#now to see if they fixed the back part of his hair

[fic-girlie]

Can you write a fic for Jackson! Joel about how obsessed he is with reader's pussy and giving her head? How he's always asking to "just take a little peak at her" and saying that he'll "just give her a little kiss, sweetheart" and "what a perfect little kitty you have, baby, so so sweet". Pussy drunk Joel is the best Joel

Sweet taste

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Joel wakes up obsessed with your pussy, begging for a taste and worshiping you with filthy, desperate devotion. Warnings: established relationship, explicit sexual content (+18), dirty talk, pure filth, pussy pronouns and nickname (kitty), oral (f receiving), desperate Joel

The morning is still and slow, with a kind of hush that only happens after snowfall. Thick silence, like the world is tucked under a heavy blanket. The windows are fogged, letting in just enough light to halo the dust floating in the air. You’re buried deep under the quilt, nestled into Joel’s chest, your legs tangled, warm from sleep and the weight of him wrapped around you. He’s always warm. Always clinging. Like he can’t bear to let you go, even when unconscious. His arm is heavy over your waist, palm cupped low against your belly, thumb rubbing slow, lazy arcs just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. You haven’t even fully opened your eyes yet, and already he’s there — wanting.

You feel the shift in him before you hear the soft inhale against your neck. The press of his cock, already thick and half-hard, resting between the backs of your thighs. The way his hand slips lower. Just a little lower.

“Mm.” His voice is scratchy, heavy with sleep and heat. “Darlin’…”

He says it like a prayer and a warning. You know that tone too well by now. His mouth nuzzles behind your ear, breath warm against your skin as he drags his nose along your neck, like he’s scenting you. Like he’s starving.

“Been thinkin’ ’bout her all night,” he mutters, voice gone syrup-thick, already dripping with that particular brand of desperation that only you seem to draw out of him. “Couldn’t sleep. She’s all I could think about. This sweet fuckin’ pussy…”

You let out a soft breath, still fogged from sleep, your thighs instinctively pressing together. He always does this — always wakes up already aching for it, for you. And not just to fuck. No. Joel wants mouthfuls. He wants to live there.

His hand slides between your legs from behind, two thick fingers cupping you through your shorts, pressing gently, reverently. “Jesus,” he groans, lips at your jaw now, dragging slow kisses down to your shoulder. “You’re so warm, baby. So soft. Bet she’s already wet for me, ain’t she?”

You whimper, barely nodding, and that’s all he needs. You feel him smile against your skin, feel the low rumble in his chest as he breathes you in like you’re fresh air and he’s been choking without it.

“Let me see her.” His voice goes low, rough — almost pleading. “C’mon, baby. Just a little peek. Just wanna look. Please.”

You turn to face him, sleep-heavy eyes finding his, and the sight alone makes you clench around nothing. Joel’s pupils are blown, dark with hunger. His salt-and-pepper hair is a little messy, falling over his forehead. He looks wrecked with want. And he’s barely touched you.

“Joel…”

“Please.” He kisses your lips once, then again, slower, deeper. “She’s so perfect, baby. So fuckin’ pretty. I just wanna say good mornin’ to her. Give her a little kiss, that’s all…”

You let out a shuddering breath as he gently tugs at your shorts, already halfway down your thighs, and he pauses only to stare — eyes fixed between your legs like he’s just been handed something holy. His lips part slightly, tongue peeking out like instinct, like his body’s moving before his mind can catch up.

“There she is,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “My pretty little kitty. Look at you, sugar. So fuckin’ sweet…”

He settles between your legs without hesitation, lowering himself down the bed, his broad shoulders prying your thighs apart like he belongs there. Like he’s earned the right to worship you at the altar of your own body — and truth is, maybe he has. Joel is many things. Brutal. Quiet. Closed-off. But not with you. Not when he’s like this. Not when he’s down on his knees for the one thing he swears is his.

He mouths at your thigh first, peppering kisses along the soft inside until you’re trembling. His beard scrapes just enough to make you clench around nothing, and he hums at your reaction. “She’s already beggin’ for me,” he mutters, voice gravel and heat. “Ain’t even touched her yet, and she’s clenchin’. Goddamn…”

His thumbs part you, just a little, just enough, and you feel the air hit you — then the heat of his breath, the ghost of his lips. He stares for a moment. You can feel his gaze. It’s almost unbearable.

“She’s fuckin’ perfect,” he says again, more to himself this time. “You know that? Fuckin’ perfect. So pink. So soft. So—shit—look how she’s drippin’ already, baby. Just for me. You want my mouth, huh? Want me to kiss her real nice?”

You nod helplessly, already too far gone for words. Your hips lift off the mattress the moment his tongue drags up your slit — slow, deliberate, like he wants to taste every part of you. He groans loud, hips bucking into the bed like your pussy is the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever had.

“Oh fuck. That’s it. That’s it, sweetheart. Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” He buries himself in you then — nose pressed against your mound, tongue pushing inside you deep, then flicking back up to your clit with slow, wet licks like he needs it. Like he’s drinking from you. Like if he could crawl inside you, he would.

One of your hands flies to his hair, gripping hard, and he moans when you pull. His hips grind into the mattress again. He’s rutting against nothing while he eats you, like your taste alone is enough to keep him hard for hours. And it is.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles between licks, mouth full, sloppy. “Sweetest goddamn thing. Been dreamin’ about this pussy, baby. Gonna stay down here all fuckin’ day. You hear me?”

You can’t even answer. Your legs are shaking. Your body is singing, overwhelmed by the filthy praise and the relentless way his mouth works you. He switches between long, slow licks and fast flicks of his tongue, sucking your clit into his mouth just to hear the way you cry out.

He’s obsessed. No other word for it. He’s lost in it, drunk on it. Slurping, groaning, kissing her like he loves her. And he does.

“She’s mine,” he growls against you, mouth slick and open, breath hot as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your folds. “All mine. Ain’t lettin’ anyone near this sweet fuckin’ thing. Gonna eat her every day. Gonna die with this taste in my mouth…”

And you believe him.

[monserelates]

P.S. Do you still love me? ; James Potter

⇨ f! reader x james potter

part ll of P.S. I still love you.

⇨ summary: You find an old letter James wrote to you during fifth year confessing he loved you but never sent. You're now dating someone else. Chaos ensues.

⇨ warnings/notes: use of y/n, angst, lowkey proofread, Emotional cheating themes, heartbreak, tension, crying, James spiraling, reader torn between two people, longing, and one (okay maybe a few) very old love letters.

a/n: this was a bit hard to write because this as you know this is not my usual trope but i hope i did okay!

⇨ word count: 3.5k

You don’t mean to be cold.

It’s just that every time Amos touches you lately, it feels… foreign. Like putting on someone else’s jumper. Warm, yes. Familiar, even. But not yours.

You're sitting beside him on the steps outside the Greenhouses after Herbology, your fingers twisting at the hem of your sleeve, sleeves pulled down past your knuckles. The sun is low, casting golden slants across the grass, and Amos is talking about his upcoming match against Ravenclaw.

He nudges your shoulder with his.

“You’ll be cheering for me, yeah?”

You smile—automatically. You’ve had practice at that. “'Course.”

But your eyes stay fixed on the path ahead, scanning students trickling out of class, your stomach tight with something you won’t name.

Then he leans in and kisses your cheek.

And your whole body tenses. Just barely. Just enough for you to notice it.

You swallow hard. Force yourself to relax. You don’t want to hurt him. He’s done nothing wrong.

Amos pulls back and looks at you with a puzzled sort of affection. “You okay?”

You nod quickly. “Just tired.”

He accepts it. He always does. He rubs your shoulder and talks more about Quidditch while you sit still and quiet and try not to think about that dumb, messy haired boy.

Later, in Charms, he reaches for your hand beneath the desk.

You hesitate.

Just a second.

But it’s enough.

His hand rests, waiting. Yours stays in your lap. You pretend to be too focused on your parchment, biting the inside of your cheek, quill digging a little too hard into the paper.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That it’s just nerves. That the letters don’t mean anything now.

You’re dating Amos. He’s kind. He’s reliable. He makes plans. He picks you flowers sometimes, even if they’re lopsided and smushed from his pockets. He smiles at you like you’re the only person in the castle.

He’s everything you always said you wanted.

So why does it feel like your skin is on wrong?

Why do you feel so far away?

Why do you feel like you belong to someone else?

You can't do that to him, he's done nothing wrong.

But it's eating you alive.

..

Sirius sees it first.

The way you’re quiet in the common room now. How you sit in the corner armchair instead of the couch you used to fight James for. The way you look at the fire like it might spit out the answers you’re too scared to say aloud.

He’s sprawled on the rug, Transfiguration homework untouched, chin resting on his knuckles as he watches you out of the corner of his eye.

You’re trying to read. Trying. But your eyes haven’t moved from the same paragraph in ten minutes.

You're not even blinking properly.

Sirius doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

He just watches.

It’s later—past midnight—when Remus joins him in the boys’ dorm, towel draped over his shoulder, hair damp from the showers.

“She’s off, isn’t she?” he says casually, toweling the back of his neck.

Sirius doesn't look up from where he's lying on his bed, arms folded behind his head. “Y/N?”

Remus nods.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Sirius exhales through his nose.

“She found them.”

Remus freezes. “The letters?”

Sirius just gives him a look. One of those quiet, heavy, yes of course the letters looks.

“Bloody hell,” Remus mutters, sitting slowly on the edge of his bed. “Does Prongs know?”

Sirius shakes his head. “She hasn’t said anything to him. Or to anyone, far as I can tell. Just… pulled away. From Diggory. From everything.”

Remus presses the towel into his lap, staring at the floor. “Do you think she’s—?”

“Confused?” Sirius interrupts. “Wrecked? Realizing she’s got feelings and it’s about five months too late? Yeah. Probably all of it.”

They sit in the quiet for a minute. Then—

“Wait, wait—what are we talking about?” Peter says from behind his bed curtains, poking his head out with an eager blink.

Remus sighs.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Y/N. She found the bloody letters.”

Peter frowns. “You mean those letters? The ones James said he burned?”

“Yeah. Turns out Moony was sentimental and tucked copies into that stupid drawer of his,” Sirius mutters, giving Remus a mock glare.

“I didn’t think she’d find them!” Remus defends. “She was looking for Advanced Transfiguration, not a personal breakdown.”

Peter’s mouth forms a small "o."

“So… does James know?”

Sirius looks away, jaw clenched. “No. And he can’t. Not yet.”

Remus nods slowly. “If she’s trying to figure out what she feels, the last thing she needs is pressure.”

Peter frowns. “But he still loves her, doesn’t he?”

Sirius swallows.

“He never stopped.”

The boys are still huddled in the dorm—Remus on the edge of his bed, Sirius half-lying on his, Peter nervously swinging his legs—when the door creaks open.

James walks in.

Hair damp, tie loose, cheeks a little flushed from racing upstairs. There’s a brightness to him. That usual glow. But it’s… quieter lately. He’s trying, and everyone can see it.

“Alright, what’s going on?”

He pauses mid-step, brows raised as he takes in the room. The energy is tense, tight like a pulled thread.

Remus instantly looks down, pretending to flip a page in his journal.

Peter nearly chokes on his own spit and starts coughing loudly.

Sirius—ever the composed one—leans back and throws a casual arm over the edge of the bed. “Going on? Nothing’s going on. Why would something be going on?”

James stares at him. “Because all three of you look like you just buried a body.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Prongs,” Sirius says, but he’s avoiding James’s eyes now, spinning a quill between his fingers.

Remus clears his throat. “We were just… talking. About that new Astronomy essay. Vector’s is due next week.”

Peter nods. A little too hard. “Yeah. Very important stars. Super… starry.”

James narrows his eyes. “You lot are terrible liars.”

No one answers.

He lets the silence hang for a moment longer. Then he sighs and rakes a hand through his hair.

“Is this about her?” he asks, voice lower now, cautious. “Y/N?”

Everyone goes very still.

Remus closes his journal. Slowly. Peter’s eyes dart to Sirius.

Sirius—cool, unreadable Sirius—shrugs, but his voice is gentler this time. “No one said anything about her.”

James swallows, gaze fixed on the carpet.

Then he nods, like he’s pretending it doesn’t hurt. “Right. Yeah. Just thought maybe…”

But he doesn’t finish. He just forces a smile and walks over to his trunk, rifling through it for something he doesn’t need.

Behind him, Sirius exhales quietly, and Remus shoots him a warning glance like: not yet.

Because James doesn’t know.

And if he did?

He’d never be able to pretend again.

..

The cobbled streets of Hogsmeade shimmer with melted snow, and your fingers are frozen around the paper bag of sweets Amos bought you.

Pumpkin fudge.

You hate pumpkin fudge.

But Amos doesn’t know that.

He’s talking again—some long-winded story about a Ravenclaw Beater and a near-miss Bludger—and you try to nod along, but it’s like your head’s full of fog.

You’re just outside Honeydukes when it happens.

The door to Zonko’s swings open across the street, and James steps out. Sirius and Peter flank him, laughing loudly, the kind of laughter that feels contagious. James is mid-joke, his eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the cold—

—and then he sees you.

Everything goes still.

You swear you hear your heartbeat echo off the snow.

His smile falters. Just a little. The barest hitch in the easy curve of his mouth.

Your eyes lock.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

And then, just like that—he looks away. Turns back to Sirius like you were never there.

Like he hadn’t once carried you to the Hospital Wing. Like he hadn’t once written you letters so full of love they felt like gravity.

“Y/N?”

You blink. Amos is frowning.

“What was that about?” he asks, gesturing with his chin toward James, who’s already vanishing down the lane.

You look down, heart thudding. “Nothing.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

“I said it’s nothing.” Your voice is sharper now. It surprises even you.

Amos crosses his arms. “You’ve been off all day. Actually—longer than that. Since last week, I think. You barely look at me during meals, you always say you're tired, and now you're staring at Potter like he's—like he's—”

He stops himself. But the implication is loud in the silence between you.

“Like he's what?” you ask, quiet.

Amos hesitates. “Do you still fancy him?”

The question hits you like a hex to the chest.

Did you fancy James for a little while after you started talking to Amos? No. Maybe. Probably..

Did you tell anyone? Oh heeeeeelll no.

It's just a small crush. You thought. I'l get over it.

And you did. For a while, sure.

“I—no. I mean—” You look away. “I don’t know.”

His eyebrows lift. “You don’t know?”

You hate this. Hate how you're making him feel. How you feel. Torn in pieces and pulled in directions you can’t make sense of.

“I just… I need time,” you murmur, not even sure what you're asking for.

Amos lets out a bitter laugh. “Right. Time.”

You can’t look at him.

Because he’s good. Kind. He deserves better than someone whose heart skips for a boy who wrote love letters and buried them in drawers.

“Let me walk you back,” he says after a beat, voice tight.

You nod, but you walk in silence. Side by side but oceans apart.

And James’s eyes still haunt you.

..

The corridor is empty except for the soft flicker of torchlight and the weight of everything you’ve been holding in.

Lily doesn’t say anything. She just walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours as you step into the quiet, unused hallway near the Divination staircase—the one that always smells faintly like lavender and dust.

You sit on the windowsill. Hug your knees. Stare out at the fading light like it might offer an answer.

“Y/N,” Lily says gently, “you haven’t smiled properly in days.”

You swallow hard.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Her brow furrows.

“I should be happy. Amos is… he’s kind. And steady. And he likes me. Everything’s easy with him. Safe.”

A pause.

“But it doesn’t feel right anymore.”

You rest your forehead on your knees. “It’s like I’m with him, and all I can think about is someone else. The way someone else used to look at me. The way he knew me. Without ever having to ask.”

Just around the corner, James stops walking.

He hadn’t meant to overhear.

He’d been trailing behind the group after dinner, letting Sirius and Remus wander off ahead, when he heard your voice. Fragile. Real.

And the sound of his name—not said aloud, but written into the cracks of everything you were saying.

He inches closer, just enough to hear.

“I feel awful,” you whisper. “Like I’m lying every time I smile at Amos. Because part of me is somewhere else. With someone else. Someone I never really gave a chance to.”

Lily doesn’t ask who. She doesn’t need to.

But James?

He already knows.

And he backs away, hand trembling slightly as he grips the stone wall beside him.

Because that ache in your voice—it’s the same one in his chest.

And even though he only caught pieces, it’s enough.

It’s enough to make him want to hope again.

Even if it terrifies him.

..

The fire in the common room is low, just embers now. Most students have gone up to bed. It’s only Sirius and James, sprawled out on the worn leather couches like they used to when they were kids sneaking out for stolen Butterbeer and bad jokes.

But there’s no laughter tonight.

James hasn’t said much since dinner.

He’s staring into the flames, absently bouncing a Chocolate Frog card between his fingers. His hair’s still damp from the shower. His shirt’s rumpled. His usual glow is dimmed. Tired around the edges.

Sirius watches him. Quiet. Restless.

“You alright, Prongs?” he finally asks.

James doesn’t look away from the fire. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

James exhales through his nose. “No. But I will be.”

