to you, silent.

You came back and gently touched his wrist. “Sit.”

He dropped into the chair he didn’t meet your eyes, but didn’t stop you either.

As you started to clean the blood from his hands, he muttered, “Why were you sleeping out there?”

“I was waiting to talk to you,” you said. “Something important. About Kai.”

Still silence. So you kept working, voice low, gentle.

“He thinks you don’t love him anymore. That you’re mad at him. Because he was upset when he woke up and I wasn’t there. Because you didn’t come to dinner. Because you didn’t read him a story. He thinks it’s punishment.”

You glanced up. His jaw was clenched, hard as stone.

You swallowed. “He worships you. Talks about you like you hang the stars. You leaving the dinner table feels like the end of the world to him.”

Mattheo stayed silent.

You gently turned his palm upward. His knuckles were bruised. Split. You pressed the gauze softly. “Your hands,” you whispered. “You can’t let him see them like this. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, but you need to *think* before you walk through that door covered in someone else’s blood.”

His head tilted, suspicious now. “How the hell do you know all this?”

You smiled grimly. “Because when you grow up with a drunk father who comes home at two in the morning covered in blood, muttering about debts and threats—and still has enough energy left to beat the hell out of you—then makes you help him clean up before school... You learn.”

Mattheo stared at you.

No witty comment. No insult.

Just silence.

You looked down at his hands again, dabbing the final streak of red away. “I know what it looks like. I know what it smells like. I know what it *feels* like.”

You folded the gauze.

Mattheo didn’t speak.

But he let you keep his hand in yours.

You didn’t blink.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you added softly. “I’m not telling you for pity. I’m telling you so you understand I get it. I know what blood means. I know what silence means. And I know what it does to a kid to think they’ve lost their father.”

The air between you and Mattheo was heavy. He didn’t say a word, but you saw the tension ease slightly from his shoulders—only slightly.

You cleared your throat, stepping back and setting down the now-bloodied cloth. “I should get to sleep.”

He didn’t stop you. He just watched as you quietly left the room, the echo of your words still hovering between you both like a ghost.

---

**The next morning**

You sat up slowly in bed, sunlight crawling through the curtains and dancing across the floor. The silence was too thick, and for a moment, you were unsure what the hell you were even supposed to *do*. Was there a schedule? Did Kai have lessons? Meals? Rules? You weren’t even sure where breakfast happened in a house like this.

So you got dressed quietly and headed downstairs, bare feet soft against the floors. You followed the sound of laughter and clinking silverware until you stopped in the doorway of what looked like a small breakfast salon.

Kai and Mattheo were already there.

“Kai,” you greeted instinctively.

He turned, lit up, and grinned wide. “You’re awake!” he called happily. “Come on! We’re having breakfast in the garden today!”

Your heart softened. “Are we now?” you smiled gently, still unsure if you were allowed to even *move* without some secret permission. You offered a quick “Good morning” to Mattheo, who looked up at you briefly—silent.

Kai wriggled off his chair and grabbed a half-eaten croissant. “I’ll wait outside!” he called as he ran for the garden doors.

You watched him go, then turned—only to find Mattheo now standing, walking toward you slowly.

“I was wondering,” you said carefully, “is there a schedule or something I should follow with Kai? Like…meals, naps… rules?”

Mattheo folded his arms across his chest. “Whatever makes him happy.”

You nodded, a little relieved.

“But yeah,” he added, “you can make a schedule for him. He needs some structure.”

You nodded again. “Alright, I’ll work on that.”

Then he glanced down. “Where’s your wand?”

You paused. “Oh, It’s broken.”

You didn’t tell him that your stepmother snapped it in half right in front of you. That you were fourteen. That it was the same day she told you if you ever tried to “play the freak card” again, she’d make sure you never saw magic again.

“You didn’t go to Hogwarts?” he asked, tone skeptical.

“No,” you said quietly. “My dad refused. He said I didn’t need that kind of education. I went to *Avemore Institute for Practical Magic* instead. Small place. Hidden. They don’t get visitors.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded once. “You go tonight with one of the guards. You’re getting a new wand. You can’t be with my son without one.”

You blinked. “Alright.”

Then his tone shifted. Sharper. “I need more information about your family.”

“There’s nothing to know.” You kept your voice level. “My father is dead. My mother died years before that.”

“There must be someone left.”

“Just my stepmother,” you said flatly. “Her name is Ellia Braysin. But there’s nothing to know about her. She’s not part of my life anymore.”

Mattheo studied you for a long second, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was peeling you open in his mind.

“I’ll look into her.”

You gave a small, sarcastic smile. “I’m sure you will.”

He didn’t answer that—just turned his head toward the window, where Kai was twirling around under the sunlight in the garden like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, walking past you. “He’s waiting.”

You followed, heart thudding.

You were still unsure of everything in this house. Still haunted by blood and silence and the sharp edges of your past.

But there was one thing—one person—you were sure of.

Kai.

And for now, he was the only reason you stayed.

Tag list :

@esmerai-artemis

@pluto-9456

@dracoslovergirl

@hereticdance

#mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheoriddle #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagines #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo imagine

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vespcrtines · 14 hours ago

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Well, wasn’t that a clever little sidestep.

The sound Huck lets go of ain’t a laugh, not really. More a breath that got halfway to a chuckle and changed its mind. Dry at the edges. Wry enough to curl up in the corner of his mouth and sit there. He doesn’t needle Miles for the question—hell, he asked for questions, didn’t he? Can’t blame a man for picking the one with the shiniest handle.

And truth be told, the lighter had a way of turning up in Huck’s palm when he wasn’t paying attention. His hands wandered to it the same way they might reach for a prayer or his chest when passing a grave. Muscle memory, more than anything else. Something steady to hold onto when the air got too thick with things unsaid.

He shifts his weight, slow and idle, shoulders loosening under cotton gone soft with too many summers. The lighter sits easy in his palm, flame long gone but heat lingering in the metal. “This old thing?” he says, and his voice is all dust and gravel, worn smooth by years of wind, work and grunts between swaths of silence. He doesn’t offer it over, not exactly, but he holds it out a little more plain for them both to see, the mermaid catching a flick of light from the bar’s half-hearted glow behind them. She’s faded down to a smile and a suggestion, hips blurred by time, tail all but vanished.

“It’s just a lighter,” he finally says. But they both know it's not.

He raises it again, not quite between them, more like to remind himself it’s still there. The little mermaid grins up at nothing in particular, her paint chipped to hell, her edges worn soft by years of being rolled between calloused fingers. Huck studies her like she might blink back, maybe tell him something he hasn’t already heard a hundred times from his own memory.