Sirius shifts in his seat. Elbows on his knees now, tapping his fingers together like he’s working up to something.

“You saw her today, didn’t you?” he asks, voice low.

James says nothing.

“She looked at you like she wanted to say something.”

Still nothing.

“And you looked away.”

James finally speaks. “What do you want me to say, Pads?”

Sirius leans back. “That maybe you’re still in love with her.”

The card in James’s hand stills.

Another silence.

He closes his eyes. Rubs his jaw. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this.”

Sirius studies him. “She’s not happy, James. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” James snaps, sharper than intended. “She chose Diggory.”

Sirius scoffs. “You really think this is about choosing?”

“She’s with him, Sirius.” James’s voice cracks at the edge, but he clenches his jaw, hard. “Whatever I felt—whatever I feel—it’s irrelevant now.”

Sirius watches him, eyes softening. “She’s still yours. In the quiet ways. The stuff that counts.”

James stands abruptly. Walks to the fireplace, hands gripping the mantle.

“I’m not talking about this.”

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say she read the letters. She’s falling apart, too. It’s not over, James. Not yet.

But James turns to him, and the look in his eyes is final.

Tired. Guarded. Shattered.

“Just… don’t.”

And Sirius doesn’t.

Because as much as he wants to fight for them—James needs to be ready to fight for himself first.

So he nods once, slowly.

Lets the silence return.

Lets James breathe.

Even if it hurts.

..

You slump onto your bed. The door creaks open and Lily slips inside, followed by Marlene and Dorcas. They don’t say a word, just sit around you like a quiet circle of safety.

Lily’s eyes are soft but serious.

“Talk to us,” she says.

You shrug, avoiding their gaze.

“I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

Marlene leans forward, voice low but direct.

“That’s not an answer, Y/N. You do know.”

“No, I don’t,” you whisper. “I’m just... stuck. I care about him. I want to care about him. But every time I’m with him, I feel like I’m someone else.”

Dorcas nods slowly.

“You’re spinning him around. And yourself. It’s exhausting.”

You bury your face in your hands.

“But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m just scared to be alone?”

Lily shakes her head firmly.

“You’re not alone. And you’re not wrong for wanting more. You deserve to be with someone who sees you. Not a version of you that fits their story.”

Marlene crosses her arms.

“You have to break up with Amos. Don’t keep pretending or spinning this any longer.”

You pull your hands down, eyes glossy with tears.

“But what if I hurt him? What if it’s not fair?”

Dorcas reaches over, squeezing your hand.

“It’s better to be honest now than to stay and lose yourself completely. You deserve to be happy, Y/N.”

Lily smiles softly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

“And we’ll be right here. No matter what.”

You take a shaky breath. For the first time in days, you feel a flicker of clarity.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll figure it out.”

..

You find him sitting on a fallen log near the water, tossing pebbles one by one. The sunset paints the sky in bruised pinks and golds, but you barely notice.

Your heart pounds so loud you think he must hear it.

You swallow hard.

“Amos...” you begin, voice trembling.

He looks up, hopeful but wary.

“I need to be honest,” you say. “I’ve been... distant. And it’s not fair to you.”

He nods slowly, eyes searching yours.

“I don’t think I’m the person you thought I was,” you continue, voice stronger now. “Or maybe I am, but I’m not who I want to be. Not with you.”

His brow furrows.

“I don’t understand.”

“I care about you. I care a lot,” you admit, tears slipping down your cheeks. “But that’s not enough. I’m scared I’m holding you back because I don’t know how to be who I really am when I’m with you.”

He looks crushed.

“So... what does that mean?”

You meet his gaze, steady despite the ache.

“It means we need to stop. Before this becomes something we both regret. You deserve someone who loves you without hesitation. Someone who can be fully there. And right now, that’s not me.”

He swallows, then nods.

“If that’s what you want... I just want you to be happy.”

You blink away your tears.

“Thank you for everything, Amos. You were a good boyfriend, really.”

You stand, the weight lifting even as your chest tightens.

You turn away, leaving behind the ache of what wasn’t meant to be, and stepping toward the truth you’ve been avoiding for too long.

..

The Gryffindor dorm was alive with the usual noise of restless boys — laughter echoing, a stray pillow flying through the air, books shuffled and parchment rustled. Sirius was sprawled on his bed, smirking as he lobbed another pillow at Remus, who was trying, and failing, to focus on a hefty book about magical creatures. Peter sat on the edge of a chair, fiddling nervously with the corner of a parchment, casting quick glances at the others.

Sirius’s sharp eyes caught Peter’s uneasy expression, and he called out with a warning grin, “Wormtail, don’t you even think about it.”

Remus’s voice was low but firm. “Seriously, Pete. Keep your mouth shut.”

Peter swallowed hard, looking like he was trying to keep a secret that weighed heavily on him. His gaze flicked to James, who was lazily cleaning his broomstick but clearly curious about the quiet tension.

James sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Alright, what’s going on? Why the sudden hush? You’re all acting like I’m about to get hexed or something.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and tossed another pillow toward Peter’s head, but this time he caught it mid-air, cheeks flushing. “No, it’s nothing. Just some dumb gossip.”

Remus gave Peter a pleading look — don’t say anything, the look screamed.

Peter hesitated, biting his lip. Then, as if the pressure became too much, he blurted out, “Rememberthelettersyouwrotewelly/nsawthemandsheknowsaboutyourcrush”

The room went silent so quickly it was like the air itself had stopped.

James blinked, caught completely off guard. “What? I didn’t get a single thing.”

Sirius threw a pillow at Peter’s face “Our silly pete is just sayin’ he’s hungry, right Pete?”

Peter’s voice dropped to a nervous whisper,

“Y/N found the letters..”

“Oh for fucks sake” Sirius groaned and Remus buried his face into his pillow.

Time seemed to freeze.

James’s eyes widened in shock. “She did what?!”

Remus grabbed Peter’s arm firmly, shaking his head. “You have no idea how much trouble you just caused.”

James pushed himself off his bed, pacing with his hands tangled in his hair. His voice cracked with disbelief and frustration. “Why didn’t any of you tell me? What the hell were you thinking, keeping that from me?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, exasperated but trying to keep calm. “We thought it was better if you didn’t know right away. We didn’t want to make things worse.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t an easy thing to keep quiet. But Y/N was struggling, and we wanted to protect you both.”

James let out a bitter laugh, voice shaking with anger and hurt. “Protect me? By leaving me in the dark while she carried this alone? She’s been hurting because of me, and you all just sat there, silent?”

Peter looked down, ashamed.

James stopped pacing and faced them, eyes blazing. “You think this was easy? For me? I should’ve known. I needed to know. How can I fix anything if I’m left in the dark?”

Sirius sighed heavily, his usual cocky attitude replaced with something more serious. “Look, mate, we didn’t want to break your heart even more. You didn’t know how bad it was.”

James shook his head slowly, voice low and painful. “I’m not a child. I deserve the truth. And I deserve to know what’s going on with her — with us.”

The room fell quiet again, the weight of James’s words settling like a stone.

Remus stepped forward carefully, trying to ease the tension. “We’ll tell you everything when you’re ready. Just... give Y/N space, too.”

James ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Yeah. Space. Right.”

He looked at each of them, eyes burning with emotion. “Next time you think about keeping something like this from me, remember how it feels to find out like this. From a slip-up.”

Sirius cracked a small smile, trying to lighten the mood, but it was thin. “Point taken, mate.”

Peter gave a small, guilty nod. “Sorry, James. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

After what felt like years of James pacing around the room, he rubbed his face, trying to calm down. “I just... I need to figure out what to do now.”

The Marauders exchanged looks, knowing this was only the beginning.

taglist: @glittervame @strlightfilms @simp-for-fiction @natalia42069 @miapotterismyfav @bellatrixscurls @gulugulukaboom @mgg55lovr @mgg55lovr @hawaii2320 @andrewgarfieldislife @yasministration

part three?

[vinnyvamppp]

we need more mark grayson co-parenting please PLEASE IM GOING TK CRY PLEAAAE

Our Son, Apparently

Note: DON'T CRY, LMFAO. I've made this installment longer, why? Because it hopefully wont bring the request of a third part, but honestly so much could be done with this, I wouldn't be surprised if someone did. This only scratches the surface.

Synopsis: Mark Grayson never meant to be a single dad. You never meant to become a co-parent by proximity. But when Oliver enters your life, everything changes. From grocery store breakdowns to baby-proofing the world from Viltrumite tantrums, you and Mark find yourselves building a family you didn’t plan for… and falling in love right in the middle of the mess.

Warnings: Mild Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Flirting, Canon-Level Superhero Violence, Themes of Single Parenthood, Accidental Family, Identity Pressure, Interrupted Intimancy, Baby... Fluids? EXHAUSTION, etc. (Two and a Half Graysons PART 2: Previous Part: Here.)

Mark Grayson x GN!Reader

WC: 1.9k

It starts with a crack. Not just a crack, an explosion of glass, a shriek of wind, and the sharp twang of something small and plastic ricocheting off the opposite wall. You freeze in the kitchen, work uniform half-smeared with banana mush, its watered down taste and betrayal.

Across the room, the window is obliterated. Shattered glass glitters on the floor like a warning. And at the epicenter—with his fists balled and cheeks flushed purple—is Oliver, practically vibrating with frustration. The pacifier lies in the corner like the murder weapon it is. A stubby, rubber-tipped missile of infant rage.

“Okay,” you say slowly, voice high-pitched and tight. “So we’re entering our supervillain phase early. That’s cool.” Before you can even take a step, there’s a sonic thud and Mark crashes through the hallway barefoot, hoodie half-zipped and clinging to one arm, hair soaking wet and sticking up in every direction like he lost a fight with a showerhead and a towel.

He’s holding one of Oliver’s tiny socks in one hand and nothing in the other. No shirt, no shoes, just sweatpants and alarm. “What happened? Are you okay? Did someone break in—?” He pauses and sees the window, then Oliver. Then you, standing frozen with a spoonful of rejected mashed banana still in your hand.

Mark’s chest rises and falls with the kind of slow, controlled inhale you recognize immediately: do not freak out in front of the baby, do not freak out in front of the baby, do not—

He exhales and rubs his face. “What did I miss?” You gesture broadly at the destruction. “He didn’t like the unmashed banana.” Mark squints. “So he shattered the window?” You hold up the spoon. “I didn’t chew it first. Apparently that’s a crime now.”

There’s a long pause as Oliver lets out a little grunt, his chubby fingers clawing at the legs of your trousers, his face formed into the most pitiful pout. Mark presses his knuckles to his temple. “Cecil’s going to want to classify him as a WMD.” You snort. “I mean. Technically… he already is.”

Mark walks over, still barefoot, and carefully lowers Oliver back into the bouncer with gentle, practiced hands. Oliver lets out one last indignant coo before settling, hands clasping around his finger. Mark looks back at you. “I’ll fix the glass,” you murmur. “You just… survive until nap time.” You glance at him—hoodie half-hanging off one shoulder, sleep lines on his face, eyes soft and tired and still glowing faintly from adrenaline. And yeah, you think, maybe this is a disaster. It’s almost midnight when it’s finally quiet again.

The pacifier incident has been cleaned. The window is now repaired thanks to Cecil’s intervention (and Mark, who partially caved and followed a tutorial and swore under his breath the entire time). Oliver is tucked in, finally knocked out cold after Mark flew circles around the home until the kid passed out mid-air.

You’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a lukewarm cup of tea and staring into the nothingness that lives inside every sleep-deprived parent’s soul.

Behind you, a familiar heat. That slight change in air pressure when Mark enters the room. When he leans against the fridge with that look that always gets you into trouble. A lopsided grin, a raised brow, and a T-shirt long abandoned in the laundry apocalypse. Gray sweatpants slung low, one hand casually holding a bowl of food he’s absolutely not eating. 

"You good?" he asks, voice low. "You look like you're about to throw the tea at the wall."

You glance over your shoulder. “If I don’t have a breakdown soon, it’s gonna get stuck in my chest. Gotta let the crazy out somehow.” You pause, finally catching his innuendo. “Are you trying to seduce me with that logic or your cereal breath?”

Mark steps behind you, hands finding your hips. His warmth sinks into your back, and you lean into him instinctively. His nose brushes your neck. “Both. Let it out later. We’ve got ten whole minutes of peace. Maybe twenty.”

You feel his hand drift, slide under the hem of your hoodie, fingers skimming over the expanse of flesh. Your breath catches in your throat. Your whole body hums and you can feel the tension shift—sharp, sweet, starved. His lips graze just behind your ear. “You smell like puff dust,” he murmurs. “It’s weirdly hot.”

You laugh, breathless, turning to face him. He lifts you onto the counter without hesitation, standing between your knees. He’s kissing you—slow, deep, one hand curling around your waist like he’s remembering your shape. Your fingers tangle within his curls, his fingers traveling lower unsure of their destination. You let him press you back against the fridge, and god, it’s been weeks. You can feel the tension unraveling between you both, fingertips digging, breathing uneven—

WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH. You both freeze, eyes wide.

Mark groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “I jinxed it.”

“I knew he was waiting to ruin this. He has a sixth sense for foreplay.” It was the next morning, and you both were awoken by the print of small feet against your lower back and the soft padded knocks at the front door. Cecil had sent a nanny. You weren't consulted, nor was Mark.

She arrives at 7 a.m. sharp in a shimmering suit, floating half an inch off the floor. Thressa, from the Glorvax system. Glowing skin, elegant limbs, eyes like a lava lamp. She walks into the home like she's visited a dozen times in past lives and scoops Oliver up like she’s been waiting years.

He giggles and reaches for her face before nuzzling her like a puppy.

You and Mark stare in utter, sleep-deprived bewilderment. Both looking like abandoned houseplants as she explains his development and gently feeds Oliver a new formula. Mark leans in, whispering, “Do you think she’s actually a nanny or just here to steal him from us?” You narrow your eyes. “She called him ‘my sweet hatchling.’ That’s not childcare. That’s a claim.”

Thressa turns and smiles warmly. “You two look stressed. Would you like time to yourselves? Perhaps a long shower together?”

You silently stare at her. Mark begins coughing violently, clearly flustered. And Oliver’s gleeful giggles ring out. “She knows Viltrumite development inside and out,” Cecil says, appearing via teleportation, money soon to be wasted as you hastily usher him away. “We need to start assessments. He’s already got strength enhancements and advanced development. She’ll help you prepare.”

“Did you hire her?” you ask flatly.

“No,” Cecil says. “I deployed her.”

And that’s when you snap.

You’re pacing Mark’s bedroom, hair mussed and voice sharp. “She shows up, picks up our kid, and suddenly he’s just—hers? She calls him her hatchling, Mark. Who says that? Who just decides they’re a better parent without even talking to us?”

Mark sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you. Quiet. “I’m trying,” you say, and your voice breaks just a little. “I’m not his real parent. I know that. I’m not even—whatever we are, I just—but I love him. I choose him every single day. And I—”

You cut yourself off, chest heaving. Mark’s looking at you like you’ve just lit up the whole room.

“What?” you ask, flustered beyond comparison. “You said ‘our kid,’” he says quietly. “Like it’s just true. No hesitation.” You blink. “I—yeah. Because it is.” There was no in your words hesitation this time. He crosses the room in three steps and pulls you into a hug that feels like a home. "You're walking this with me. Every step. You didn't have to. But you are." And for a moment, you just breathe together, hearts dancing amongst one another as the night crickets sing.

Later that night, you’re curled up on the couch. Oliver’s asleep on your chest, tiny fingers fisted in your shirt. Mark’s beside you, legs tangled with yours, quiet. Soft. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, voice rough with something raw. “About all of this. You. Him. Us.” You glance over. His hand is fidgeting in his hoodie pocket. You feel your heart catch.

Mark doesn’t look at you. “It’s not the life I pictured. But it’s the only one I want. I don’t need perfect. I just need you.” You lean in and start placing soft kisses—one to his forehead. One to his closed eyelid. One to his cheek. Your lips brush his jaw last, and you whisper, “I already said yes.”

He looks at you, blinking, smile blooming like sunlight. He starts to move—to speak, maybe reach for something—and then— BLLAAAHHRGGHHH. A full-force stream of baby puke explodes all over your chest.

Oliver sits up mid-sleep and lets out a happy screech. Mark stares, frozen and yu stare down at your shirt. Silence…

You sigh. “So. Romantic.” Mark laughs, helpless, but relieved. “I was so close.” You press your forehead to his. “You still are. Just—Just give me a moment.” The apartment is quiet for once—no screeching, no flying objects, no sudden diaper blowouts or random alien agency visits. The air hums with that tired kind of stillness you only get after surviving a war made entirely of juice spills and broken windows.

You’re both on the couch, half-curled into each other like always—your legs over his lap, his hand absently stroking up and down your shin. There’s a half-empty bottle of formula abandoned on the coffee table, and Mark’s hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he stares at your joined limbs like he’s seeing something new.

He’s not shirtless, shockingly, but the gray tee he is wearing is soft and thin and rides up when he shifts. You’re trying not to think about that. Or about how stupid in love you feel. And then he does it—says the thing that makes everything tilt slightly sideways.

“I really wanted to do this earlier.”

You glance over at him, brow raised. “Do what?” You knew, but you always loved watching him stammer. Mark’s eyes flick toward the hallway—where the baby’s sleeping like a tiny purple demon—and then back to you. “The real version. Not the puke-soaked one.”

Your chest tightens. That thing in your stomach flips over once. He shifts under your legs, suddenly looking very much like the guy who once flew through asteroids but is now panicking because emotions are harder than world threatening catastrophes.

“I didn’t get to say it the way I wanted to,” he says. “Didn’t even get the sentence out. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot. About you. About Oliver. About how you’ve been in it with me. Even when it’s been hell. And I just—” He stops and scratches the back of his neck, blotches of blush creeping up his skin.

“I’m not great at this,” he mutters. “The talking thing. Or the… ring thing.” Your breath catches as he pulls something out of his pocket. It’s small. Simple. A silver band. No grand box, no sparkle, but honest. The kind of ring someone keeps in their hoodie for weeks because they never know when life will let them have five minutes to use it.

He looks up at you. His eyes are soft and unsteady, but open. “I don’t need a ceremony or a perfect moment. I just want to make this official. Me and you. And him. Because you’re already it for me. You’ve been it since you didn’t flinch when I showed up with a purple alien baby and said, ‘Hey, I kind of need you.’”

You stare at him for a second, heart full to the point of bursting, brain trying to keep up with the wave of affection suddenly choking you. You lean in slowly. Your lips brush along his jaw as you whisper, “You never had to ask.” He exhales like you just took all the weight out of his chest.

You take the ring from his fingers and slide it onto your own without ceremony, just solid, quiet finality. He laughs—small and a little dazed—and pulls you into his lap, burying his face in your neck. “God, you’re stuck with me now.”

“Mark,” you murmur, smiling. “I’ve been stuck since the first time you showed up at my job holding a diaper bag and looking like a confused golden retriever.” He snorts. “Sexy golden retriever,” he corrects, smitten against your collarbone. “Yeah. Covered in formula and baby wipes. Total heartthrob.”

He pulls back to look at you, the grin soft but teasing. “I love you.” The words are quiet. Uncomplicated and true.

The only sound left in the room is your breathing—and his. Your fingers brush his jaw, just enough to tilt his face toward yours. His eyes are tired but warm—lit from within by something more than adrenaline or duty or even affection. It’s love, and it’s undeniable.

His hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer like he’s making sure this is real. Your thighs bracket his, your knees brushing, and your fingers slide into his hair with a practiced ease that makes him shudder. “We could…” he whispers, his breath catching as your lips brush the curve of his neck. “Maybe… actually finish something tonight?”

You grin against his skin. “Finish or start something. We don’t have to be ambitious.” He laughs, low and warm, and leans into the kiss again, deeper this time. It builds—slow but certain. A quiet dam that’s been waiting to break.

Your hips shift against his. His hand trails beneath the hem of your shirt, and you feel it in your stomach first—the pull of wanting, of comfort, of home. But you pause. Just long enough to breathe together, forehead pressed to his.

Mark’s ring glinting softly on his finger where it presses against your clothed skin. The family photo Eve took on your fridge: slightly blurry, your hair a mess, Mark looking exhausted, Oliver mid-sneeze—and all of you smiling like you didn’t know the moment was going to matter.

Because it does.

Mark didn’t plan for any of this. Not fatherhood. Not an engagement. Not this future. But right now, watching you lean into him like you were always meant to be there, he wouldn’t trade a second of it. Because this is his family. And you?

You’ve been his world since the day he showed up in your doorway with panic in his eyes and a baby in his arms.

You kiss him again, slow this time—no interruptions, no crying, no urgency. Just warmth. His hands around your waist. Your fingers gliding across his scalp. Mouths meeting gently, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

And for once… you do. A/N: I'm contractually obligated to end every fic with a sappy one liner. CONGRATS READER, YOU'RE OFFICIALLY A GRAYSON. (If anyone requests a part three, I promise you I will go full chaos with the nest one, had to keep this one adjacent to comic timing, though.)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[heartsiebyul]

Hi, pookie! I wasn't able to find any rules on your requests, so hopefully this is alright!

May I request the third years' (plus Silver bc I am a simp) reaction to you telling them you want to break up in the middle of an argument? Preferably with a good ending, but up to you on that!!

══════════════════════════

NRC Third Years

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Twisted Wonderland characters reacting to their lover suddenly blurting out “Maybe we should just break up” during a heated argument.

featuring — Third Years + Silver : Trey : Cater : Leona : Vil : Rook : Idia : Malleus : Lilia x reader!

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Trey Clover

“Maybe we should just break up.”

Trey freezes, the sugar-dusted whisk slipping from his hand to clatter against the mixing bowl. His brows furrow, lips parting in stunned silence before he quickly crosses the room. “Wait, what? You don’t mean that…” His tone isn’t angry, just deeply hurt, almost desperate to understand. “We’re arguing, yeah—but that doesn’t mean you just throw us away.” He cups your cheek gently despite the tension, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Talk to me, please. I want to fix this. I don’t want to lose you over a bad day.”

You both sit at the counter, hands still flour-speckled, and he listens intently as your anger unravels into exhausted honesty. He nods, takes accountability where needed, and reassures you with quiet strength. By the end, you're leaning into his shoulder, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “Let’s not let one fight be the end of a good thing,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “We’re better than that.”

Cater Diamond

“Maybe we should just break up.”

The words hang like ice in the air, and Cater's usual lively expression falls instantly. “Whoa… whoa, wait—what?” His voice cracks on the last syllable, and for once, there’s no filter, no mask of jokes or charm. “Are you serious right now, babe? Over this?” His phone buzzes with an unfinished post draft, forgotten on the bed. “You don’t really want that, do you? Or are you just… overwhelmed?” His voice softens as he steps back, visibly shaken.

You both sit in awkward silence until he cautiously inches closer, brushing your hand with his. “Look, I know I can be too much sometimes. I try to stay upbeat, but I mess up too.” He hesitates, then flashes a small, genuine smile. “Let’s not end the whole story on one bad chapter, okay?” And when you whisper that you don’t want to lose him either, he pulls you in tightly—relieved tears gathering in his eyes as he whispers, “We’ll get through this. You and me.”

Leona Kingscholar

“Maybe we should just break up.”

Leona’s eyes flare with something primal—anger, confusion, and fear swirling together. His ears twitch, tail swishing sharply behind him. “Tch. That’s how you’re gonna play it?” His voice is low and biting, but there’s a shake in it that betrays his heart. “Just because we argued, you’re ready to throw in the towel?” He turns away, running a hand through his hair as if trying to contain the storm inside him.

But when you don’t say anything, Leona slowly turns back, jaw clenched. “...Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it. You’re not disposable to me.” His voice cracks with raw honesty. “I don’t do this whole relationship thing easy, but I chose you. You piss me off, sure—but I’d rather fight with you than be without you.” You end up in his arms, quiet apologies exchanged as he kisses your temple. “Next time, say what you feel. Not what’ll hurt most.”

Vil Schoenheit

“Maybe we should just break up.”

Vil’s posture goes rigid, like he’s been slapped. “Excuse me?” His tone is frosty, but beneath the calm, you can see the cracks forming in his facade. “You think walking away solves anything? After everything we’ve built?” His words are sharp, but his eyes betray something more fragile—fear of failure, of loss. He crosses his arms tightly, guarding himself.

After a tense pause, he exhales, then sits beside you, reaching out to take your hand with careful grace. “If I’ve made you feel unheard or unloved, I apologize. But you matter to me more than my pride.” His voice softens. “Let’s not let one argument define us. Beauty takes work—so do relationships.” He gently presses his forehead to yours, a sigh of relief escaping when you nod. “Let’s fix this, together.”

Rook Hunt

“Maybe we should just break up”

Rook goes still, like prey caught in a trap. His usual dramatic flair vanishes, replaced with silence and wide, stunned eyes. “Mon amour…” he breathes, voice hollow. “Do you truly mean that?” His gaze searches your face as if trying to read the truth in your trembling expression. “I would rather face a thousand arrows than this heartbreak.”

When you shake your head, overwhelmed, he kneels before you without hesitation, taking your hands in his. “Then let us not wound each other further with fear.” He presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes shimmering. “We are passionate creatures—it is why we love so deeply, and why we sometimes lash out. But I will never give up on us.” He cradles you close, whispering sweet, soothing words until the tension fades into soft tears and tight embraces.

Idia Shroud

“Maybe we should just break up.”

Idia flinches like you hit him. His shoulders curl inward, hair flickering electric blue with panic. “Wh-what? No-no-no, wait, you—you can’t just—” His voice spikes into a frantic pitch, and he backs into a corner like a glitching character. “I knew this would happen… I knew someone like you wouldn’t want to stay with a loser like me…”

But when you cry quietly into your hands, he freezes, suddenly realizing this isn’t just his spiral—it’s hurting you, too. Shakily, he approaches and pulls the hood off his head. “I don’t want to lose you. I freaked out, okay? But we can fix this. You’re not just a side quest—I want you in the main storyline.” It takes time and fumbling words, but he sits beside you until you both calm down, pinky fingers linking like a tiny truce. “Let’s respawn… together.”

Malleus Draconia

“Maybe we should just break up”

Time seems to stop as Malleus blinks, stunned into silence. The room stills around him, like even the air is afraid to move. “You… wish to leave me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes darken, not with anger but deep sorrow. “Have I failed you so deeply?” There’s a centuries-old ache in his voice—ancient fear of abandonment reawakening.

He takes a cautious step forward, hands trembling slightly. “Please… speak honestly. If your heart truly wishes it, I will respect your will. But if pain drove you to say that—let us speak, not separate.” You admit you lashed out, scared he was drifting away, and his gaze softens. “Then let us stand firm in this storm, together.” He draws you close, wrapping his arms around you protectively. “You will never be alone, not while I yet breathe.”

Lilia Vanrouge

“Maybe we should just break up.”

For a moment, the playfulness drains from Lilia’s face, replaced by something rare: solemn stillness. “Oh?” he says, quietly, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s quite the serious thing to say, little bat.” His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach out. “Is that truly what you want—or are you just angry?”

He sits beside you without waiting for an answer, letting the silence settle. “I’ve lived long enough to know how words spoken in anger can wound deeper than a sword,” he says gently. “But I also know love, true love, can endure more than a single quarrel.” When your eyes water and you apologize, he hugs you tightly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s learn from this, hm? I still choose you. Even after this.”

Silver

“Maybe we should just break up.”

Silver’s expression shifts from tired frustration to stunned hurt in an instant. His hand, which had been clutched into a fist, slowly opens. “...You don’t mean that,” he says, but there’s no certainty in his voice. His gaze falters. “Or do you?” He looks so quietly heartbroken, like the ground has fallen from beneath him, his knightly composure shaken.

When you start to cry, he approaches with aching gentleness. “I’m sorry if I made you feel unloved… I never want you to carry that burden.” His voice is soft, steadying. “But please don’t walk away because we’re struggling. That’s when we need each other most.” He hugs you tightly, his armor-like stoicism cracking just for you. “I’d rather fight beside you than live without you.”

══════════════════════════

me: i want angst but like not too much

also me, 5 minutes later, clutching my chest and sobbing.

this was supposed to be mild angst. this was not mild. this was emotionally obliterating.

[inseobts]

Smoke and Fire

sabo x fem!reader (+ sanji x fem!reader)

sabo keeps avoiding his feelings, but what happens when he sees you with another man?

words count: 3.2k

tags: jealous sabo, during time-skip, angst with fluff, sanji flirting, hidden feelings, emotional tension

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The mission is simple.

Drop off a message to an allied contact. Rest. Leave.

You've never been there so you don’t expect the island to be... this.

“What the hell…” you mumble, blinking at the huge heart-shaped flowers and men in dresses sprinting around with makeup kits and high heels.

Sabo’s eyes narrow behind his goggles “This is Momoiro Island. Ivankov’s old base.”

“Oh,” you say “Explains the fashion.”

A pink-haired man runs up to you “Revolutionaries?” he asks cheerfully.

You and Sabo nod.

“You just missed the princess!”

“...Princess?” you repeat.

“Our guest! Handsome, blond, always cooking, always crying!”

Sabo raises an eyebrow “We weren’t told anyone else was here.”

The man laughs “Oh, he’s not with the army! He crash-landed here months ago. Poor thing’s heartbroken, but my, does he know how to use a frying pan~!”

You glance at Sabo “Should we meet him?”

“We’ll rest first” he says, almost too quickly.

The rooms they give you are small but cozy. Yours smells like lavender. You toss your bag onto the bed, then lean on the windowsill. Outside, Sabo talks with one of the locals.

You watch him.

Strong. Calm. Always a little distant.

You’ve been traveling with him for months, but he never lets you get too close. You wish he would.

He glances up and catches you looking.

You wave.

He waves back, but turns away fast.

The next morning, someone knocks on your door.

You open it, and there’s a man with blond hair, a thin cigarette, and the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he says, voice like silk “I heard there was a beautiful stranger staying in this wing. I had to see for myself.”

You blink “Uh… Your nose is...”

“My name is Sanji,” he adds with a little bow “Can I interest you in breakfast?”

You smile, unsure “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” he says, grinning “But I’m hoping that will change.”

Before you can answer, a firm voice cuts in “She already ate.”

You turn.

Sabo is standing in the hallway, arms crossed, gaze cold.

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Oh? And who might you be?”

Sabo walks up slowly “Her partner.”

Sanji grins wider “Lucky man.”

Sabo doesn’t smile.

You cough “Um. Sanji, right? You’re the guest here?”

“At your service, angel.”

Sabo steps slightly between you and Sanji “She’s busy.”

“I was just—”

“I said she’s busy.”

Sanji looks from you to Sabo, then smiles politely “Understood. Another time, perhaps.”

He bows again and walks away, hands in his pockets.

You stare at Sabo “That was… intense.”

He shrugs.

“You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Sabo.”

“I don’t like the way he looked at you.”

Your heart skips “Why?”

His voice is quiet “Because he saw you before I was ready.”

You blink “…What do you mean, before you were ready?”

Sabo looks away.

The silence is awkward. Heavy. You're not used to this from him. Usually he’s composed. Sharp. In control. But right now, he looks... cornered.

“Sabo?”

He exhales slowly, then changes the subject, fast.

“The ship’s got a leak.”

You frown “What?”

“Engine room. Nothing major, but we’ll have to stay here a few more days while I fix it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I already talked to the dock crew. They’ll give me parts.”

“Sabo.”

He ignores you “Until then, try not to wander too far, alright?”

You cross your arms “Why are you avoiding the question?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m—” he cuts himself off, jaw clenched “It’s nothing.”

You step closer “Sabo.”

He looks down at you, face unreadable “Let it go.”

Your chest tightens “Why can’t you just talk to me? You're always like this.”

He hesitates.

Then, quietly, he says, “Because I don’t want to say something I can’t take back.”

And then he turns and walks away.

You spend the next hour pacing in your room.

What was that supposed to mean?

Since when does Sabo... who always knows the right words, the right move... get flustered like that? Why would he not be “ready” for someone to see you? What was he going to say?

And why does your heart keep racing when you replay the way he stood in front of you?

Like he was protecting something that already belonged to him.

You finally step out, needing fresh air, only to nearly bump right into someone.

“Oh! My goddess!” Sanji clasps his hands like he’s praying “Fate has brought us together again!”

You stare “Are you always like this?”

“Only when inspiration strikes” he says, and offers you a rose that definitely wasn’t in his hands two seconds ago “Would you allow me the honor of showing you the garden?”

You hesitate.

Then you glance down the hall... no Sabo.

“…Sure.”

Maybe some flowers will clear your head.

Meanwhile, from the top of the hill behind the garden, Sabo stands with arms crossed, staring down.

He watches Sanji lead you through the path of tulips, hand occasionally brushing yours, smile wide.

You’re laughing.

Not like you do with Sabo. No teasing. No guarded glances.

You’re actually relaxed. Glowing.

He should feel happy you're enjoying yourself. Instead, he feels like someone lit a fire in his chest... and it burns like hell.

The garden is beautiful, even more with the sunset light turning the sky soft orange. You’re laughing at something Sanji says... he’s dramatic, but kind, and you admit: he’s easy to talk to. He treats you like you’re the center of the world.

You’re not used to that.

He suddenly turns serious “Would you let me cook for you tonight?”

You blink “What?”

“Dinner. Just us. I’ll prepare something special. A private meal, from my heart to your plate.”

You hesitate “Sanji, I—I don’t want to lead you on…”

He smiles gently “You’re not. I know your heart isn’t mine. But I’d still like to make you feel… seen. You're not staying here much more, so let me help you.”

Your lips part slightly.

It’s not that you’re not thinking about Sabo. You are, constantly. But Sabo never says how he feels. He pulls away. He hides behind orders, missions, excuses. Maybe dinner will distract you. Maybe it’ll help clear your head.