“My ma,” he starts, after a beat, “she had a thing for mermaids. Still does, far as I know.” The words come easy, not rehearsed, but well-traveled. Words that most everyone in the Springs knew, but certainly nothing he'd expect a flown-in to know. Hell, strange for him to look a man in the eye and know that he had no idea who the Buchanans were. “Not in a collector’s way. Not the kind where you keep ‘em boxed up or behind glass. Just… they were around. On mugs. Stitched into pillows. Said they brought luck.” He glances at Miles then, just for a second, to see if he’s still listening, before dropping his gaze again.

“She believed in that kind of thing. Luck. Magic. Said there’s power in things that shouldn’t exist but do anyway. And if you saw one before the sea took you, it meant you weren’t done. Meant someone was still waitin’ on you to come home.”

His thumb moves slow over the lighter, back and forth across the ghost of that painted tail, the motion steady, almost meditative. A reflex, something you do without thinking, but even once you notice, it’s hard to stop. “She gave this to me one morning, outta nowhere. Back when I first started taking over the field full-time. I was young. Thought I knew everything. Told her it was just a plastic lighter from the corner store. She didn’t flinch. Just looked at me and said, ‘That don’t mean it ain’t holy.’”

He breathes out, not quite a sigh, more a shift in the air around him. Rough fingers curl around the lighter like he’s pocketing something warm, but he doesn’t put it away. Just lets it rest there against his chest, thumb still brushing the surface in lazy arcs.

“She’s lucky,” he says, softer now. “Or always said she was. Figured some of it might rub off on me if I carried it.” A pause, long enough for a breeze to tug at the hem of his shirt, for the gravel beneath their boots to settle. Huck’s eyes flick back to Miles, catching the glint of curiosity in stormy-blue eyes, the same curiosity that flickers in sea-weathered and tired, the faint glow of the bar painting his jaw in burnt orange.

And just when the silence starts to hum too deep, when the weight of all that truth begins to stretch a little tight between them, Huck lets his mouth curve—not quite a grin, not yet, but something on its way there.

“Or maybe,” he drawls, casual now, hitching one brow just a hair, “Ma just thought this mermaid had a great rack.”

The moment thins at the edges, not cracked, but loosened. Huck gives a shrug, all shoulders and whatever ease he could muster, and looks away from stormy eyes to take another drag of his cigarette.

The lighter stays in his hand.

Huck drinks too, frost-sweaty bottle raised to his lips. His heavy-lidded eyes catch Miles' and stay there, shining in the dark. The look is a bold one for a place like this -- steady, unwavering, curious. There's something flickering behind it that sets a little curl of heat turning in Miles' innards, a slight anticipatory frisson tickling his spine.

There's a little crackle of something in the air, passing between them in the dark, when Huck finally speaks -- first rolling the beer between his calloused palms, then pulling out the tatty plastic lighter. The busty mermaid on the side smiles out into the night; Huck thumbs it into flame -- on and off, staccato morse code written in fire.

You just gotta ask more questions, he says -- glancing down and seemingly talking to his beer, or the mermaid, then back up again. And then repeats himself. The voice is low and soft, the drawl as slow as ever, but there's an odd urgency hiding somewhere under all the molasses.

It prickles Miles' interest immediately, the small hairs on the back of his neck rising involuntarily again. There are unplumbed depths to this fellow, is what his guts say. And a queer intensity in his eyes, as though he wants to be known. Isn't going to volunteer; wants to be asked. Untold things held just beyond those oddly bowlike curved lips, waiting for someone to inquire, unlock them.

Huck is offering himself up on a silver platter, lighter clenched in his hand, eyes bright in the dark. Not in quite the way Miles might have wishfully imagined -- airy little fantasy visions of being backed against the side of the Beast, hot breath on his neck and a cornfed knee jammed between his Versace-glad thighs, dissolve into the night. Too bad. Absurdly unlikely in a place like this anyway, though; who is he kidding?

But the intent stare and the pointedly repeated statement.... They're practically an engraved invitation to be nosy, ask the kinds of questions mannerly Miles normally refrains from asking. They hang there in the dark, intriguing in their own right, too intriguing to leave untouched. Miles is already half-hooked; may as well bite.

"Alright," he allows, a quiet, raspy baritone purr. He downs another deep swallow of beer, fizz sparkling against his palate and leaving a chilly trail down his throat, then sets it down. He settles back against the divider, half-turned towards Huck, feet crossed in the gravel. "I'm asking," he says -- folding his arms loosely across his broad chest, cigar caught between two thick fingers, ember glowing orange under a scrim of ash. "Tell me about that lighter."

Maybe not the question Huck's anticipating. Maybe not exactly the one Miles would most like to ask, either. But it's been simmering in the back of his head, so he asks. There's a story behind the mermaid lighter; he'd bet a day's wages on it. Why would a man be so obviously attached to a cheap-arse piece of battered plastic, nearly sag with relief when Miles produced it from a pocket like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat? It feels like a key, dangling just beyond his fingertips, and he's not fool enough or incurious enough to ignore it.

#thread || huck #thread: miles | huck #i rewrote this four times and its #yoiu still have to love me even if this is a whole lot of NOTHING

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sugucide · 4 months ago

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two weeks.

it's been two weeks since kento has been inside of you. He's gone months, hell even years without sex before he met you and he was fine. he didn't even wish for it like most of his bachelor counterparts did.

but now that he's had a taste of you? two weeks may as well be a death sentence. which is ironic, giving the nature of this sex ban. everything you do is inviting: maybe it's just his underworked sex drive or maybe he's reverted back to his teenage years because he sure does feel like an impatient, entitled brat whenever you walk past him.

he can smell you. not the smell of your perfume you spritz on each morning. not the product in you hair. not the moisturiser you use. but you, the scent of your self, your body, the skin he's so often inhaled as he bit down between your thighs or up the column of your neck. he can smell the memories of sex, sweaty and tangled in pheromones and all things primal.

he can hear you. not your words or laughter or the way you hum absentmindedly when you're pottering around the house. he can hear that sharp little intake of breath when you accidentally, or not-so-accidentally, brush against him. he can hear that whining tinge to your voice when you tell him you won't sleep with him, that you're punishing him, as if its moreso a punishment for you than him. he can remember the way you'd moan for him, desperate and glassy eyed and oh so perfect for him as he ruins you from the inside out.

he can't take it anymore.

"two weeks is more than enough time for me to think about my actions," he tells you over dinner one night, eyes cast downwards at his plate. "...and to come up with a suitable apology."

you place your chopsticks down at his last words and look up at your husband. "oh? let's hear it then."

over the frames of his glasses, kento's eyes meet yours. "i apologise for worrying you and risking my life for my work."

you tap your fingers against the table. "and will you continue to do it?"