“…Okay,” you say softly “Dinner sounds nice.”

Later, the main dining hall is loud with laughter and clinking glasses. Revolutionaries from every part of the island are eating together, the smell of food heavy in the air.

Sabo walks in, scanning the room.

You’re not here.

He sits next to Ivankov “Hey. Have you seen—”

Ivankov grins “Oh, sweet cheeks? She’s having a private dinner with that Sanji fellow.”

Sabo’s expression freezes “What?”

“You didn’t know?” Iva leans closer, voice teasing “He invited her earlier. Said it was just the two of them. Very romantic~”

Sabo’s grip tightens on his glass.

Someone across the table adds, “I passed her on the way, she looked amazing. Like, wow. Dressed up and everything.”

Another person laughs “Didn’t know she had clothes like that. She cleaned up good.”

Sabo doesn’t hear the rest.

His mind is stuck on just the two of them.

And she dressed up.

You never dress up for him.

Then again... he never gives you a reason to.

He stands up suddenly.

Ivankov blinks “Not staying?”

“I lost my appetite.”

He walks out, fast.

No plan. No words. Just a quiet storm building in his chest.

The table is set under the stars.

Lanterns float in the trees, casting warm yellow light. There’s a small bottle of wine, fresh flowers, and two plates that smell so good your stomach actually growls.

Sanji pulls out a chair for you like a perfect gentleman “For you, mademoiselle.”

You sit, smoothing your dress, a simple thing you found buried in your travel bag. You didn’t even remember packing it. But after looking in the mirror... you needed to feel like someone else tonight. Someone not tired. Not confused. Not constantly waiting for a certain blonde revolutionary to stop avoiding her.

Sanji pours you a glass “To good company.”

You raise your glass “To good food.”

You both sip, and for a while, you eat in silence. The pasta is soft and rich with cream. The vegetables are grilled perfectly. You try to focus on the flavors. On the warmth. On Sanji’s voice when he tells you stories about the wild people on this island.

But Sabo keeps creeping into your thoughts.

His silence.

His half-finished sentences.

His sharp looks at Sanji.

You chew slower.

You’re not sure when it happens, but your fork stops halfway to your mouth.

Sanji notices “Something wrong?”

You put the fork down “No. I mean... yes. I don’t know.”

He tilts his head, serious now.

You sigh “This was supposed to be a distraction.”

He doesn’t answer, just waits.

“I thought dressing up and eating with someone charming would help me stop thinking about him.”

Sanji’s voice is soft “Sabo?”

You nod slowly.

“I don’t get him,” you admit “One minute he looks at me like I’m the most important thing in the world. The next, he acts like I’m just another soldier.”

“Sounds like a man afraid of his own feelings” Sanji says gently.

“I’ve tried to be patient. I get that he’s busy. That we’re at war. But I’m always the one reaching out. Always waiting. Always guessing.”

Your voice gets quieter “And I’m tired of feeling like I care more than he does.”

Sanji leans forward “You want him to fight for you.”

You swallow “I just want to matter. Out loud. Not in silence. Not in hints. Not in things he doesn’t say.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of wind in the trees.

Then Sanji says, “You do matter. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

Your throat tightens “Thanks.”

He smiles gently “You’re incredible. And if he doesn’t tell you that soon…”

He pauses “…he’s going to lose something he won’t be able to replace.”

You look at your wine glass, eyes stinging.

You don’t know what to say.

So Sanji just refills your glass, and starts talking about spices and the sea, until your heart feels a little lighter.

Later on - Sanji’s stories only get more ridiculous as the night goes on.

“—so then I’m running through the kitchen, completely on fire, and Zeff is just watching me like, ‘This idiot deserves it’.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your wine “You’re kidding!”

“Swear on my spices. I smelled like smoked fish for days.”

You lean on the table, grinning hard “You were such a mess.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart “A charming, well-dressed mess, thank you very much.”

You’re still laughing when a soft sound catches your ear, footsteps.

You glance over your shoulder.

Sabo stands a few feet away, just… staring.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked on you. Not Sanji. You.

You straighten in your chair “Sabo...”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Sanji follows your gaze and stands up smoothly “Hey,” he says casually “Join us?”

“No” Sabo says flatly.

You blink “Sabo?”

He steps forward now, voice low, tight “You’re really having fun, huh?”

The tone makes your chest tighten “I—yeah. Sanji was—he made dinner. I just—”

“You dressed up.”

That hits harder than it should.

“Why does that matter?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you like he’s trying to find the words he’s been choking on for weeks.

Sanji clears his throat “Maybe I should—”

“Stay,” Sabo cuts in “You’ve already seen enough.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

Sabo looks at you again “I thought I had time.”

Your heart beats faster “Time for what?”

“To tell you how I feel.”

Silence falls between you.

You stand slowly “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m not like him,” he says, jerking his chin at Sanji “I don’t know how to be soft. Or charming. Or say the right things. But watching you out here, laughing with someone else like that—”

His voice breaks a little.

“I hated it.”

You don’t speak.

“I hated that I wasn’t the one making you smile like that.”

Now you do.

“Then why did you keep pushing me away?”

Sabo steps closer “Because if I let myself fall, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

He’s right in front of you now.

And you can feel the heat coming off him, more than fire.

“I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel anything,” he says, voice low, rough, vulnerable “Because I do. I always have.”

Your breath catches.

He reaches for your hand, finally “I’m sorry it took someone else for me to admit it.”

Behind you, Sanji sighs quiet, like a gentleman who knows when the spotlight isn’t his.

He turns to leave “She deserved to hear it. Finally.”

And he disappears into the night.

Tears hit your eyes before you can stop them.

“You’re an idiot” you whisper.

Sabo flinches, but doesn’t move.

You step forward and punch his arm. Not hard, but enough to make a sound.

“You idiot!”

Another punch. He doesn’t stop you.

“You absolute, emotionally-stunted dumbass! I thought I was crazy!”

Punch. Punch.

“I thought I was making it all up in my head! Every time you looked at me like I mattered, every time you said something sweet and then pulled away, I thought I was imagining it!”

Sabo looks like he’s been stabbed, but he lets you keep going.

You hit his chest with both hands now, frustrated tears running down your cheeks.

“I waited so long! I kept hoping, and hoping, and you never said anything! You just acted like nothing was happening while I... while I was falling in love with you, you idiot!”

Your voice cracks on that last word.

And then you just drop dramatically, right onto your knees, wiping your eyes with both hands, sniffling like a mess. “Ughhh I think I drank too much” you wail into your palms.

Sabo blinks, stunned.

Then he rushes over “Hey—hey, come here—”

You swat at him half-heartedly “Don’t touch me! No—wait—okay yes, touch me, help me up, I’m dizzy.”

He gently pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and grab the front of his shirt like a lifeline.

“You made me crazy,” you sniff “I literally dressed up for another man just to forget you.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re so STUPID.”

“I know.”

“And handsome.”

He makes a choked laugh “That too.”

He steadies you with one arm around your waist, the other carefully holding your wrist “Can you walk?”

“No. I’m too emotional.” You throw your head back dramatically.

He actually laughs this time, soft and helpless “Okay, drama queen. Let’s get you back.”

He walks you slowly through the halls, his pace patient, arm never leaving you.

Your head leans against his shoulder. You speak again, softer now.

“I really do love you, you know.”

His steps falter, just a second.

“I tried not to. I tried to be cool. Like, maybe I could just move on or pretend I didn’t feel it. But... it was always you.”

Sabo swallows “I don’t deserve that.”

You stop walking and look up at him, red eyes shining “You don’t get to decide that.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

Then he says quietly, “Okay.”

And keeps holding you, like he’s never letting go.

The walk to your room is slow and quiet.

Your steps are wobbly. Your thoughts are loud.

Sabo keeps holding you like you’re something fragile. Like you might shatter again.

He opens the door to your room and helps you sit on the bed, gently pulling off your shoes like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times in his head.

You stare at him.

“I’m not drunk” you say suddenly, even though that’s a lie and both of you know it.

“You said you drank too much like ten minutes ago” he says with a small laugh.

You smile lazily “Liar.”

He leans down to pull the blanket over you.

And that’s when you move, reaching up with both arms, eyes heavy, lips parting...

“Wait!” he says quickly, hand flying up to block your face “Hold it.”

You freeze, lips a breath away from his fingers.

You blink at him.

“Are you serious right now?” you whisper.

Sabo grins, but there’s a flush in his cheeks.

He gently presses his hand to your forehead like he’s checking your temperature “Let’s keep that for when you’re not tipsy.”

You pout. Full lips, big eyes, dramatic sigh “That’s mean.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’re pouting like a child.”

You blink slowly. Then nod.

“…Okay,” you mumble, smiling anyway, eyes still wet but shining “But you better not forget.”

He stands there for a second, just watching you melt into the blanket.

“I won’t” he says quietly.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

He pauses at the door.

“…Will you stay? Just for a minute?”

He nods without a word and sits in the chair beside your bed.

You fall asleep with his hand resting gently over yours, and for the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels okay.

You wake up slowly.

Your mouth’s dry. Your head’s a little heavy. But you remember everything.

The dinner.

The tears.

Sabo’s voice telling you the things you waited so long to hear.

You sit up. There’s a folded note on your nightstand in careful handwriting:

Went to get you water. Don’t move. –S

You snort and stay right where you are.

A few minutes later, the door opens and he steps in quietly, holding a glass in one hand and a small plate of toast in the other.

His eyes meet yours.

“…You remember everyting?” he asks softly.

You nod “All of it.”

He sets the things down on the nightstand “You look less like you’re going to punch me today.”

You smirk “I still might.”

A pause.

Then, you look at him seriously “Thank you. For last night. For not… taking advantage."

He looks almost offended “I would never.”

“I know,” you say gently “That’s why it meant so much.”

Another pause.

You take the water, sip it. Then look up at him.

“Still keeping that kiss for when I’m 100% sober?” you ask, tilting your head.

He stares for a second.

Then moves slowly toward the bed.

You shift, knees bent under the blanket as he stops right in front of you.

“I’m still kind of scared” he admits.

“Of what?”

“That if I do this… I won’t be able to stop. I won’t want to.”

You smile “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

He exhales, heart in his throat.

Then he leans in, slowly, like giving you a hundred chances to pull away.

You don’t.

When his lips finally touch yours, it’s soft. Careful. Not rushed.

It’s not perfect, he’s nervous, and so are you, but it’s real. It’s warm. His hand comes up to cup your cheek and you lean into it like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You kiss him again, this time slower, longer.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together.

“Still scared?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless “But it’s better than pretending I don’t feel anything.”

You grin and pull him back in.

[unluckilyimnot]

“My girl looks so pretty tonight” Yelena x fem!reader

A man hit on reader during a gala

post-thunderbolts, jealous/protective yelena, ~1k

From this list

Note: not my best work but it's still cute I think. Imma do one with bucky for sure

masterlist

Yelena wasn’t sorry for showing up almost an hour late, but she was sure Valentina already found a wonderful excuse for her late entrance. She was kind enough to wear the black dress when she really wasn’t in the mood. It was really tight, clinging to her skin despite the small on her ribs and on the side of her leg. Some of the sewing around her neck scratched her skin uncomfortably and she wasn’t exactly happy about the heels, but at least her arms were free from any fabric. She had to admit she looked good in it.

Walking inside with a not so good faux-smile, she didn’t wait a second before she grabbed a flute of champagne and started wandering around the huge ballroom, looking for her teammates. She hadn’t seen you nor Ava all day, she wondered where you’ve been. Ava doesn’t show up much in the first place, but you happened to linger around the common room more, mostly to keep Bob company. She missed your face and the way you murmured along to the song you’re listening to on the couch so without really realizing it, she went looking for you first.

Her eyes fell on Ava first, she was hard to miss since she couldn’t really leave her suit, but she still looked pretty. Her hair was well done and she had some makeup on, just enough to make her gaze deeper than it already was and her lips sharper. Yelena smiled her way when they made eye contact and she stopped by a second to greet her and the guests she was talking to. She wasn’t the best at it but did her best, yet it was written all over her face that she just wanted to leave already.

“Have you seen y/n ?” Yelena asked quietly in her ear, still following the conversation the best she could. Ava nodded behind Yelena.

“She’s stuck with that guy for at least fifteen minutes, please help her out,” she said as quietly before taking part in the small talk again, leaving her space to leave.

Yelena’s jaw clenched when she saw the way the man looked at you, eyes roaming over your body like it belonged to him. The dress was amazing for sure, exposing your chest just enough so it wouldn’t be considered vulgar, the front of the skirt cut prettily so the long back fell perfectly behind you and let’s not get started on the beautiful and puffy long sleeves. You were breathtaking, and she really hated that he could see it as well.

With a confident walk, enough so that nobody tried to stop her to ask stupid questions, she successfully arrived beside you and wrapped a protective arm around your waist. Your face lightened when you saw her coming, a beautiful smile finally showing up and she saw that, for a second, he thought it was for him.

“My girl looks so pretty tonight,” she said calmly, leaving a kiss on your cheek along with a small lipstick stain. “Don’t you think ?” she turned his way, staring at him intently, enough to make him shift and fix his tie.

“She is yes,” he said a little too quickly for her liking. His eyes still lingering on her body, but now also checking her out and she definitely didn’t want to know what was going on in his sick mind.

“If you’ll excuse us, our Boss is looking for her.” Yelena smiled at him before guiding you quickly away from him, her expression shifting instantly to a frown. “For god’s sake why was he nasty like that,” she spat not even a few steps away, but still making as much space between you and him.

You laughed sadly at her, obviously not having any answer to give her, but really loving the way her hand never left your waist as you made your way among the crowd. When she finally stopped in a corner with fewer people, you smiled at her, laying a hand on her waist as well where her skin was exposed, trying to make it more casual than it looked, as you held your empty flute in the other hand.

“Thank you, Lena, you saved me there,” you giggled, not missing the way the frown disappeared from her face.

“Next time just go to the bathroom, oh my god,” she groaned, her accent thick in annoyance as she rolled her eyes.

“I’d rather have you coming to rescue me,” you said softly as you pushed your nose into her cheek. A smirk formed on her lips.

She shifted closer to your face until her lips brushed against your ear. “I’d rather keep you by my arm all night.”

Your cheeks flushed at her words, you felt suddenly hot as her breath lingered a second around your neck, making your breath hitch in your throat. You played it cool, giggling while you looked away, not believing it. She’ll be the death of you if she keeps flirting like that. When you dared looking back in her pretty green eyes, you knew it was something she said without meaning it. It was a promise. A dumb smile bloomed on your lips and you leaned closer into her.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” you confessed, holding her fingers as they fell off your waist a few minutes ago. She scoffed quietly, before shaking her head.

She grabbed your waist again as she realized you two have been away far too long for it to look acceptable. You didn’t want Valentina to nag all the way back to the tower, but her hand never left your waist or arm for the rest of the night. Even if there were annoying people around, it was way more bearable with Yelena holding you protectively, leaning on seductively to whisper in your ear from time to time – even if it was just nonsense, it made them talk.

Valentina would rather have to deal with rumors of them dating than not seeing them around any gala, right ?

Let me know if you liked it !

[munsonsmixtapes]

Electric Touch (2)

virgin!rockstar!eddie x fem!reader

Eddie shows up to your surprise and when you finally go back to his place, he decides that he wants you to take his virginity.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v)

Thanks @the-witty-pen-name for proofreading!

part one

The club is absolutely packed when you and your friends get inside. They’re scoping out the place but you’re looking for the familiar mop of hair. You don’t even know why since he left you on read and never told you whether or not he was coming. And you don’t know why you care anyway. You don’t actually think he’s going to show up. He clearly thinks he’s too cool for you so you don’t care if he’s here or not. You’re going to have fun with your friends and maybe even go home with a guy who will treat you the way you deserve. Eddie who?

You and your friends order your drinks then head over to a surprisingly empty table where you all sit. You’re so in your head that you’re not even paying attention to them giggling about something. It’s not new so you don’t really care. It could honestly be about anything. 

You feel bad for being in your own world tonight but you can’t help it. You just really thought that Eddie would show up, but you guess you were wrong about him yet again. You really can’t believe that you actually thought he would take your words to heart. He seemed offended in the moment but he probably just let it roll off his back like he does anything else.

“Oh my god, it’s Eddie Munson,” Hannah whispers and your eyes widen at her words. No, it can’t be. Can it? Maybe your words actually did mean something. 

“And I think he’s staring at you, y/n,” Bree pointed out. You turn towards where she’s pointing and sure enough, he’s staring directly at you from where he’s sitting in the VIP section. He’s smirking, waving you over and part of you wants to pretend he doesn’t exist. You want to make him feel exactly how he made you feel. To show him how badly it hurts. But you kind of want to have some fun first. 

Without a word, you head over to the VIP section where a security lifts a red velvet rope to let you in. You get into the booth with Eddie, keeping your space. You don’t want him to think he’s earned anything just for showing up. 

He looks you up and down, your silver dress catching the light just perfectly. God, you’re so beautiful. And you’re so close. You’re actually here. And now that you’re here, the long, heartfelt apology he wrote immediately leaves his brain. But he’s come up with shit on the spot more times than he can count so he’s got this. 

He takes a sip from his whiskey before licking his lips, hoping the liquid courage will help. He looks up at your face and takes in your body language. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you look like you’re about to shoot lasers at him with how angry you look. He just wants to fix this. And even if nothing happens tonight, he at least wants to show you that he’s really not a bad guy. 

“Look,” he says, licking his lips again, his hand reaching for your thigh but he quickly pulls it away. “I just want to apologize for last night. I had no right to act like that and I’m not going to come up with some lame excuse. I’m sorry. So sorry. I told myself I was doing to test you, but I was just trying to protect myself. I totally understand if you never want to see me again, but if you’re up for it, I’d really like to get to know you.” 

You take in his words, watch his face as he speaks. He could be lying so you don’t know why you decide to forgive him. You just want to put all this past you and to start fresh. You guess you shouldn’t hold one night against him. 

As you mentally accept his apology, you’re really hoping that he’s really going to show you the real him. You want to see the version of him that you’d see every week at the hideout. You want to see the Eddie that was there before all the fame, girls, and money. You really hope you get him back because you really missed him even though you’ve never actually met him.

“I forgive you,” you tell him after several beats of silence and he lets out a sigh of relief. This was clearly weighing on him. He’s so close to telling you how the whole thing kept him up into the early hours of the morning. He felt so bad that it made him sick to his stomach. The guilt ate at him and he was able to pour those feelings into a song. He scribbled and hummed and tossed crumpled pieces of paper before tossing them. His hotel room is still cluttered with little balls of paper. The one that he thought was worthy is currently in the pocket of his jacket. If he finally gets the guts, he plans on giving it to you. 

Even though he plays to venues filled with thousands of people all the time, it’s the one on one time with people that always makes him anxious. He can fake confidence on stage all he wants but put him in front of a stranger and all of the cool melts away, leaving the shy awkward boy he’s always been. 

You don’t make him nervous, but the vulnerability of showing you something he’s written is making him feel sick again. And the fact that he wrote it for you is making him feel even more so. He feels like such a loser right now. He knows you won’t make fun of him if he showed it to you, but he’s been burned so many times. 

He can still hear the giggles of the girls who laughed at him when he showed the song he wrote for Kelly Sherman. He had been crushing on her for months and watching her laugh in his face as she read the song he wrote for her caused irreparable damage to his heart. He was able to bandage it up and now it’s caged up and he won’t dare show it to anyone else. He can’t, not after all that. 

He shakes his head and once he zones back into reality, he sees that you’re closer to him, your bare thigh pressed to his. He can feel the warmth from you and when you rest your hand on his thigh, he tries to remain calm. He can tell you’re not making a move just from the look on your face. You’re trying to bring him comfort and without another thought, he rests his hand on top of yours. He then leans forward and whispers in your ear. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” You can tell just by his tone that he’s feeling overwhelmed and wants to go somewhere he’ll feel more comfortable. 

“Please,” you reply and wrap your fingers around his hand before pulling him up from the booth. He blindly follows, knowing that you’ll take him where he needs to go. Everything is closing in and the music is staticy. His heart is racing and he can feel every piece of clothing touch his skin. A panic attack is coming on and he immediately feels a little relief when he finally gets outside. 

This is why he never likes to go out. He loves to be social, but not like that. There’s too many people and the music is too loud and everything feels distorted. It all just gets to be too much and he always feels like a dick for leaving so he just doesn’t go in the first place. 

A car is conveniently waiting for the two of you when you get out onto the curb and Eddie doesn’t remember even doing that. You must have called an Uber when was going through his overstimulation. You open the door for him and he slides in, letting out a sigh of relief when you close the door. Cars always feel safe to him.

He gives the address to his hotel to the driver and when he turns to you, he sees that you’re close to him again. You’re leaning into him, your hand still holding his. You’ve been so nice and he doesn’t think he deserves it. But he’s going to take it anyway, his head leaning against yours as you squeeze each other’s hands. 

He knows you barely know each other, but there’s something about this that just feels right. Your fingers fit perfectly like puzzle pieces. And it’s like all the anxiety that always sits on his shoulders melts away. 

You feel the same-feeling like there’s something about this that’s just meant to be. Just with the way he's behaving now, you can see that he was telling the truth. He’s the complete opposite from how he was last night and now you’re glad that you decided that you gave him a second chance. The “cool guy” exterior has melted and now he’s just Eddie. 

You always hoped for something like this but you never thought it would happen. It’s something that you’d dream about before falling asleep at night. You don’t even know how you got here but you’re not going to take it for granted.

You blink and you’re standing outside Eddie’s hotel room as he unlocks it. He then opens it and lets you head inside first. You’re amazed by the size of it and are pretty sure that it’s bigger than your apartment back home. 

You throw yourself onto the bed and can’t help but laugh. His life is so different from yours. He gets to tour the world while you’re stuck in your tiny town. Just a few years ago, that was him. Now he’s playing sold out shows at Madison Square Garden and you couldn’t be prouder of him. 

Eddie slowly lies down next to you and you can feel his eyes on you. You turn to look at him and can’t help but let your smile match his. He grabs hold of your hand and pulls it to his mouth, pressing a featherlight kiss. 

“Thank you so much for giving me another chance.” He’s closer now and you can smell his cologne. It’s mixed with the cigarette smoke that’s clinging to and you feel yourself moving closer, like he’s got a magnetic pull on you. 

“You were so sincere and I thought you deserved it.” 

He’s lying on his back now and you hover over him, your hands landing on his chest. You then lean down, slowly slotting your lips between his. He responds quickly, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling it while his other one rests against your back. 

Your bodies are now flush, legs tangled together as the kisses progress. Your hands move to his hair as your tongue flicks into his mouth. He moans as your tongue roams his mouth and now you’re a mess.

You kiss your way down to his neck and give it a suck, getting even wetter when he moans again. You keep at it, pulling even more sounds from him and hearing him beg for you makes you feel like you could come right there. 

His jacket comes off and so does his shirt and he can’t believe that he’s letting this happen. He never gets this far. It never goes farther than over the clothes touching. 

He’s always been so nervous when it’s come to this part, but with you, it feels so natural, so right. He actually thinks he might be ready to go to the next step this time. And he’d be more than honored if you were the one who took his virginity. 

You unbutton his jeans and he rests his hands on top of yours but only to stop you because he feels like he owes you the truth. 

“Stop,” he says and you’re quick to pull away, a worried look on your face. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I should’ve-“ You’re panicking now, sure that you’ve overstepped. You’ve never slept with a virgin before. You don’t know the protocols so you’re going to tread very lightly. 

“No, it’s okay. I want to, I really do. I just wanted to let you know that-that I’m a virgin.” Your eyes widen but quickly soften and you give him a soft smile. You’re obviously surprised but this is in no way a deal breaker. 

“Oh,” is all you say. “And that’s okay. We don’t have to do this. I don’t want to pressure you.” You feel bad now, taking it there. You honestly never would have guessed if he hadn’t told you. And now appreciate that he has. You feel so grateful that he trusts you that much. 

“Y/n. I want to so badly. Like you have no idea. I don’t feel pressure at all.” He’s hard beyond belief underneath you and you need him now. 

“Okay,” you press a kiss to his lips. “But if you feel uncomfortable at any point, we can stop.” 

“Okay.” He’s excited now, still a little nervous, but now he’s just looking forward to seeing what all the hype is about. He just can’t believe that you want him like this.

[kenziiie]

Hi! I hope you’re feeling better or getting better. I was wondering if we could get more slasher works with Thomas Hewitt or whoever you want to write about, please!

the house smells like blood and biscuits.

you’re leaned over the rusted sink, scrubbing at the collar of thomas’s work shirt. it’s stained—some things don’t wash out—but you try anyway, because that’s what a wife does. it’s hot in the kitchen, thick southern heat licking at your skin through the thin cotton dress you threw on this morning. your belly curves forward, full and heavy. eight months now. you can feel the baby turn sometimes when you lean too hard against the counter. thomas likes to press his palm to the bump at night, like he’s checking that you’re both still there.

“you cookin’ or cleanin’?” hoyt’s voice cuts through the air like a dull knife.

you don’t turn around. “both.”

he laughs like he always does, like he just told the best joke in texas. you hear him spit into the corner, then his boots stomp off down the hall. you let your shoulders relax. being here—being one of them—is like walking a balance beam over broken glass. the only one you trust not to push you off is thomas.

the front door creaks open an hour later. the wind carries something metallic with it. blood. it clings to thomas like sweat.

you hear the thud of boots, the slow, lumbering steps. you don’t have to look. you know it’s him.

he stops in the doorway behind you. you feel his eyes—dark, tired, and so full of something that aches just below the surface. he doesn’t talk. never has. not with words. but you know the way he breathes. how his hand hovers just before he touches you.

you turn, wiping your hands on a towel, belly brushing the edge of the stove.

“hey, baby.”

his eyes drop to your belly like he’s checking for damage. you take a step forward. he takes one too. you place his big hand over your bump, holding it there. the heat from his palm seeps into your skin.

“she’s been kickin’ a lot today,” you murmur. “think she hears you.”

he stares at your belly, then at your face, then back again. he still hasn’t let go. you don’t want him to.

“go get cleaned up,” you say softly. “i’ll fix your plate.”

he doesn’t move at first. you know how he gets—still caught in whatever mess hoyt dragged him into. blood under his nails, meat in his teeth. but you’re patient. you wait. eventually, he brushes a knuckle against your cheek and disappears down the hall, the floorboards groaning under his weight.

⸻

later, you’re in bed, curtains drawn against the evening sun. thomas sits at the edge of the mattress, shirtless, the skin across his back marbled with old scars. he’s quiet, fingers gently tracing the dark stretch marks across your hips. your thighs are fuller. your ankles swell. your face is rounder. you’ve changed.

but he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look at you like you’re something ruined.

you lean back against the pillows, legs parted just enough to cradle your belly. his head is lowered. you feel his breath across the skin just under your navel.

you stroke his hair, thick and tangled.

“you’re gonna be a good daddy,” you whisper. “you already are.”

he growls low in his chest. not angry—more like… overwhelmed. he’s never had a family that didn’t try to use or beat him. but you—you’ve never raised your voice, never pulled away when he reached out with bloodstained fingers.

you see it in his eyes when he looks at you: fear. not of you. of losing you. of the baby. of this fragile thing you’ve both built in the middle of all the rot.

⸻

hoyt says something slick the next morning.

you’re in the kitchen, ankles swollen, dress clinging to your back with sweat. thomas went out to the barn, but hoyt stayed behind, chewing on a toothpick and watching you bend to grab a jar from the lower cabinet.

“tight little ass for someone so knocked up,” he says.

your spine stiffens. you straighten up slowly and turn, resting a hand on your belly.

“watch your mouth.”

he grins. it doesn’t touch his eyes.

“what, i can’t compliment my brother’s girl?”

“his wife,” you correct, voice cold.

hoyt chuckles, stepping closer. “he don’t even talk. he ain’t said vows. hell, how we even know this baby’s his?”

you grip the edge of the counter, trying not to scream. but it’s too late. thomas is already there, standing in the doorway, cleaver still in one hand, glove soaked red.

he walks toward hoyt without saying a word. doesn’t even blink.

hoyt backs up, hands raised. “was just playin’, tommy. don’t gotta get riled—”

but thomas grabs him by the throat, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the dishes. hoyt gags.

you don’t stop him.

you just say, calm and even, “let him go, baby.”

it’s the only voice he listens to.

thomas lets go. hoyt slumps to the floor, coughing and red in the face.

thomas turns to you like he forgot hoyt was even there. his brows crease. you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, his heartbeat thudding steady and loud.

“i’m okay,” you whisper.

but he doesn’t let go of you for the rest of the day.

⸻

the baby kicks hard one night—so hard it wakes you with a sharp cramp. you gasp, hand on your belly. thomas bolts upright like a hound sniffing danger. you shake your head, panicked.

“s-something’s wrong,” you say, voice trembling.

he lifts you in his arms before you can finish the sentence. doesn’t matter that you’re heavy now. doesn’t matter that it’s dark and you’re both barefoot.

he carries you to the living room, lays you down on the old couch, and disappears.

when he comes back, he’s got water, clean towels, and an old first aid kit you kept stocked just in case. his hands are shaking. you’ve never seen him scared like this.

“thomas,” you whisper, trying to breathe through the cramp. “it’s okay. it’s okay—false alarm.”

but he drops to his knees beside you, eyes wide, hand on your belly.

“she’s movin’. she’s just—just movin’, baby. she’s strong.” you stroke his face. “you didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

he doesn’t answer. just presses his face to your belly and stays there until the baby calms.

⸻

you give birth two weeks later in the back room, on the same bed you were married on. hoyt wanted to call someone, but you said no. you didn’t want strangers in your house. thomas sat behind you the whole time, holding your thighs, brushing sweat from your face. he couldn’t do much—but he didn’t leave. not once.

you screamed until your throat gave out. you bit your own hand. you thought you might die.

but then, there she was.

a baby girl, red and wailing and covered in blood. and yours.

thomas held her like she was made of glass. you’ve never seen something so big look so small. he didn’t cry, but his eyes shone wet when you reached up to touch her foot.

“she’s perfect,” you whispered.

thomas grunted softly. then kissed your forehead.

⸻

weeks pass. you heal slowly, stiff and sore. thomas does everything—feeds you, rocks the baby when she cries, washes the sheets, keeps hoyt far away.

one night, the baby won’t sleep. you’re exhausted. thomas walks the floor with her in his arms, bare feet silent against the wood. he hums something low in his throat—some melody only he knows. she calms in seconds.

you lie in bed, watching the way he looks at her. like he never knew something good could come out of him.

when he finally crawls into bed beside you, you pull his hand to your chest.

“we’re safe here,” you whisper. “me and her. because of you.”

his arms wrap around you. big. strong. trembling slightly. like even now, he’s scared to lose you.

you fall asleep against his chest, your baby in the cradle beside you, and the sound of the wind rattling the loose shutters.

the house still smells like blood.

but now it smells like baby powder too.

and for the first time in this haunted place…

you feel at peace.

because you know thomas will kill anything that tries to take this from you.

and you’d do the same for him.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty: fallout

word count: 3.2k

warnings: this chapter contains themes of depression, loss, and violence. reader discretion is advised.

thirty-nine | forty | forty-one

Max kicked the front door open with the heel of his boot, muttering under his breath as he hauled in a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a half-finished espresso clutched in his other hand.

“Seriously, I’m gonna start mailing Logan his own damn knives if I find one more embedded in the goddamn stair rail,” he grumbled, stepping into the marble-floored foyer of the Circle’s mansion. “They’re throwing knives, not decorative art, psycho—”

The front door slammed hard behind him. He didn’t mean to do it — just had his hands full. Sauntering in with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a half-eaten protein bar in his hand, and the faint tang of gunpowder still in his hair from the range.

He flipped the light switch, the chandelier flickering on. Max stopped mid-step.

As the room illuminated, Lando’s figure apparated in one of the wingback chairs in the corner of the massive entryway, his frame half-swallowed by shadow. He’d been waiting there for hours, unmoving.

Max followed his gaze to where it was fixed on the floor. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that he was somehow entirely unaware that Max had entered the space at all. The leader appeared statuesque – still, silent. The only sound in the whole house was the low hum of the heating system and the way the lightbulbs buzzed faintly overhead

“…You scared the shit out of me,” he muttered, quieter now.

Lando looked up.

Max flinched, just slightly.

There was something wrong in the way his eyes didn’t focus. They weren’t bloodshot or wild — they were just quiet. Dead, in that way that meant something had been gnawing at him, slowly and constantly, until the bone showed.

“…Lando?”

The man before him didn’t answer – just blinked once. Max took a careful step forward. “You okay?”

Still, Lando didn’t move, didn’t blink.

“Okay. Cool,” Max said under his breath, reaching for the fridge again. “I’m just gonna—”

The glass shattered before he even saw Lando throw it.

It exploded against the wall behind him. Max ducked instinctively, pieces of it bouncing off the tile.

“What the fuck? Mate–”

“Where were you,” Lando hissed.

Max blinked. He wasn’t afraid, but even he wasn’t immune to the caution that had his heart speeding up in his chest. “The docks. Uh, cleanup from the Vos case.”

“I called.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t answer.”

Max dropped his bag. “What’s going on?”

Lando stood.

“You told her.” 

Max froze.

“You know I don’t use that name with her,” Lando said, voice still even. “You knew that.”

Max took a step back. “Wait—”

“You knew,” Lando repeated, louder now. “And you said it anyway.”

Max’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Lando crossed the room in two strides. “I asked you one thing,” he seethed. “One fucking thing.”

“Lando—”

“She looked at me like I was a stranger.”

Max’s back hit the wall. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She looked at me like she was afraid I’d kill her.” Lando’s hands curled into fists. “Like I was someone she didn’t recognize. Like you killed whatever chance I had left!”