"yes," he admits. "it's my job, one that i do well. if i die doing it, i hope it's in place of someone who didn't sign up for it, like you."

kento reaches over the table and takes your hand. "i can't just stop being a sorcerer. that would be too selfish of me. but i do promise that i will make more of an effort to reduce my chances of getting hurt from now on: no more unnecessary risks. okay?"

though that was all you needed to hear from him, you start to wonder if lifting the sex ban was a good idea when your pent-up husband is swiping plates from the dinner table to make room for you to lay back on it. claiming he can't wait the few extra second to carry you to the bedroom, he has you stripped and laid bare on the dining room table in no time, and he's ready for his meal.

"missed her," he mumbles as he parts your legs with a strong hand and bends down to kiss once at your clit. that's about and gentlemanly as it gets, though, because soon after he's making out with your pussy like he's a virgin. no technique, no precision, nothing but unfiltered need and its so much hotter than you'd imagine it to be.

eyes locking onto yours from between your thighs, he adds two fingers and works you open. two weeks was a long time for the both of you, so he'll need to get you used to the stretch of him again. he scissors his fingers inside of you, curls them upwards to hit your g-spot and smirks like a saint when your back arches off the table in response.

"missed you ken," you ramble on as your climax nears. "missed you so much. hated doing this. love you. loveyouloveyou god i love you."

you cum hard, harder than you've cum in a long time and kento laps it up like he's never tasted anything so good. he savours your taste on his tongue like he would an aged wine, something expensive and delicious and worth keeping bottled. though he's harder than diamond and worried he'll cum in his pants if he doesn't sink inside of you soon. so he stands and undoes his belt in record time (with those lovely hands of his) and repositions you at the end of the table with his leaky cock already pressing against your wet entrance.

he leans over you and shares a kiss with you as he pushes in. he inhales the gasp you let out at the stretch and moans into your mouth as a gift in return. he pulls out almost entirely, so it's just his head nestled in your tight pussy, and then slams in again. hard.

"god kento—" you start, about to chide him for being so rough with you when you notice his face dip into your neck and the sudden warmth filling you from the inside. kento's hips stutter and he bites at the skin of your shoulder to muffle the heavy moans that ache to free themselves from his chest.

"did you just—"

"don't," he cuts you off, cock twitching inside of you with his release. he's plugging you up, keeping you full of him and his cum. "give me a minute and i'll fuck you so stupid that you forget that just happened."

"you just—"

"don't laugh."

"im not laughing! it's just, you know like our first time..."

"shut up." kento's hips pull away and then slam back into yours as he starts a brutal pace with you.

that shuts you up good.

#kento smut #kento nanami smut #kento nanami x you #nanami x you #nanami x reader #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you

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thenextlordthorpe · 1 day ago

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It was obvious where he came from. Tobias knew that he wore who he was so obviously no matter how he acted or pretended to be something else. He could work hard at it to prove to himself and others he was more than the reluctant heir but no matter how far he travelled or who he loved it all came back to it. As much as he’s being read for who he is and how accurate it is for once, he can’t help but grin at the compliment. “All I take from that is that you thought I was handsome from the very moment you saw me even though you were about to die. I had you from the moment you saw me, did I?” The playfulness and flirtatious oozes from his voice as he moves closer to Piet, grinning from ear to ear from choosing to focus on that and thinking how it would have an effect on his new husband. “You really wanted me with a tattoo, didn’t you? Well, make your own mark on me.” Now he was being as seductive as he possibly could. When he was with Piet that way, it was more than sex. He’d never felt closer to anyone when they connected that way, the build up had been there for years. Cultivated by an intense bond from gifted to them from the ocean and repeatedly returned by fate putting them together over and over again even though other forces tried to work against them. They had something stronger. “You know how much I crave it.”

There was no love for his father. None between them and Tobias knew all he was to the man was his heir, feeling like an extension of someone else’s wants and dreams and treated worse for it. Death wasn’t what he wanted for the man, but he did want freedom and one thing he had learned to do on his journeys away from home was how to adapt. This was one of those moments where he’d have to choose between a man, he held no love for and one he loved so completely and more than he valued himself. Lad out simple like that, there was no choice or pretence of it. He heard what Piet said and felt even more in love with him, feeling the deep care from Piet towards himself and breathing heavy because of it. Someone loved him so much that they commit the most final act in honour of that and in retribution of it. Pirates were dangerous, murderous and deceitful but this was his pirate, and all of those more questionable qualities were now being presented in service of their shared love. “Do it,” he says firm and so different to how he said just moments before. Without a word he closes the gap between them, takes Piet’s face in his hand and places a long but gentle kiss on the man. Nobody had protected him or sought justice for him the way Piet had and he wanted to honour that even if it meant both of their hands would be covered in shared blood in some way. “It is hard to embrace something you have fought against for so long. I love you and I want nothing to get in our way of the life together we want, the life we can take for ourselves without limitation. You don’t need it but you have my blessing and will never have judgment about what you do in service of us. We’ve said our vows already but that is one I wish to add on them. I warn you,” he grins, “you’re about to get quite the family because of your marriage to me. And I….” he stops and can’t remember ever speaking about Piets. “…I have no knowledge of yours. Of ours, I suppose it is now. Tell me.”

PEOPLE CARRIED FORMATIVE MOMENTS IN THEIR SOULS LONG AFTER THEY’VE BEEN FORGOTTEN BUT IT WAS A RARE THING TO HAVE ONE WHEN AGE ALLOWED IT TO BE REMEMBERED. The storm was one of those. Not the first time that death had closely held Piet in its comforting grasp and nor was it the last but it was one of the moments that shaped the rest of his life. “You hate what you are born into but your nobility is all over your face that it stood you out from the crowd. In that, I knew you from first sight. On board the ship my suspicions were confirmed. You’re not nearly enough of the mystery you wanted to be, Tobias.” Humanity wanted their secrets and their mystery as if it gave them purpose and Piet’s could be similar but it was done out of necessity to survive after reputation was growing bigger than he could outrun or bribe. Smart people knew who they were and could use it, those with more awareness could see when time was up and shift to different situations. “A lot gave you away. Your face, as handsome as it is, and very alluring looks noble born but it was the way the other men regarded you. There was respect there but something under it that I could tell you weren’t truly one of the brothers on deck from how they treated you. Familiar but with some distance. Your body showed your hard work, but it was unmarked of ink despite your years of service, and you did not even have the introductory ink on your skin. I never revealed my pirate truth to you, but you knew it and in similar effect I knew of your history without needing to ask.”