“I didn’t know she answered—”

And that was when Lando shoved him. Hard.

Max stumbled, didn’t fall. No words came from his mouth – he didn’t even lift his arms. It pissed Lando off. 

Why won’t he defend himself?

So Lando shoved him again, harder this time. “Do you even get what you did?”

Max’s head jerked back from the force, but he stayed silent.

“You gave me away. You gave her every reason to– to hate me.”

Lando’s eyes searched for a reaction, desperate for something, anything. But Max’s face remained painfully neutral – his expression one of sympathy if anything. 

That pushed him over the edge.

Lando threw a punch.

It hit squarely across Max’s jaw, knocking his head sideways — but Max didn’t retaliate. He didn’t even flinch.

So Lando hit him again. Harder.

This time Max staggered, but still didn’t raise a hand. Lando delivered another blow to the ribs now, sharp and fast and angry. Max grunted from the impact, doubling over slightly but still never moving away.

“Fight back!” Lando yelled. “For once in your life, fucking fight me back!”

Of course, Max didn’t.

Who the hell did he think he was?

“Hit me back!” Lando snapped. He punctuated his words with yet another shove.

Max didn’t.

Lando swung — an open-handed crack across Max’s jaw. The sound rang out in the room, echoing against the high ceilings. Max barely turned his head.

“Fucking do something!” Lando yelled, shoving him again. “You ruined it. You ruined everything.”

Max stood there and let Lando push, swing, throw his fists again and again until his chest was heaving, fury spitting from every part of him except his face — his face stayed blank, controlled, like he couldn’t afford to crack.

“She looked at me like she didn’ recognize me. Like I was somethin’ she regretted.”

Lando’s fists kept coming, now low, angry hits that never quite landed right, like he didn’t actually want to hurt his friend. Like he didn’t know what he wanted, but just that something had to break.

“I had her,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was safe there. I was fucking— normal.”

“She was going to find out one way or another,” Max finally spoke. There was no agitation in his voice, only a sad sort of acceptance. But still there was no regret.

Each hit landed in quick, precise succession, each motion borne of years of practice. 

He didn’t realize when his eyes had gotten misty. “Shut the fuck up,” he spat. Then, quieter, he confessed, “I didn’t want you to be the reason she did.”

The next hit landed higher, somewhere near the collarbone. Max flinched but still didn’t raise a hand of his own.

Lando hated it.

“You don’t get it,” Lando hissed, barely breathing now. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose the only good thing left and realize you’re the one who ruined it.”

Sweat dripped from his brow, running along his brow bone and into his eyes. His chest breathed with every breath. “Why won’t you fucking fight me?” Lando snapped.

Max finally stepped forward, not to swing — but to wrap his arms around him.

Lando froze.

“What the fuck are you doin’—”

Max didn’t let go. The older boy only pulled Lando in tighter, arms solid around his back, anchoring him like the only thing keeping his brother from falling apart. “I’m sorry,” Max murmured into the embrace, just loud enough to be heard. “I’m sorry she found out like that. I’m sorry it hurts. I’m sorry you feel like this.”

It wasn’t some soft hug or some gentle embrace. He’d wrapped his arms tight around his best friend like he was anchoring a bomb about to go off. 

Lando struggled—panicked, almost. His hands shoved Max back, his fists pressed against his chest, but Max didn’t let go. Lando thrashed then, resisting it — hands gripping the back of Max’s shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to shove him away or hold on for dear life.

Then, all at once, he sagged. His fists uncurled, his breath broke, and he just sank into Max’s chest.

The first sound punched out of him like he’d been holding it in for years. It wasn’t a sob, nothing nearly as clean. It was just broken air – a gasp that never made it to words.

His fists curled into Max’s shirt like a child’s, like a man clawing for something to hold onto before he drowned.

Max didn’t say anything else. He didn’t loosen his grip either. He just held Lando there, steady and quiet, while the boy who’d built an empire on blood and bones finally cracked apart in someone’s arms.

And all Lando could do was cry into Max’s shoulder, fists clenched in the back of his shirt, like if he held on hard enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. Lando let himself grieve.

Not for the job.

Not for the reputation.

But for her — for the look in her eyes when she realized who he really was, and for the version of himself that could never exist again.

His friend offered him no empty platitudes, made no shallow efforts to fix it. Max didn’t say she’ll come back, or she loves you, or you’ll be okay.

Because any of that would’ve been a lie.

Lando stood there in the middle of his own house, in the arms of the only person left who knew what it meant to be both loved and feared — and for the first time in a very long time, he let someone hold the weight with him.

Even if only for a minute.

Lando didn’t remember how they got to the couch.

One second he was breaking apart in Max’s arms like glass on tile, and the next he was crumpled into the corner of the leather cushions, legs pulled up, face buried in his hands, his chest still shaking with the tail-end of sobs that had no words left in them.

Max sat beside him – not close enough to crowd him, just there like a weight keeping Lando tethered to the floor.

Lando didn’t cry often.

He knew how to punch a wall, knew how to stare into nothing for hours, how to work until his hands blistered just to keep the demons quiet. But crying? That was something other people did. Something weaker men did.

Max didn’t let go when Lando collapsed into him, hands clutched in the back of his shirt like a man going under. He didn’t let go even when the sobs turned ragged — the kind of sound Max had only ever heard once before, in that dark office after Daniel died.

He remembered that night too well — Lando drunk off his ass, hands shaking, gun cold and pressed against the side of his own head, whispering, “I tried. I really fucking tried. But it doesn’t work. None of it fucking works.”

Max had disarmed him without a word, yanked him off the chair, and stayed with him until dawn.

Just like that night, he sat with him. They had never been the type for overt friendship or long speeches or grand gestures. Max could only look at Lando, this unmovable force he’s seen rise through the ranks of Monte Carlo’s darkest empires. He watched over his friend like a guardian angel dressed in a black sweatshirt and washed jeans.

With both hands holding the side of Lando’s face, Max looked directly into his eyes, fixing him with a glare. He didn’t say I love you – they didn’t do that.

He’d said, “Do that again and I’ll kill you first.”

It meant the same thing.

The pendulum clock on the wall ticked softly, each tick beating monotonously through the empty of the grand living room. Minutes or hours ticked by, but Lando remained slouched on the floor, his back pressed against the wall and his head in his hands like it might all disappear if he didn’t look up. His breathing had steadied, but only barely. The hiccuping edge was still there, wrecked and uneven.

The sobs didn’t stop quickly.

They came in waves — deep, ugly, bone-shaking things that tore through Lando like his chest might cave in from the weight of them.

Max didn’t say a word through it.

He just held him, hands braced between Lando’s shoulder blades like he was keeping him stitched together by force. His shirt soaked through from tears and heat. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Not even when Lando finally sank to his knees, dragging Max down with him.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours — the mansion quiet around them. 

Max knelt a few feet away, eventually getting up to rummage under the bar cabinet for something that wasn’t a bottle. He came back with a hand towel before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned, the cloth was warm.

He crouched down in front of Lando, still quiet, and gently pulled his hands away from his face. Lando didn’t fight him, though he did flinch at first — some ancient instinct to push away help –to handle it alone, to bury it deep and move on.

He didn’t say anything — just gently wiped Lando’s face, brushing the warm washcloth over his temple, jaw, the trail of tears that had dried on his cheek. The warmth of the hot water emanated from the fabric like a patch of summer sun, warming Lando’s skin with its lingering tendrils. 

It was awkward and clumsy, but careful. Max had never been good at this kind of thing. He wasn’t the shoulder-to-cry-on guy. He didn’t have the gentle touch, didn’t know the right things to say, didn’t know how to make grief feel lighter.

But hell would freeze over before he left Lando like this.

So he did what he could.

“Sit still,” he muttered. “Don’t be a baby about it.”

Lando didn’t fight, didn’t speak. Just stared blankly ahead while Max knelt down in front of him and started wiping the salt tracks off his face. Gently, without making it weird.

There was something devastating about it — this man who’d snapped ribs without blinking now trembling like a kicked dog on his own leather sofa.

Max didn’t push, didn’t ask for the full story. Not when he already knew the shape of it.

She found out. She looked at him like he was a stranger. And it broke him.

“Hurts,” Lando rasped eventually, voice thin and distant.

Max didn’t stop wiping. “I know.”

“She looked at me like I was something to run from.”

“You are,” Max said quietly, wringing out the cloth. “We both are. But we never were to her. That’s the difference.”

Lando’s mouth twisted like he might start crying again, but he didn’t. Not yet.

“Would’a told her. I was gonna tell her. I just… didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Max said, standing. He grabbed the throw blanket from the side arm of the couch and tossed it over him. “I did.”

Lando didn’t argue.

Max ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to. We’ll figure it the fuck out anyway.”

He helped Lando out of the leather jacket he still wore, peeled off his overpriced watch, tossed it aside. Instead, he got him a bottle of water and pushed it into his hands when Lando wouldn’t look at him.

“You’re gonna need that,” Max muttered.

Lando took it, and sipped silently. Max sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Max wrung out the cloth and pressed it to Lando’s jaw, wiping away the salt trails and blood where Lando had split his own lip on Max’s shoulder. He moved slowly, methodically — not like a soldier tending to a wound, but like a brother. A best friend. The only person who’d ever seen all of him and stayed anyway.

Lando didn’t look at him. Instead, he just stared past Max’s shoulder, those grey-green eyes far too hollow.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger,” he eventually murmured.

Max didn’t answer. He just kept wiping, moving to Lando’s temple, the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his throat.

“I thought if I could just keep it quiet, like, just long enough or somethin’— I could… fuck, I dunno. Be someone else? Be Liam, I s’pose.”

He laughed once. It was empty.

Max set the cloth down.

“You loved her,” he noted aloud, not like a question.

Lando’s voice cracked when he spoke again. 

“She loved me too,” he whispered, a sinner in a confessional. “She trusted me.”

“She trusted Liam,” Max corrected, his tone far too gentle and patient for the dagger those words sent straight through wherever his heart used to be.

“Same fucking thing.”

“No,” Max insisted, more firmly now. “S’not. You made up a name and let her build a whole world around it. That world broke the second she found out you weren’t real.”

Lando flinched, like Max had finally struck him, the impact tangible.

Max sighed and sat beside him, arms resting on his knees. “But you were real,” he added. “That’s the messed-up part. You were real with her. Every minute you gave her? That was you, not some… persona. Don’t rewrite that part.”

“I can’t get her out of my head.”

Max nodded. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Silence. 

Lando didn’t respond. His breathing was shallow again, too fast. Max didn’t miss it. He turned, sudden and sharp. “Lando.”

No response.

Max grabbed his wrist with a sense of urgency. “Lando. Look at me.”

Those eyes — glassy, gone — finally met his.

“Don’t do that thing. Don’t disappear.”

Lando didn’t argue, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.

Max didn’t let go. He lowered his voice, steady and cold now. “I swear to God, if you pull the same shit you did after Daniel—”

Lando’s face twisted. “That was different.”

“Bullshit.” Max’s grip tightened. “You locked yourself in that office with a gun and a bottle. You think I’ve forgotten that?”

Lando looked away. Shame flashed across his face like a scar re-opening.

“You try that again,” Max warned, “and I swear I’ll fucking kill you myself. That Daniel shit? That gun-in-your-mouth bullshit? I swear to God, Lando, I’ll kill you myself. You hear me?”

Lando blinked at him, then gave a weak, almost-scoff of a nod.

Max leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“I mean it,” Max insisted. “I’ll strangle you, bury your body, give a shitty eulogy and then cry about it for a week. Don’t test me.”

That got Lando’s attention.

He looked up, bloodshot eyes sharp with surprise. When he looked at Max, at the furrow of his brows and the intensity of his glare, all he could see was care.

Care that he didn’t deserve.

His voice was barely there. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Max didn’t blink. “Do I look like I care?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “I already lost Daniel. I’m sure as hell not losing you.”

A beat.

Then Lando nodded, just once.

Max nodded, got up, reached over and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, tossing it into Lando’s lap with a grunt.

“Now go to bed, dumbass. You look like shit.”

Lando gave a breath of a laugh — hollow, but real. Max stayed on the floor for a while longer, just in case, but didn’t say another word. 

Once Lando’s eyelids fluttered shut, his body slumping into the mold of the sofa as it succumbed to the exhaustion of everything he’d been through, Max stood and pulled the blanket over him like he used to after night jobs when they were teenagers — before the titles, before the guns, before the blood.

Then he sat in the armchair across the room and stayed, just like always. Because sometimes loving someone — really loving someone — means holding their broken pieces until they can do it themselves again.

Even if it means bleeding a little in the process.

a/n: sorry for the extra long wait and a bit of a shorter chapter than we've been used to lately. hopefully you all still accept this as a thank you for all your patience while i was out.

not proofread, just wanted to get something out lol hope you enjoyed <3

[xoqox]

⊹ ࣪ ˖☾ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ɢᴏ

𖹭.ᐟ cw: post-timeskip, post-break up, pillow talk, suggestive themes (no smut), the morning after, emotional hurt/comfort 𖹭.ᐟ wc: 1k

Sunlight filters through the blinds, spilling warmth across the tangle of sheets. The room is quiet except for the soft rhythm of breathing, the faint buzz of traffic outside the window, and the occasional creak of the building settling around them.

Suna blinks awake slowly.

There's a weight on his chest—familiar, grounding. He glances down and sees you curled against him, face buried in his skin, one leg hooked around his, like your body didn't remember you weren't supposed to be here.

His first instinct is to stay still. Maybe if he doesn't move, the world won't remind him that this is temporary.

His hand rests on the bare skin of your back, fingers twitching slightly, unsure if he's allowed to touch you like this anymore. The last time he saw you, you were walking away. Not storming out, not yelling. Just... quiet, tired. Done.

But now, here you are, wrapped around him like you never left.

You shift slightly, a soft hum vibrating against his chest. Your eyes don't open yet, but your voice cuts through the stillness, muffled, groggy, and familiar in a way that hurts.

“Still sleep like a rock,” you mumble.

Suna lets out a breath that's halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Still talk in your sleep.”

“I do not.”

“You tried to order ramen at like 3 a.m. last night. While unconscious.”

Your lips twitch into the barest smile, but it fades just as fast.

Stillness pools between you, waiting for something to break. There's a line neither of you has crossed yet—thin, invisible, humming between your bodies like static.

Shifting back, you lift your gaze to meet his. Your face is soft, unguarded in the quiet light. No makeup, no practiced smile. Just you.

You shouldn't be here. You know that. But it's hard to remember why when he's looking at you like this—like he never stopped.

“So,” you say, voice dry, “are we just gonna pretend this didn't happen, or...?”

Suna looks at the ceiling, mouth tugging to the side. “You want to pretend?”

The sheet slips lower as you shrug, noncommittal. “I haven't decided yet.”

Part of you wants to rewind to before everything cracked. The other part still remembers the silence, the walls, the hurt.

He turns to face you fully now, cheek pressed against the pillow, hair a mess, and eyes darker than they should be in the morning light.

“I didn't think you'd talk to me last night,” he says.

“I didn't think you'd show up.”

“Atsumu dragged me.”

You smile, but there's no amusement behind it. Just a hint of sadness.

“I almost didn't go,” you admit. “I didn't want to see you.”

Suna's jaw flexes, but he doesn't argue. “You didn't look at me for the first hour.”

“I was trying not to remember things.”

“And now?”

You hesitate. “Now I remember everything.”

The silence is sharper this time. Suna observes you, like he's waiting for you to pull away, to laugh it off, or to leave.

Yet you don't move. You stay.

Sitting up, you clutch the sheet to your chest like it might shield you from him. He stays where he is, eyes fixed on you, arms still loose at his sides.

“We weren't good at the end,” you say. “We didn't talk. You shut down, I lashed out, and everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

“I felt like I was loving someone who didn't want me anymore.”

That one lands. He winces, barely, but you see it. “I didn't know how to show you I still did,” he says. “Everything felt heavy. And instead of asking you to help me carry it, I tried to act like I had it under control.”

You shake your head. “You didn't have to be perfect, Rin. You just had to be with me.”

He swallows hard. “I know that now.”

You don't say anything. Just look at him, still half-naked, half-vulnerable, eyes open in a way they weren't the last few months you were together.

“I missed you,” he says. “All the stupid little things. Your chapstick everywhere. You singing off-key when you thought I wasn't listening. You falling asleep on the couch and kicking me when I tried to carry you to bed.”

Your throat tightens. “You missed me, but you let me go.”

“I didn't want to,” he says. “But I didn't know how to ask you to stay without feeling like I was dragging you down.”

You blink fast, breathing in slowly. The sheet between your fingers wrinkles with the pressure.

“I'm not saying let's fix everything right now,” he adds. “But... I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I don't want you to leave and go back to pretending we're strangers again.”

You stare at him, heart caught in your chest. He reaches out, tentative, fingers brushing over yours.

“Stay,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “Even just for the day. Even if we don't figure everything out… just stay.”