No test was required yet it was the resistance that soured the pirate of the intentions between the two of them. “I’ve said before that I will do it but I forgot to mention that I want to do it. Jealous as I am, I have survived my long years before I knew you and after by not letting people get away with stealing or dishonouring me or my life. Men have stolen from me and I always find them. I’ve marooned people without food to ensure their slow starvation. Thieves of my one crew had their ears and nose slit when found guilty to say nothing of the blood my hands have known, blood you have seen covering it. Your father took you from me and his blood will be the next to cover my hands with no hesitation. Instead, there will be satisfaction that you Lords are not used to dirtying yourselves with.” Violent as it were, there was a love for it. The lordly father had to die for the crimes he committed when he took Tobias, took his love, from him. “When he is dead he will no longer be able to taint anything,” and with a smirk Piet returns to Tobias and pulls him for a long and romantic kiss. “Embrace your power for once, Tobias.”

#whereaway #tobias & piet #piet: 01

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dustandthought · 1 month ago

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Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

#charles smith #rdr2 #charles smith rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #charles smith x reader #arthur morgan #charles smith x arthur morgan #red dead redemption #irinap25 #Irinap25i #rdr2 community #charles rdr2 #rdr #charles smith x you

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echo-exco · 28 days ago

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❝DOCTOR I CAN’T TELL IF I’M NOT ME.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | next.

There is only one thing you ever truly wished for in this life: a purpose.

Something that would justify your existence, that would give meaning to every breath, every wound, every sleepless night.

And you found it. Not in an empty promise or in the affection of others. You found it in your own power.

A selfish desire, yes, but undeniably yours. A purpose born not out of love, but out of need.

From that strange power growing inside you, the one that forced you to look at others’ suffering with cold, almost cynical eyes. As if every wound were a problem only you could solve. As if every scream of pain were a prayer meant solely for you.

You clung to that.

To the idea that your worth existed only in your abilities.

The ability to stop someone from dying in front of you. To rip death from their body with your own hands. To stitch broken flesh with threads that hurt, yes, but worked. That was the only thing that ever made you feel alive. The only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed.

For a while, it was enough.

For a long while, you were selfish.

It didn’t matter if they used you. It didn’t matter if it hurt. If every healing left another scar on you. If every salvation cost you a little more of the little you had left.

As long as you could keep doing it—healing, fixing, protecting— the price didn’t matter.

Because at the end of the day, you could lie down on that mattress of emptiness and tell yourself: “Today, I made it worth it.”

Your existence and your power meant something.

Of course, you didn’t have a mother to share secrets with, nor guardians who offered you love. Only faces that came and went, and the bitter understanding that you were just another burden in a broken system.

Until, by some twisted stroke of fate, you had the “pleasure” of meeting your biological father.

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.

Batman.

Even so, none of that really mattered to you. What truly hit you was learning that you had to leave everything behind and go to Gotham.

That cursed city, that concrete jungle drowned in darkness and crime. Where dreams go to die and bodies, if they’re lucky, go to sleep.

Gotham wasn’t a home. It was a prison for someone like you.

A place where meta-humans like you were enemies, threats, problems to be contained.

Your power, your only purpose, was stripped away with nothing more than a change of zip code.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

Not being able to use it.

Not being able to save.

Not being able to be useful.

Your existence, reduced to ashes, like the bodies of those you didn’t reach in time.

It must be poetic, right? The healer who cannot heal. The savior without faith.

They hate you. You've felt it. That visceral resentment from those who survived because of you, but still blame you for what you couldn’t stop. Screams, stares, choked pleas— all of them pierced your soul deeper than any weapon ever could.

For someone who once swore to save lives, it’s only natural that those you vowed and wanted to save now express their utter disgust and despair toward the false, horrific salvation you once offered them.

And now? Now you live among strangers.

An immense mansion full of absences. With brothers who seemingly don’t recognize you, and a father who doesn’t see you.

Your arrival in Gotham wasn’t exactly ideal, at least, that’s how you think you remember it.

It’s hard for you to remember that moment. You don’t hold on to unnecessary memories… none of it will make you feel alive again.

Apparently, your new father figure has several children. Some of them are already adults. With lives of their own far from the mansion, you don’t know much about them, they were almost always too busy to say anything to you.

You can’t understand them, can’t they come up with better excuses? You don’t want these people’s attention.

These people can’t help you with your abilities. They can’t make you believe you’re still allowed to use them freely.

No, these people are just strangers who stumbled into your life overnight and want nothing to do with the problem. Not even your new father had the decency or responsibility to try forming a bond with you.

Bruce Wayne was an absent father. Not in the way someone leaves and disappears completely, but in the kind of absence that feels stronger the closer the person is. A hollow physical presence, like a ghost made of flesh and bone. One who could look you in the eyes and still not see you.

He struggled to communicate, to make time for you, to even remember that there was now one more occupied room in that massive mansion of his.

He doesn’t know how to deal with you, and you don’t know how to deal with him either. At first, you wondered if the problem was you. If you had done something wrong. If the way you talked, walked—even breathed, was so bothersome that he’d rather bury himself in work than give you an hour of his time.

But soon, you realized something even crueler: You don’t need a father. You’re not looking for one. You’re not waiting for one.

What you need is a patient. Someone you can heal. Someone who needs you.

Because that’s what you’ve always done. Heal. And Bruce… Bruce simply refuses to be healed.

But he doesn’t understand.

When you approach him, when you seek him out, when you try to speak to him, all he does is throw up a wall made of cold words, as practical and impersonal as that damn business suit of his.

“I’m busy.”

“Not now.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“It’s for work.”

Always the same. Always excuses with the bitter taste of indifference.

Is this what having a father is supposed to feel like? Because if it is, then it doesn’t feel any different from your days in foster care.

At least there, you knew you were alone. Here, they make you believe you’re not… but you are, more than ever.

You’ve learned to observe the details, as always. It’s one of the few things you’re good at, aside from using your power.

You notice the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath, the way his fingers tense around his pen like he’s trying to crush it. The stack of papers on his desk never gets smaller, it’s like it multiplies just to keep you at a distance.

And the subtle changes… that lower tone in his voice when he sees you, like he can’t even be bothered to raise it for you. The way his eyebrows furrow, not out of anger, just… annoyance. Irritation.

That’s what hurt the most.

So you stopped trying. Because if you kept going, you were only going to be reprimanded by the one you were supposed to please. You convinced yourself that you don’t need his approval. That you don’t need his love. That you’re better off without him.

But then, why is it that every time you walk past his office, you pause for a second, hoping that door opens, just once, without you knocking first?

Why do you still need him to see you?

Richard Grayson is the eldest. The first adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Everyone sees him as a beacon of hope, the moral compass of this family made of shadows and scars. And it makes sense. He has that bright smile, that genuine warmth the others can barely fake. He gives out hugs without being asked, listens patiently, laughs easily, and has that absurd gift of making anyone feel seen, at least, if you’re one of his.

Because with you, it was always different.

From the beginning, Richard seemed kind. Seemed. But between that warmth and you, there was always a distance, like someone had drawn a curtain between the two of you. You heard his apologies more than you heard his actual voice.

“Sorry, I have to head out right now.”