You don't answer right away. A voice in you is screaming, hoarse from every unanswered moment—every fight, every silence, every time you reached and he didn't reach back. But the part of you curled against him an hour ago, the one that never really let go, wins.

You shift back toward him, folding yourself into his side, your cheek against his collarbone again, where his heartbeat is steady, like it never stopped waiting for you.

Just for today, you tell yourself. Just until it starts to hurt again.

His arm wraps around you without hesitation this time.

“I still drool in my sleep,” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh, pulling you in closer. “You always did.”

dividers by @cafekitsune ♡ ♡

[olive-fics]

Cold Front.

𖦹 Synopsis: You never expected to be reassigned to the same WLF unit as Abby Anderson. — WLF's most popular soldier. . The same one who floods your thoughts at night and when you're most needy. . .

Content Warnings: NSFW, depictions of possessiveness power dynamic (??) WC:2107,slightly proof-read..

You’d been part of the WLF military for nearly a year now. You’d learned the ins and outs — who ran the patrols or which guards never missed a beat. You knew almost everyone... except for one. She was one of Isaac’s favorites. The girl with the long braid that nearly brushed her lower back, broad shoulders, and a stare sharp enough to cut through steel. The first time you saw her, she had a guy twice her size pressed into the dirt outside in the training ranges. You’d watched as the man tapped out quick, both of them bursting into laughter afterward. She was like the WLF’s own jock. You weren’t stupid. You kept your head down, focused on your assignments and drills. Staying quiet was safer.

Every year, Isaac made most soldiers move dorms due to storage needs or renovations around the base. You weren’t expecting to be reassigned, especially since your current dorm was barely bigger than a suitcase. It didn’t need fixing or changing. But your heart clenched the moment you saw your badge number next to a familiar one... You were finally getting a roommate. Packing a bag and carrying a small box of your current dorm stuff, you climbed the flights of stairs to your new room — number 203. Your new roommate hadn’t arrived yet. The room was completely empty and colorless, stripped down to bare walls and cold carpet. You set your boxes down onto the floor, then decided to grab something for breakfast since you had some time to kill. No drills or assignments today—just catching up on sleep and unpacking your new space.

Taking your time in the mess hall, you waited in line for nearly fifteen minutes before finally getting a sad, tiny serving of food. Looked like everyone had the same idea, half the base was crowded in, moving their stuff, catching up, or socializing. Seattle's overcast sky barely bled through the WLF base's skylights, putting dull, pointless shadows across the floor. Eventually, you got your breakfast burrito and a small cup of watered-down coffee that tasted as tired as you felt. There was no reason to sit in the mess hall. You weren’t much of a talker anyway — why sit around and look awkward when you could be unpacking instead? By the time you made it back to dorm 203, a bag had already been tossed onto the bed across from yours, a heavy-duty WLF duffel, halfway unzipped and slumped open like it had been thrown from the door to the bed. Then you heard it. The low click of the bathroom door. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t need to see her to know who it was. You could feel it — the air had shifted the moment you stepped inside. Sure enough, when the door opened, there she was. Abby Anderson. A towel hung loose around her neck. Her face was still damp, hair slicked back but braided messily. Her eyes met yours immediately. “Hey,” she said. You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your burrito. “Hi..” Her gaze didn’t move. “Didn’t know they were putting anyone with me.” “Didn’t know they were putting me with anyone either,” you replied softly. She stepped further into the room, beads of water still dripping from her shoulders. She shrugged, then collapsed onto her bed, arms tucked behind her head. “I don’t snore,” she added. Her tone was dry, almost deadpan but something in her hinted at a smirk. “Good to know,” you muttered, sitting on the edge of your bed. The silence that followed wasn’t exactly... awkward. It was more dizzying. Quiet in a way that made you too aware of your own breathing. You stole a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at you anymore — just staring up at the ceiling like this was any other day. Like you weren’t strangers who would live together until switched. You peeled back the foil on your burrito and took a bite, pretending not to notice her presence. Abby Anderson. You’d heard plenty about her, seen her in passing, always surrounded by noise, voices, movement, power. And now you shared a room with her. Night came quickly. The clouds outside stayed thick, making the base dim even before sunset. Your side of the room was mostly unpacked. A few shirts folded into the drawers, boots tucked beneath the bed, photos hung up, etc. Across the room, Abby didn’t bother unpacking much. Her duffel remained half-zipped on the floor, her only real addition to the room being a spare towel hanging from a hook and the scent of her pine soap. She moved with quiet confidence. not loud, not cocky. Just aware. You noticed it in the way she reached for the light switch, how she didn’t ask if you were ready for bed before flipping it off. You didn’t mind it. The dark made it easier to breathe. You lay there for a while, turned toward the wall, staring at a crack in the paint that curved just slightly. You couldn’t sleep. Not with her so close, but yet so far. The room was silent, but not still. You could hear Abby shifting, the fabric of the blanket rustling, the creak of the mattress under her weight. .

“You’re not sleeping,” she said, her voice low. Not accusatory. Just… knowing. You hesitated before answering. “Neither are you.” A beat passed. “Long day,” she muttered. “New roommate, guess I’m adjusting.” You let out a small huff. “Sorry to ruin your space.” She shifted again. “Didn’t say that.” You turned to lie on your back, staring at the dark ceiling. “I’ve seen you around before,” you admitted, voice just above a whisper. “Everyone talks about you.” There was a pause — then the faintest hint of a smirk in her voice. “Yeah?” “Supposed to be scared of you, I think." The silence that followed was thicker than before. Again, not awkward — just weighted. Like something unsaid was settling between the two beds. Like you were both suddenly aware that the stretch of air dividing you wasn’t as wide as it had felt before. You could practically feel her looking at you now, even in the dark. Her stare had weight. You cleared your throat. “Do you always talk to your roommates at night?” Abby’s voice was quieter now. “Only the interesting ones.” You couldn't help but smile, interesting? Abby. found You? interesting?

That shouldn't have made your chest feel tight. Or your skin warm. You rolled onto your side, back facing her now, hoping the darkness hid the way your lips were still twitching with amusement. “Didn’t think I was your type.” She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “What makes you think you know my type?” You shrugged into your pillow. “Don’t. Just a guess.” “Guess again,” Abby said, and this time, her voice was lower. Less guarded.

That sent something sparking straight down your spine.

You stayed quiet, not trusting your voice, not trusting the way your mind was starting to wander just like it used to when you were all alone in your last dorm, touching yourself to just the thought of Abby's strength.. You heard her shift again in the dark, the rustle of sheets, the faint creak of her bed. “I don't bite,” she said. “Unless you ask.” Your heart skipped. You didn’t respond right away. .because what the hell was that ?? Your pulse was quick now. Drumming right against your ribs. Then, lightly, almost breathless, you ask, “That supposed to scare me Anderson?” There was a pause. Then, with that same maddening coolness, Abby muttered, “No. I think it turns you on.” The sheets felt too hot. The air too thick. You’d shifted at least five times, pulse still thudding from that last exchange. Abby hadn’t said another word since. But she hadn’t fallen asleep either. You could hear the difference in her breathing; Shallow. You stared at the ceiling, biting your lip. Every inch of you was wired. Your mind racing through things you shouldn’t be thinking. Then you heard it. The sound of her bedsheets moving. Of skin against fabric. Of breath catching—just once.

You froze.

You hear her again, barely above a whisper. “You still awake?” You rolled to face her, trying to sound bored. “Couldn’t sleep.” A beat of silence. Then: “Yeah. Me either.” You could barely make her out, but your eyes had adjusted enough to see the way her body shifted under the blanket. Her arm draped lazily across her stomach. The rise and fall of her chest “You keep making those little sounds,” she said. “Like you want me to hear you.” You blinked. “What sounds?” A low chuckle. “You know which ones.” Your breath hitched. She sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off her shoulders, revealing her toned, bare arms. “I’m not gonna touch you,” Abby said, voice thick with something heavier now. “Not unless you tell me to.”

The room spun. Or maybe that was just you because now she was standing. Stepping closer. In a breath, she was kneeling at the edge of your bed.

“You said I’m not your type,” you murmured, tilting your head. her lips parted. But no sound came out. Your thighs clenched under the blanket. She leaned in just enough for you to feel the heat rolling off her. . Abby then whispered, "Definitely my type."

Abby’s smirk curls into something darker in her eyes. Before you can think, she reaches forward and tugs the blanket down, the thin layer pools at your waist. The chill of the room grazes your skin, making you shiver, but the warmth of her gaze thaws every nerve. She leans in, and you feel her breath on your inner thigh, warm and intoxicating. Her fingers press lightly against your hip, hitching your pajama shorts just enough to expose more skin. Your pulse spikes as you instinctively part your legs, offering her the space she wants. Her other hand trails up your thigh, fingertips ghosting over your sensitive skin. You can’t see her face clearly, but you sense her tilt her head, catching the faint moonlight through the window. Her lips brush along the same path from your hip to where you ache most. .

When her mouth finally meets your skin, it’s electric, soft and intentional. She works slow, her tongue tracing the crease where thigh meets pelvis, teasing just the edge of your panties. Your back arches into the mattress without thought, nails dragging along the sheets as the warmth of her mouth sends heat straight to your core. She lifts her head, eyes glinting in the dim light. There’s a hunger there, a raw need that presses down on you like weight you didn’t know you’d been holding. Abby’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pajamas, brushing over damp skin. Her fingers trace circles over your soaked folds, gentle at first, slowing your breathing. You whimper. Your head tipping back against the pillows as she curls one finger inside of you, moving with slow, measured strokes. You hadn't realized how much you’ve wanted this, how much you’ve craved her touch, her taste. .

Abby doesn’t hurry. She holds you apart with one hand, her fingers sinking deeper. She pushes you closer to your edge, steady and relentless. You grip the mattress, knuckles whitening, back arching again as she finds just the right spot. When she withdraws that one finger, you feel empty, aching. But the moment is saved by her other hand slipping beneath the edge of your shorts and brushing over your clit, rubbing slow, firm strokes that make you whine. The friction builds, you can feel the heat pooling as her tongue returns. When you finally come, it’s a shuddering rush, a wave of heat and sound that has you clenching around nothing, shaking beneath her, your breath ragged. Abby murmurs softly into your skin, listening to every small cry and whimper you give her. She stays close, breathing on your inner thighs as you ride out the orgasm. Her mouth gently tasting you until you’re trembling with satisfaction and bliss. When Abby finally pulls away, you feel spent.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You lie there, chest heaving, eyes closed, Abby still tasting you on her lips. Abby slides back up the bed beside you, draping an arm across your waist, fingers brushing over your covered stomach like she’s afraid to let go.

“Thought you weren’t my type,” you whisper, voice thick with satisfaction and something softer, something like admiration. She is everything you never knew you needed. .

[al-1-na]

hey it's me the anon who requested the rafe x pouge!reader angst you asked me if it should include smut or not and I wandted to say no just angst/hurt but if you already started to write and you have an idea then thats totally fine I really appricate you for taking your time and writing thank you very much lots of love 💕💕💓🥰🥰

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞...

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐱 𝐩𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐖: 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭!!!

The sun was setting over the marshes of the Outer Banks, casting long shadows through the trees. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of saltwater, but all you could feel was the weight of his words. The silence between you and Rafe Cameron wasn’t new—but this time, it felt final.

You didn’t belong here. Not in the marble halls of the Cameron estate. Not in this car. Not with him.

He sat behind the wheel of his truck, one hand on the steering wheel, knuckles white. His jaw was tight, like he was holding something in, swallowing it down before it could slip.

You couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Say it,” you whispered, your voice nearly cracking. “If you’re going to leave, just say it.”

He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

You wished he would. Because when Rafe looked at you—really looked at you—it felt like he saw the parts of yourself you didn’t even understand. He saw everything. But right now, all you saw was someone who regretted ever letting you in.

“You think this is easy for me?” he said finally, low and bitter. “You think I want this?”

You turned to face him fully, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out the cicadas and waves crashing somewhere in the distance.

“I don’t know what you want, Rafe. I never have.”

That broke something. His hand left the wheel and slammed the dashboard hard enough to make you flinch. “You think I don’t fucking care?” he snapped. “You think I’m doing this because I don’t care about you?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know what to say anymore.

For months, you’d been sneaking around, your fingers brushing against his in the dark, your name whispered like a sin in his bed. A Pogue and a Kook. A disaster waiting to happen.

And now it was.

“You’re ashamed of me,” you said quietly. “That’s why you never told anyone.”

Rafe looked at you then. And for once, there was no mask, no smug grin, no carefully constructed arrogance.

Just pain.

“No,” he said, almost too soft. “I was trying to protect you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re doing a shitty job.”

You met Rafe Cameron on accident.

You were working at a beach shack in Kildare during the summer rush, serving overpriced smoothies and wiping down sticky counters. He came in one afternoon, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, wearing a look like the whole world bored him.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared.

You raised a brow. “You want a drink or are you just here to kill me with your laser eyes?”

That made him smirk. “What’s the strongest thing you got?”

“Orange mango kale,” you said dryly. “Devastating.”

He laughed. It was genuine, like it surprised even him. “Guess I’ll take that, then.”

He came back the next day. And the one after that.

Eventually, he stopped ordering drinks.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Not really.

A fling. A distraction. Two people from opposite ends of the island colliding in the middle of a hot, miserable summer.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it meant to be seen with someone like Rafe Cameron.

Your friends hated him. JJ called him a “spoiled trust-fund psycho.” Pope said he was dangerous. Kiara didn’t even bother pretending to tolerate him.

But they didn’t know what you knew.

They didn’t see him when he sat next to you on the dock, eyes red from crying, fingers shaking. They didn’t hear the things he told you late at night, words so raw and vulnerable they stuck in your chest like glass.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he had whispered once, forehead resting against yours. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not even real.”

You held him like he was.

But love didn’t fix things. It didn’t erase the lies or the violence or the fact that he came from a world that had never accepted people like you.

So you stayed hidden. You kept your distance in the daylight. Pretended you were strangers.

But it wore you down, piece by piece, until you didn’t know what was worse—being with him or being nothing.

“You don’t get it,” he said, back in the truck, eyes still locked on the road like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “You don’t know what my dad would do if he found out. What Topper would say. What everyone would say.”

“I don’t care what they say!” you burst out. “I never cared. I didn’t ask for you to fall for me, Rafe. But you did. So don’t put this on me.”

He finally turned. And in that look, you saw it all.

Fear. Guilt. Regret. Love.

And none of it was enough.

“I’m not good for you,” he said. “I never was.”

You felt the tears start to burn, but you blinked them back. “That’s not your choice to make.”

“No,” he said. “But I already made it.”

He dropped you off near the Chateau, the spot where you always met in secret.

You didn’t say anything as you got out.

But before you could walk away, his voice stopped you.

“I loved you,” he said.

You turned, heart shattering. “Loved?”

He winced, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way. “I mean—”

But you were already gone.

The days that followed blurred together.

You told the others nothing. Just said you and Rafe had gotten into a fight and it was over. They were relieved.

They didn’t see the way you woke up crying in the middle of the night.

Didn’t hear the silence of your phone that used to buzz with his name.

Didn’t know that you still walked to that same dock every evening, hoping, praying, that he might come back.

But he didn’t.

It was two weeks later when you saw him again.

At a party on Figure Eight, one you weren’t supposed to be at. You went because Kiara dared you to. Because you wanted to prove—to yourself, to everyone—that you were over him.

He was surrounded by people. Girls in expensive bikinis. His friends. His world.

He looked right through you.

That hurt worse than anything.

The final straw came a few nights later, when JJ found you crying on the roof of the Chateau.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered. “How can someone love you one day and forget you the next?”

JJ sat beside you in silence. He didn’t say Rafe wasn’t worth your tears, didn’t try to talk you out of it.

He just said, “People like him… they don’t know how to love something they can’t control.”

Months passed.

Seasons changed.

You still carried the ache of him, like a bruise that never fully faded.

You moved on. Sort of. You learned how to breathe without waiting for his name. How to smile without pretending. How to live without looking over your shoulder, hoping he’d be there.

And then—out of nowhere—he showed up again.

At the dock.

Same place, same time.

“Hey,” he said, voice tentative.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, waiting.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted.

You nodded slowly. “Bit late for that.”

He sighed. “I know I hurt you. I was scared.”

“I was scared too,” you said. “But I still chose you.”

“I didn’t deserve you,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “You didn’t.”

He stepped closer. “But I never stopped loving you.”

You felt the tears again, but this time, you didn’t let them fall. “You only loved me when it was convenient.”

“That’s not true—”

“You left me,” you said. “When it got hard. When people started talking. When it meant something.”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t want to hear it.

“Don’t come back into my life just to break me again,” you whispered.

And with that, you walked away.