“Sorry, I was already on my way to Blüdhaven.”

“Next time, I promise.”

He was always rushing. Always busy. Always somewhere else. And you… you’re not someone who believes in empty promises.

At first, you thought it was just bad luck. That maybe if you insisted a little, if you found an excuse, if you caught him in the kitchen, he might stay for five minutes. Just five. But those minutes never came. And you started to notice a pattern. How his demeanor shifted the moment you walked into the room. How his smile became more diplomatic. More rehearsed. How his footsteps sped up when he thought you weren’t watching.

You didn’t want to admit it at first, but something inside you began to whisper an uncomfortable truth; He was avoiding you.

And then you understood. If Richard Grayson, the kindest, the most human, the most "big brother" of them all, couldn’t be around you, then what was the point of trying with the others? What could you possibly expect from Jason, who barely speaks to you? From Tim, who seems more invested in his computer than in actual people? From Damian, who can barely tolerate his own shadow?

So you did the same.

You avoided them. One by one.

You decided it wasn’t worth it. That if you weren’t going to be a real part of this family, you weren’t going to pretend.

It’s easier that way. It doesn’t hurt as much if you’re the one walking away first.

But sometimes, when you see them laughing together from the staircase, or hear Richard speaking so fondly of the others, a part of you wonders if it was ever really your choice to walk away, or if they’d been leaving you behind from the very beginning.

Your suspicions didn’t take long to confirm. All it took was talking to a few of your supposed brothers to realize the pattern repeated itself.

Jason, Tim, Damian…

Each one was a story unto themselves. Each one was a maze of traumas, masks, and poorly calibrated emotional responses. But if you had to describe them in one word, it would be: inaccessible.

The second of your brothers was Jason, and from what little you could gather, because no one seemed eager to talk about it much, Jason had died. And then he came back. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been buried, and now he was not. That simple statement was enough to provoke a morbid curiosity, almost scientific. What had changed in his body? Did he suffer from partial necrosis? Brain damage? Did his muscles regenerate? What residual effects did resurrection have on human physiology? Everything in you screamed to investigate. To dissect. To understand.

It was a dangerous thought. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra: too tempting for your own good.

But what confused you the most wasn’t his condition, it was his behavior toward you. Jason had this aura of latent violence, like dynamite that could explode with the wrong spark. But that wasn’t what kept you away. Not entirely. It was his inexplicable rejection.

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t provoke him. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t interfere, you didn’t cross the line. And yet, his gaze was always sharp. As if your mere presence triggered something in him. Irritation. Annoyance. Maybe even disdain.

You wondered if it was your fault. If the way you were, the way you spoke, the way you were, simply bothered him. But you couldn’t find an answer. And though you wanted to, you knew that getting closer would be too risky.

Because you’ve seen the broken walls. The misaligned doors. The tables split in two like they were made of paper. You’ve felt the tension in the air when Jason enters a room and isn’t in the mood. And you know, without needing confirmation, that his punches aren’t soft. That his rage doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the witnesses.

So, you avoid him.

Not out of fear exactly, but out of caution. Self-preservation. You don’t want to be the next crack in the walls of this house.

Tim was a different kind of strange. More than Jason, though in a completely different way. His oddity didn’t stem from aggression or visible trauma. It was more subtle. More internal.

Almost clinical.

You observed him, like you observe everything. With that gaze of yours that searches for patterns, inconsistencies, vulnerabilities. And in him, you found many.

Surprisingly, Tim was brilliant. Not just "smart for his age," but one of those cases where the brain moves faster than the body. Too fast. So much so, that sometimes it seemed like his body gave up halfway through.

The dark circles under his eyes were a constant. His responses were slow, as if they had to pass through a filter of a thousand thoughts before being verbalized. He walked like his mind was too heavy for his spine to carry. A shadow carrying ideas. You were surprised he hadn’t fainted yet from the combination of insomnia, chronic stress, and mild malnutrition.

No one asked you.

No one thanked you.

But still, you started leaving him food. Food that could sustain him without causing a stomach collapse. Nothing too obvious, of course. A yogurt here. Cut fruits there.

Something easy to eat between keystrokes. You allied yourself with Alfred in that small act of silent intervention. The old butler seemed to notice, but he never mentioned it. And you never confirmed it.

Tim would probably assume it was all Alfred’s doing. In fact, you counted on it.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you knew that if he suspected you were behind something so... "thoughtful," it would only make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to respond to care, to the intention behind such detail. Tim doesn’t know how to handle it if that sincere gesture comes from you.

Just like you would if any of them ever tried it with you.

Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.

Of all the people in the house, he’s the only one who acts like your existence isn’t a miscalculation. But he doesn’t fool himself. He doesn’t offer you love, or tenderness. He offers you structure. Routine. Measured phrases and cups of tea.

It’s not affection between you.

It’s a sort of tacit alliance.

Two functional people in the middle of a broken ecosystem.

You know he tries. But you also know it’s not enough for you.

You’ve seen children like you. In hospitals. In refugee camps. In temporary homes. Children who cling to an adult figure as if their life depended on it, and are then destroyed when that figure leaves. Or worse, when they stay but stop looking.

You don’t want that for yourself.

You convince yourself this is better. A working relationship. A dynamic where each one fulfills their role and no one crosses the line into the personal. Because if you get attached, if you let yourself believe this could mean something...

You know how that ends. They can’t give you what you’re looking for.

They can’t give you purpose.

They can’t return what was taken from you when you understood that your value only exists if you can heal, if you can serve, if you can be useful.

You still don’t know who you are when you’re none of that.

Back to the subject of your "family," the last on the list of who your siblings were, was Damian.

The youngest of the group. The second biological son of Bruce Wayne.

You said it out loud once, casually: "Ah, so he is the real one."

No one found it funny.

Unlike the others, Damian didn’t need time to show you that you weren’t welcome. He didn’t bother to fake courtesy or neutrality. From the beginning, he made it clear that your existence was expendable.

Maybe it was your silence. Maybe it was your lack of reaction to his provocations. Maybe he just didn’t like you. But he pointed his katana at you the first month you arrived.

The blade against your neck wasn’t a metaphor. It was real, cold, intimidating contact. You felt a thread of power activate instinctively in your body, a reflex of defense, of desperation. If you had let it go, well, you wouldn’t be here, mentally recalling this account.

You didn’t. Not for him. For you.

Because it wasn’t worth it. Because using your power on someone in your “family” would mean admitting they were important enough to hurt you.

They weren’t. Not yet.

You can’t risk being discovered. No one can know that you actually have this power. None of them can know.

Bruce appeared just in time to prevent the confrontation from escalating. Did he protect you? Not exactly. He simply said something like, “Damian has a complicated history,” as if that justified a death threat in the family kitchen.

Is it common in Gotham to justify a child’s homicidal impulses if they've had a difficult childhood?

That was your question. You didn’t ask it out loud. No one would have liked the answer.

It was also that day you found out that Damian was Bruce’s biological son. And you couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all.

The same Bruce Wayne who, in the public eye, was a scandalous figure, a charming, charismatic playboy billionaire with endless parties, had exactly one biological child. One. Not five. Not a legion of illegitimate children scattered across the world. Just one.

That kid turned out to be a ticking time bomb with a traditional sword.

Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.

With the girls, it's complicated. Maybe even more so because, deep down, a part of you thought they could be different.

Stephanie. She was like a female version of Richard, a constant smile, a vibrant energy that everyone seemed to adore, except you.

She greeted you with empty enthusiasm, one that never went beyond the surface. It was easy to see that behind her good mood, there was a locked door she wasn’t going to open for you.

And you understood. Because you'd seen it before.

People who act as if everyone is welcome, except you.

Stephanie was just another confirmation that no matter how hard you tried to fit in, this home was already full. You weren’t in the original plan. You never were.

Barbara, on the other hand, was simpler. She was hardly ever at the mansion. You’d see her sporadically, a red ghost in the shadows of fleeting visits. And still, in that limited time, she always found a way to smile at others, share a joke, a quick conversation, a knowing glance… Never with you.

Not once.

It was as if your presence went by unnoticed, not even worth including out of courtesy.

Cassandra was the most honest, in a way. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She ignored your attempts to help with almost admirable efficiency. You could attribute it to her trauma, her history, her way of seeing the world… but that excuse starts to wear thin when it’s the only one left to justify everything.

Maybe you’re just not interesting. Maybe you don’t even stand out enough to be actively rejected.

Or is it because you don’t even deserve her attention?

It was easier to believe that they all had a reason not to see you.

Easier than admitting that maybe, you weren’t that hard to ignore.

What was dangerous about this family wasn’t the weapons, nor the katanas, nor the fists that had broken ribs more than once.

It was the mask.

It took you time to understand it. First, it was a hunch. Then a suspicion. Finally, a certainty: they were all vigilantes. Heroes of Gotham. The same ones who make your hands tremble when you try to use your power. The ones who make your gift feel useless. As if it were a mistake rather than a blessing.

The irony is so perfect it could almost make you laugh.

You can’t feel useful, can’t do the one thing you know how to do perfectly, because you’re surrounded by those who fight so that people and beings like you are neither necessary nor welcome.

And yet, you prefer them this way.

Cold. Distant. Detached. Unknown. Because connections are dangerous. Because memories weigh. Because at some point, someone taught you that affection is the hook that precedes the pain.

Because you know it better than anyone. When you get attached to someone, it’s not just pain that you feel when you lose them. It’s as if a part of you dies too. Not because you lose them, but because without your power, without that “usefulness,” you feel like you never deserved to have them in the first place.

In Gotham, you can’t do anything.

You can't heal.

You can't save.

You can't be useful.

You can't be loved. Or at least, that’s what they taught you to believe.

Here, you have no parts left that you can afford to lose. Not while you're trapped in this city that doesn’t need what you can give. A family that doesn't know what to do with you. You don’t know what to do with yourself either.

They can’t give you a purpose.

They never could.

They didn’t even try.

You expected so little, that not even that surprised you.

Until you found him.

The only living person who not only recognized your power, but accepted it for what you wanted it to be:

A miracle.

He called himself Doctor Masashi. A kind voice, a serene figure. But behind that calmness was surgical precision. He knew exactly how to shape you. How to rebuild you, only to destroy you again with elegance.

He was the only one who never lied to you about what you were:

A weapon.

A tool.

A precious jewel that only shines when it bleeds for others.

A perfect puppet.

And you, grateful for the strings.

He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.

He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.

He gave you… meaning. A cruel meaning. A conditioned meaning. But still, you took it.

It can't be that bad, right?

Clinging to that.

Clinging to him.

Clinging to something that tells you that you can still be "something."

Because if someone, even just one person, can look at you and say that you are good for something, then you're not broken.

Then you're not alone. Then everything that hurt was worth it.

Even if guilt drowns you every night.

Even if the nightmares never rest.

Even if the hands you tried to save still drag you from their graves, begging for a second death.

It doesn't matter. As long as someone believes that keeping you alive makes sense... then that’s enough.

Right?

Maybe you're a weapon.

Maybe you're selfish.

Maybe you did it all just out of fear of disappearing, for that unbearable need to feel alive.

The need to feel that you matter. To have a place to fit in.

But at least you're something. In this shattered world, that's already more than many have.

But how much more can you take before you truly break? How much longer before you completely crumble, like so many times you did on the inside? How much will the price of his greed cost… and your desperate desire to remain useful?

Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.

Nor your brothers.

Nor your sisters.

None of them ever knew who you were.

None of them understood.

Only him. Only Masashi.

That’s what scares you the most. Because if even he can make you believe that’s all you’re worth. If even he manages to make you cling to that idea, then maybe, you were never more than that.

Maybe you were never more than your power, and in Gotham, where you can no longer use it...

Not even that belongs to you.

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novascharms · 3 months ago

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calming angry rafe down..... i NEEEEEED himmmm asdfghjkl

“wanna talk about it?” you ask softly, leaning toward him, your hopeful gaze searching his face.

he shakes his head faintly, eyes closing as he rests his head back against the seat. “nothing to talk about. just topper being topper—trying to get me to break his fucking kneecaps.” his tone is flat, but the undercurrent of frustration is unmistakable.

you blink at his casual mention of violence, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “he doesn’t like me very much, does he?”

at your words, rafe’s irritation flares visibly, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to punch something. “he just needs to piss off. fuck,” he growls, his voice low and rough. “and i know—i know—he can’t stand it. he hates that i get close to someone he can’t touch, someone who’s fucking mine. he’s a pissy little bitch, and the next time i see him—”

“rafe,” you interrupt softly, sensing the dangerous direction his thoughts are heading. “calm down…” you murmur, your voice soothing as you lean in to press a featherlight kiss to his cheek.

his breathing is still uneven, his chest rising and falling with controlled restraint. “you’re getting way too worked up,” you whisper, cradling his face with one hand, your thumb grazing along the sharp line of his cheekbone.

his lips remain tight, his gaze hard, but he doesn’t pull away. you take the opportunity to scatter soft kisses across his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, and finally his lips. your touch is gentle, alternating between quick pecks and lingering brushes. at first, he’s unresponsive, but slowly he starts kissing back, his lips yielding to yours in unspoken surrender.

you trail your kisses lower, down along the line of his jaw to his neck. you feel the tension in his shoulders begin to ease, the tightness in his posture softening under the warmth of your lips.

your hand glides down his chest, your fingertips barely grazing the ridges of his abs, tracing slow, soothing patterns. his breaths come slower now, steadier, the anger slowly ebbing away with each kiss you leave on his skin.

rafe remains still, his arms resting at his sides, his body still tense under your gentle touch and then your hands find the edge of his sweatpants.

your hand is halfway in when he tenses, "you don't have to do this—" he starts but you're cutting him off. "i want to." you whisper softly and he knows you want to, you've been trying and asking for days. he was the one to insist you go slower which was fair since you were the one who wanted to go slow in the very beginning. that all changed the moment you two made out for the first time. you'd quickly thrown 'slow' in the trash.

you kiss your way back to his lips, "will you tell me how?" you'd seen videos and could also imagine what to do but actually doing it was a lot different. rafe hums against your lips, "take it out first," he mutters with his lips inching yours.

you glance down and slowly take his semi-hard cock out of his pants. you stare at it for a couple of seconds. it's heavier than you'd imagined, fat and veiny with this glossy pink tip that makes your mouth water just a little. without a word from rafe, you're curiously running your hand along it.

you don't expect rafe to tense at your touch and you're immediately looking up at him in surprise when he does. "did that hurt? did i just hurt you?" you ask and his smile is genuine, "quite the opposite." he rasps and then his hand is covering yours gently. he guides your hands up and down along his fat cock and you're a little mesmerised watching it slowly grow in size.

rafe's heavy breathing tells you it's going good so far but you want to get it in your mouth. the nerd in you is trying to calculate how it would even be possible, how you could get such a big dick past your lips without choking on it.

you're lowering your head to get him into your mouth when he stops you gently, fingers on your chin. "no teeth." he explains and you're nodding before you're desperately trying to get down there again. he stops you, again. "just..take it easy, start with the tip and slowly take more." he continues, eyes boring into yours. you could see the lust in them, just pooling in his eyes as he watched you practically drool to get his cock in your mouth.

the moment he let go of you, your tongue was darting out just enough to slowly lick along his fat tip. rafe hissed and gripped the car handle, "fuck," he whispered lowly. you pulled back and looked at it. you weren't sure why you expected it to do something and when it didn't, you just gave it another experimental lick before slowly wrapping your lips around the tender head, suckling gently.

"that's it, baby..take it easy.." rafe is muttering as you suckle on his warm tip. you hesitate for only a second before you're taking more of him in your mouth and you don't expect the tears to come so quickly. they don't really bother you. you realize nothing really bothers you while he's in your mouth. your mind has gone completely empty, void of any noise or thought, he's all you can feel, all you can sense is him filling you up.

it doesn't take long before you're bopping your head up and down and drooling all over his cock. rafe is groaning and grunting every couple of seconds and his hands are in your hair but you can feel him resisting, can feel the moment he wants to push your head down but every time, he stops himself and just lets you go at your own pace.

you whimper when you attempt for the third time to get his entire lenght down your throat and almost want to cry in frustration that he just won't fit. rafe is holding your head back, trying to say something but continously getting cut off by his own moans. "p-perfect, baby, fuck, that's perfect.." he tilts his head back and holds onto you so you stop moving for five seconds. you were eager, so goddamn determined. "stop forcing..you'll hurt yourself." he grunts before he's letting you go and your mouth is right back on his cock, seeking that fuzzy feeling, that instant quietening of the mind.

you know he won't fit unless rafe bucks his hips up and fucks your mouth and you know he won't do that so you settle for using your hands for the part of him you can't reach. you stroke him up and down and your drool helps keep it all smooth and wet. "jesus..fuck, fuck.." rafe moans, voice low, and then you're speeding up, just a little. you just want more, want it to take you over, want to make rafe feel good.

something seems to snap in him because his hands fly to your hair and he's groaning, shoving your head down onto his fat cock. he forces you to take more and more of him and the noises you make are filthy and down-right obscene. you're whining, high, and desperate around his veiny cock as you try to keep up with how he's pushing your head down over and over.

you're choking around him, tears streaming down your cheeks and he's doing all the work now, gripping your hair and shoving your head down, pushing your mouth onto his cock. "g-god..that's it..!" his hips stutter, and then he's hurriedly pulling your mouth off of him as his cum squirts out and covers his cock and a bit of his shirt.

you stare at his tip, a little dazed while you catch your breath. you watch the creamy white lines cover it and without giving it much thought, you're licking the cum off his length and tip. rafe hisses at the feeling of your tongue on his sensitive tip, "if i knew you wanted it, i would've come in your mouth." he's mumbling, and only then do you look at him, "why didn't you?" you ask, mind still a little fuzzy.

"because a lot of people don't like it." he's got this lazy smile on his face as he runs his fingers through your hair. you blink at him and try to think of a reason someone wouldn't want it. all that hard work for nothing?

"did you like it?" you ask him as he sadly puts himself back in his sweats. he's chuckling, "did i like it? that has to be a rhetorical question." he pats his leg gently and you're on his lap in a matter of seconds. "i liked it." you mutter as he presses a couple of kisses to your lips. he pauses and cups your cheeks gently, "are you sure you liked it?" he's whispering softly, "you seem..out of it."

you were out of it; eyes still dilated, mind still fuzzy, brain still empty. you'd never ever felt like this. "i'm really sure i liked it." you nod and rest your head on his shoulder. "i wanna do it again." you confess which has him chuckling again. "you won't hear a complaint from me.

snippet from 'teach me' series

#nova writes #teach me #rafe cameron #outer banks #obx #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe fic #rafe obx #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe smut #smut

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skzophreniic · 3 months ago

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Favorite Places to Have Sex

MDNI, 18+ content.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 when they wanna venture outside your bed

notes: this ended up longer than originally planned ngl. i find myself falling deeper and deeper into the void that is kim seungmin. pray for me ✊😔

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ CHAN

you already know what it is. chris practically lives at the studio, so why not fuck where he's most comfortable?

it always starts innocent enough. he's working late, you've invited yourself to the couch in the back, just scrolling through your phone. he calls you over to show you something he's working on and there just happens to only be one chair--the one he's currently settled on.

of course, he's not just going to let you stand, he's too much of a gentleman for that! he's kind enough to lend you his lap.

except now he can't focus. he's just trying to mix a track, but the way you shift on his lap whenever you point something out on the screen...yeah.

his fingers start tracing lazy circles on your thighs, voice dropping lower as he murmurs, "You’re distracting me, baby."

before you know it, his hands are gripping your hips, and you’re bouncing on his cock in the dim glow of his monitors, his low groans mixing with the bass from his unfinished song. The door is locked, but someone could still knock at any second—maybe a member, maybe a staff member and it's such a fucking vice, because on one hand, he doesn't give a shit. he wants them to hear, to know how good he makes you feel. it's the biggest thing that feeds his ego.

on the other hand, those sounds you make, the whimpers, the mewls, the lewd squelch your cunt makes when he's already made you cum twice but still can't stop rutting into you...yeah those are only for his ears.

he's pretty open to using his own moans though. have you listened closely to the backtrack of railway?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ LEE KNOW

minho is obsessed with eye contact, so it’s no surprise that his favorite place is in front of a mirror. he wants you to see everything—the way your body moves, the way your face twists in pleasure, the way he controls every reaction you have.

you're insecure about your body? the sounds you make? yeah, no. every fucking thing about you is his biggest turn on, and he's just not okay with you not knowing that.

he’ll start slow, teasing you with featherlight touches, whispering in your ear, "look at yourself, baby. look how pretty you are for me." his hands will guide your movements, forcing you to watch the way he ruins you. and just when you think he’s going to let you close your eyes, he grips your jaw, turning your head toward the reflection. "I said, watch."

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ CHANGBIN

gym. yeah i said it, i don't care how basic it is.

he will sweetly ask you to come work out with him, super super early in the morning or super late at night, when nobody's around. he'll tell you it's because he gets too shy to take off his shirt when other people are around but gets too hot and uncomfortable with it on.

you fall for it every time. sweet thing.

binnie loves seeing you all sweaty and out of breath. there’s something about watching you work out that drives changbin crazy—maybe it’s the way your body moves, the little whimpers when you push yourself too hard, the way you stretch in all the right ways.

one second, he’s spotting for you, the next, he’s pinning you against the weight bench, gripping your thighs, telling you to let him do all the work now. "you wanna stretch a little more, baby?"

next thing you know, he’s pinning you against the mirror, your fingers leaving smudged prints on the glass as he fucks into you from behind, his hands gripping your hips bruisingly tight. he groans against your ear, voice thick with need,

"you've worked so hard today, baby," he'll grunt into your ear. "let me take care of you now."

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ HYUNJIN

hyunjin’s art studio is his sanctuary, the place where he’s most creative, where he loses himself in his work for hours at a time.

it always starts innocently enough. it's your birthday, and he wants to paint a portrait of you in that cute little sun dress he gifted you. that short, skimpy little sun dress he gifted you. and he needs you on his lap. for the creative process. spefically with your dress up, panties pushed aside, and his cock nestled deeply inside of you.

also for the creative process.

"you gotta sit still for me, pretty." he murmurs, leaned back against the couch, his gaze focused on his canvas. "or else this will take longer."

it's horrendously delicious, the way he makes you warm his cock while he works, refusing to let you move. he doesn't even fucking react, a hundred precent focused on making you the best portrait.

when he's done though, and only if you've been good and didn't move, he'll set his supplies aside to dry and let you fuck yourself on him. let you use him any way you want it.

and if you haven't been good, the only thing you're getting off on is his thigh. if you're lucky. tough luck.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ HAN

jisung has no patience. if he wants you, he wants you. which is why you end up fucking in the car so often—no waiting, no hesitations, just pure, impulsive desire.

it usually happens after late-night drives. the city lights blur past as he grips the wheel, one hand occasionally straying to your thigh, drumming against your skin. it's so fucking soft against his fingers, he's already hard. and you just had to wear that little skirt that gives him easy access.

"you're driving me crazy," he mutters, trying to keep his eyes on the road, shifting in his seat. he's only just got his fucking license, he could hardly drive with the music on yet, much less with you sitting there like that.

he’s aching for you.

so when he pulls into some dark, empty parking lot, hands clenched around the steering wheel like he’s trying to keep himself in check, you decide to put him out of his misery.

you lean over, fingers already working at his belt.

he whimpers. actually fucking whimpers.

his cock is already hard, leaking, twitching against the cool air, and when you wrap your fingers around him, he bucks into your hand with a choked gasp.

"f-fuck, baby, please—"

yeah...you're not going home any time soon.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ FELIX

felix is dangerously charming, and he knows exactly how to turn an innocent moment into something sinful. it usually starts with something as simple as baking together, fingers covered in flour, soft laughter filling the space.

but then, his hands start lingering—a light touch on your lower back, a casual squeeze of your thigh, his voice dropping an octave as he murmurs, "You're making a mess, baby."

the moment he sees you licking something off your finger, tilting your head like you’re teasing him? yep, you're fucked. not quite literally yet tho.

before you know it, he’s lifting you onto the counter, lips trailing down your neck as he spreads your thighs, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat building between you both. the half-mixed batter is forgotten, the kitchen filled with breathless moans instead, his hands spreading your thighs apart, eating you out like a man starved.

which he is. he's always fucking starved for you.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ SEUNGMIN

the library is the last place you’d expect seungmin to be this filthy.

It always starts so subtly. he's supposed to be helping you study for your finals, flipping through textbooks in the quietest corner of the library. but then his hand finds your thigh under the table, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles.

"focus," he says, when he look at him sharply, voice perfectly neutral.

like he isn’t the one distracting you.

you try. poor thing, you really do. but his touch is persistent, featherlight strokes just beneath the hem of your skirt, moving higher, higher—so painfully slow that it’s infuriating.

"seungmin," you whisper, an urgent warning.

He doesn’t even glance up from his book. "what?"

you shoot him a glare, shifting in your seat to escape his touch, but his grip tightens just slightly—a silent command. Stay still.

"you should really be paying attention," he murmurs. "or do you need some extra motivation?"

oh he'll tell you that if you make it through the chapter like this that he'll reward you, give you what you really want. he'll keep you on the edge, till you're finally right there, so close--

he pulls away completely, returning to his textbook like nothing happened.

"you should finish your work first," he says, flipping a page. "i’ll think about rewarding you later."

the audacity.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ JEONGIN

his childhood bedroom.

you heard me.

the posters on the walls, the old books cluttering his desk, the twin-sized bed that barely fits both of you—it’s all so him. It should be innocent, just a short visit to his parents’ house, just a normal night.

or so you thought.

it starts with you lying next to him under the covers, whispering and giggling, trying not to wake anyone. he’s got one arm lazily draped over your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. but then his hand slips lower—too low for something so casual—and suddenly, that mischievous smirk is on his lips.

"you’re being quiet," he teases, voice barely above a whisper. "something wrong?"

um yeah, something’s wrong. his parents are asleep down the hall. the walls are thin.

that’s the thrill—how you stiffen when he presses against you, how you grip his wrist when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

"aw, baby, that's just too bad" he coos, smirking against your skin. "You’re gonna have to be quiet for me."

the bed creaks when he shifts, pressing his weight against you, and he pauses—just for a second—listening for any signs of movement outside the door. when all remains quiet, he grins, his hand slipping beneath your pajama shorts, and you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning.

"shh," he breathes, pressing a finger to your lips. "if you wake them up, you’ll have to explain how their sweet, innocent jeongin has you like this."

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