𝐀𝐍: 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭🥹🥹 𝐭𝐲𝐬𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐥𝐲💗💗

[e1ysianvisions]

Cowboy Like Me

Part 2 - The Skeletons In Both Our Closets

Pairing: cowboy!Tommy x fem!reader

Previous Part Next Part

Summary: Tommy wants to do the right thing for you and Sarah, but it doesn't change the fact that he can't stay away from you and you can't stay away from him.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, MDNI, unspecified age gap (reader is in her 20s while Tommy is in his 30s), no outbreak AU, grief, mentions of loss (reader's mother), pet names, jealous reader, unprotected piv sex, oral (f recirving), achohol consumption, duel POV

Word count: 2.3k

Tommy told himself he was done now. He’d had his fix, now he can move on. If only it could be that simple. If anything, he struggled to stay away from you, now more so now than ever. 

But then he’d see you with Sarah, giggling about God knows what, he knows he needs to try to get you out his mind. If the two of you explored things and it ended up going bad, it’s hurt Sarah, and he can’t do that to her, can’t do that to you either, he didn’t want to ruin your friendship with each other. 

But he couldn’t quit cold turkey. At dinner he’d get you to pass him condiments and dishes just so he could brush his hand against yours and under the table he would nudge you with his foot, earning a shy smile in return. If you were washing dishes together he’d playfully splash you with water to get a reaction outta you. Tommy loved the way a dimple formed when you tried to suppress a smile. Adorable. 

Ultimately, staying away from you is a loosing battle. Not that he put up that much of a fight. 

Since the night you slept together it was impossible for you and Tommy to find another moment alone together. And if you were able to get him alone, it was never for very long. 

You’d meet him out in the barn to give him coffee in the mornings, and little something else. Tommy would have you with your back agasint the rough wood as he explored your mouth, and any exposed skin he could get his lips and teeth on, one hand tangled in your hair with the other groping your tits or your ass. Then Joel will walk into the barn to feed the horses or something, you’d break apart and act as though you weren’t trying to get in eahc other’s pants. 

Or in the kitchen, Tommy would back you up, caging you between him and the counter before kissing you ever so gently, his moustache grazing your upper lip in the most delicious way. He’d whisper sweet nothings into your ears and watch as you’d blush. Then Sarah would walk in for a snack and you’d pull apart and act like nothing happened. 

One way you were able to find some alone time however, was joining him on his trips into town. Sarah always groaned when you got up and volunteered to go with Tommy, but you made up some excuse about getting to look around the city, familiarising yourself with Austin as you were still new to the area. 

Tommy would drive, one hand on the stearing wheel, the other on your thigh inching higher and higher througohout the journey, never reaching the spot where you want him most. If when he killed the enguine the parkinglot was mostly empty, you’d crawl onto his lap and enjoy quick, intimate moment between the two of you. One day when you were particularly needy you let Tommy unzip your jeans and take care of you right there on his lap, in the truck. It was the closest you two have got to having sex since that drunken night, and fuck did you want more. 

You were so desperate for Tommy that when the opportunity arrised and Joel and Sarah went out, you practically jumped onto him, he chuckled at you eagerness. The two of you wasted no time in getting undressed, leaving a trail of discarded clothes as you made your way into his room. Kissing each new bit of exposed skin as you went. 

Once you reached the bed, you scrambled to get on your knees, reaching for his cock. You placed a chaste kiss on his tip before Tommy groaned, pulling you away. “‘Nother time, sweetheart. Won’t last long, need to be inside ya.” 

That didn’t stop him from getting on his knees for you, eating you out like a man, starved. “Taste so fucking sweet,” He praised, licking and sucking at your core. “Fucking perfect pussy.” 

You came with a silent cry, legs shaking on his shoulders and your fingers gripped his dark curls. He doesn’t stop once you’ve come down, you have to pull him away from your sensitive clit, your pupils blown wide as you see his mouth coated in your slick. 

“So fucking good, could eat you out for hours.” 

“We don’t have hours.” You remind him, voice already hoarse from moaning without the fear of being caught. 

“I know.” He whispers, moving you up the mattress, making himself at home on top of you. 

When he thrusts into you, it feels like a sigh of relief, like an itch finally being scratched. Then his lips connect to yours and you tasted yourself on him. Your nails dig crescent moons into his muscled back as he fucked you into the bed. Each thrust making the wooden slats groan at the vigorous movement. It was even better than you remembered. 

As you neared your second orgasm you began moaning his name like a prayer on your lips. Like it was the only word you knew. And when you peaked Tommy wasn’t that far after you, pulling out and letting himself coat your thighs. Marking you. 

“You’re so Goddamn pretty when you come f’me, baby.” He murmered against your lips, kissing you before rolling onto his back. You tucked yourself into his chest, listening to his heartbeat even out as you caught your breath. 

You didn’t stay like that too long, not knowing when the others would return home, and there were still chores needed to be done. So, you cleaned up, got dressed and got on with the day with the most delicious ache between your thighs. 

You were getting really comfortable with your life here on the ranch. You almost forgot this was supposed to be temporary. But you felt like you belonged here, or maybe that was just how Tommy made you feel in the brief moments you found yourself in his arms. It was nice, keeping busy with all the chores in a place like this, couldn’t let the animals suffer by slacking off. Didn’t give you much time to wallow in your grief. 

You’d gotten close to Joel too during your stay aswell, always going to him for questions or advice. He had such a fatherly presence about him which was something you’ve never had in your life before. You clung to it. Hoping you’ll still be in contant no matter where you end up next. 

One friday night Sarah decided the two of hadn’t spent much quality time together recently, so she dragged you out to the bar with her friends from home, the ones you met briefly at the garden party. The night got off to a good start. It was the first time you’d been out drinking with friends since your mom’s passing. It was nice to be in a group of girls again, drinking, laughing and dancing. It felt like your first year of college all over again. 

When Sarah went up to the bar to collect the next round of drinks, you pulled out your phone, being in a giddy state made you want to send Tommy a rique text. Only to find he’s already messaged you. 

‘Hope you’re having fun sweetheart’ 

‘Call if you need anything’ 

You bite you lip to suppress a smile as you type back a reply. 

‘Would have more fun with you here ;)’ 

‘Want you’ 

‘Want you to do that thing you did with your tongue again’ 

You gigle to yourself whilst pressing the send button on each text. When you close up your phone, you notice the group of girls looking at you.

“Who you texting?” Ella asked. You shook your head, telling her it’s just no one. 

“Who’s the man?” One of the other girls chimed in. 

Sarah places our tray of drinks on the table. “What man? What have I missed?” 

“Ask her, she’s got a secret man.” Ella said, taking her cocktail off the tray. 

“I have not!” You say, laughing nervously. 

“Seriously, she was giggling like a schoolgirl while texting someone.” 

“I was not.” You cut it. Sarah didn’t look convinced. “If I was seeing someone you’d be the first to know.” You reassure her, feeling sick to your stomach about lying to her. 

“Swear?” 

“Swear.” You repeat, interlocking your pinking fingers to punctuate the fact. Eventually convisation stears into a new direction and the guilty feeling in your stomach ebs with the more alcohol you consume. 

Eventually though Ella brings it back up again. “You seriously don’t have a man?” 

You shake you head, once again denying the fact, taking a sip of your cocktail. 

“Well we need get you one.” You shake you head, hoping that’ll be the end of that conversation. 

“I think I see Brody over there.” Sarah cuts in. “He was totally flirting with her at my garden party, he wanted to ask you out be he couln’t find you ‘cause you went to bed early.” Again, another lie you told her the morning after the party when she asked where you went off too. But what were you supposed to say? ‘Hey Sarah, by the way I left the party early, you know the one to celebrate you, to seduce and fuck your uncle.’

You try to protest but he’s already noticed Sarah waving at him and is making his way over. You just hope the ground will swallow you whole before before he finishes walking to you. Unfortunately, you had no such luck. The group practically shove you into him, telling you two to dance and once you’re on the dance floor you feel trapped in Brody’s embrace. After a few minutes of dancing, if you could call Brody swaying from side to side whilst trying to feel you up, dancing, you excuse yourself. But he grabbed your arm, not tight but not relenting either and he looks strong enough to completely prevent you from getting away from him, if he wanted to. Your alchohol-hazed mind was making the situation feel even more suffocating. 

“Wanted to ask you out at the party, couldn’t find you.” You didn’t respond, not that he was waiting for you to. “Why don’t you come back to mine, we could get to know each other better.” He said, getting in your personal space again. You didn’t know what to do in the situation, thankfully one of his friends walked up, started talking to him and you slipped away when you thought he wouldn’t notice. You didn’t stop walking until you ended up outside, embracing of the feeling of fresh air on your heated skin. 

Sarah came out not long after you, asking if you were okay. 

“I’m not feeling well.” You say. 

“I think it’s time we called it a night.” She agreed pulling out her phone. 

It was past two in the morning when Tommy got a call, he says Sarah’s name popped up on his phone and immediately picked up. When she asked him to pick you guys up he put on his jacked, grabbed his keys and got into his truck. It took him abut twenty minutes to get there, and when he pulled up to the bar, he found you, Sarah and another girl sat down on the curb, leaning on each other. 

“Hey uncle Tommy.” Sarah mumbled as he approached. 

“You guys okay, had a good night?” 

“M’not feeling too good.” You slurred out. Tommy looked at you, hands on his hips. His eyes looked over your hunched over frame, assessing how you looked physically. And apart from being drunk out of your mind, you seemed mostly fine. 

“C’mon let’s get ya home.” He said, helping you up. 

“Wanna take me home too?” Ella purred, batting her eyelashes. Tommy didn’t know when she stood up, but she did. And she stood awful close to him. Out the corner of his eyes he saw you squinting your eyes and glaring at the girl. If looks could kill… 

“Dude.” Sarah looked at the girl. “Stop flirting with my uncle.” 

The girl huffed, “You’re no fun.” She said in a light-hearted tone before making her way back inside. Leaving Tommy to herd two two twenty-something year old girls into his truck. 

When he pulled up to the drive, Sarah immediately got out the vehiacle, stumbling as she made her way inside. Tommy opened the door for you, catching you as you fell into him. 

“Easy there.” 

You gripped his flannel as you looked into his eyes. Your voice was groggy from the alcohol as you tell him, “You’re not hers, you’re mine.” 

“I’m yours, huh?” He teases with a smirk, though he finds your jealousy adorable. 

You nodded. “Not hers.” You repeated. 

“I’m yours. Got it, sweetheart.” Tommy replied. 

You don’t know what the time was when you finally left your room. But it was bright, and your head killed. You walked into the kitchen to rumage around for some painkillers, but when you crossed the threshold you found the whole gang there. 

“How’re feeling?” Tommy teased, sipping on his coffee. 

You only groan. “Like death.” Sarah replies, her dad then begins to lecture her about drinking responsibly. 

Tommy laughs at the two of them bickering. “He one to fucking talk. Should’ve seen him when he was her age.” He mutters as you make you way over to his side. He leans into you, moving his head down to whisper in your ear. “Still want me to be yours, sweetheart?” 

You mind flashes with memories of last night. God, you didn’t realise you said that out loud. 

“Depends. You wanna be mine, Tommy?” You whisper back. 

“Always.”

[n0rmal-cat]

Siren singer x personal driver reader

[need to write this man with a hangover…]

Reader walked up to their new ‘job’

There he stood standing outside of the limousine, dressed in the very peak of fashion. A white crop top, black booty shorts, and a small sparkly purse in his hand.

He looked annoyed as he leaned up against the door “Ugh, you’re late…”

Reader's eye twitched as they grabbed a hold of the door handle.

“Oh I’m sorry, did the king have to wait five minutes? I’m so sorry I put you through such hardship” they said sarcastically

He gave an eye roll, and pouted as he placed his hands on his hips

“Oh don’t get pissy. I just don’t like being kept waiting. If I say I want to be somewhere at a certain time, that means I want to be somewhere at a certain time.” He got into the back seat.

“I don’t think strip clubs are open at this time” reader smirked adjusting their rear view mirror

He leaned his chin on his hand as he shot a glare across to them

”Ha ha, very funny.” He snapped back sarcastically as he began to apply more glitter to his cheeks and eyes

”No, I’m performing tonight…”

“ tch of course you are” they said annoyed “I better not be the one driving your ass back, I know how you get after a show”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed “Well of course you’re driving me. You’re my driver.”

He continued to fix his make-up, smirking at Reader through their own mirror

“Oh don’t tell me you’re scared to be alone with me…” he mocked

“I’m alone with you right now aren’t I? I’d just rather not pick you up drunk”

He rolled his eyes again “Oh please, drunk me isn’t that bad.”

As he finished with his makeup, he sat back in the seat and pulled out his phone. Scrolling through it as he talked to them

“It’s not my fault that a few drinks goes to my head sometimes…”

“Yeah maybes it’s because your kinds not even supposed to drink alcohol ever think of that?!” They pause looking at the road “was that rude?..”

He scoffed again and crossed his arms

“Yes, that’s rude. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself while drinking, thank you very much.”

He then started to play with his hair a bit before looking out the window with a small pout.

“Oh don’t pout, that's not what I meant, like have you ever seen a fish drink? So what makes you think you should?” Reader retorted.

He gave another scoff

”Oh please, I’m not a fish. I’m a Siren, there’s a difference” he grumbled.

He then pointed an accusing finger in their direction “Besides, a little alcohol helps put me in the zone for my performances.”

He once again rolled his eyes

“Said every famous person who went to jail every” reader muttered

“Oh shut it, I’m not going to jail. It’s only a few drinks, it’s not like I’m getting wasted…”

He looked back at his phone before glancing up at them in the rear view

“Are we almost there yet?”

Reader parks the limousine “yeah your here” they look back at him “and when I come back I swear to god-“

He held up his hand and waved it dismissively

”I’ll be fine, I’m a big boy. Have a little faith in me.” He stuck his tongue out playfully

He gathered up his little purse and opened the door, giving them a smirk

“See you in a bit.”.

Reader sighed as the door closed shut, why did they care about what he did? It’s not like it really made any difference to them, did it?

It was late into the night when they came back, they stood outside the limousine waiting for him.

“Come one…where are you?” They said to themselves concerned and inpatient

Several minutes later, the doors of the venue opened up once again and he came walking out. He was clearly a bit tipsy, but for the most part he seemed fine.

He looked up at them and gave a smirk as he stumbled over to the car, he gave a small hiccup before speaking

“Heeeeeey-“ he said cheerfully wrapping his arms around them before going limp.

“What are you!?-gah!” They hold him up “your heavy you know that?!”

He chuckled lightly and gave a nod as his weight got shifted to them

“Mhm…yeah I know.”

His eyes were half closed as he leaned against them, his head against their shoulder as he gave a small chuckle

”Soooo.. you gotta give me a ride home, yeeeeeah?”

“Yeah that’s my job, didn’t I tell you not to drink too much?” Reader help him into the limousine

He leaned back and slumped against the seat

“Mhm… you did, but what can I say? I’m a bad listener” he giggled to himself.

He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes as he spoke

“Did you see me perform? I killed it tonight…”

Reader went silent standing outside his door, “you know I don’t watch any of your performances”

He groaned, and gave a pout

“Come ooooon, why not?” He whined “I bet you’d loveee to see me performing” he said, drawing out the word ‘love’ specifically.

“Well you know what I’d love to see right now, you drinking this bottle of water” they took one out of the cupholders

He looked at the bottle that was offered to him and his eyes narrowed

“Why should I?!” He said with the attitude of a child who was being made to eat their vegetables

“Because it will make you feel better…and it would make me happy?”

He glared at the offered the water for just a bit longer before sighing, and taking the bottle

“I guess… I am kind of thirsty anyway.” He opened up the bottle and took a sip before pausing

“You’re so annoying, you know that?”

“So i've been told” reader shuts the door before going to the drivers side

He rolled his eyes at the comment and continued to drink from the water

A few minutes passed of silence before he spoke up again, glancing over to them

“You’re really not ever going to come to one of my shows?” He said curiously

“What’s the point? It’s not like your voice works on me anyways and I’m not one to give you praise” they started to drive.

He scoffed and crossed his arms

“What do you mean you’re not one to give praise?! I work my ass off on stage to put on good shows, I should get at least a little bit of praise for it.” He whined

“Just calm down already, I’m sure you did fine like you always do”

He huffed and looked out the window, giving a little pout

”… I suppose I did alright… “

He looked back over at them

“You know, as annoying as you are, you’re surprisingly alright to hangout with…”

“Thanks…”

[short-honey-badger]

An Outlaw, a Sheriff, and a Deputy walk into a bar...

Part 2

You jump when the door to your office slams open and you look up to see a terrified local, breathing heavily and their hand clutched to their chest. You jump from your seat, hand on your pistol, ready to go before they can even tell you what's going on in the sleepy town of Valentine.

“Outlaws, Deputy! Red-Hair and his posse!” The man cries and you push past him and to the front porch of the building. The bank is just down the road and a quick sprint has you there within seconds. You recognize the two men that guard the door, Lucky Roux and Yasopp, and you slide to a stop in front of them.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing in my town?” You snarl hotly and the men in front of you throw their heads back and cackle. Your face flushes in rage and your pistol is out like a flash, hand steady as you aim it between the two. Backup would be here soon, you were sure. It was just a shame that the Sheriff was down in Blackwater for a meeting with his father.

“What does it look like we're doing, sweetheart?”

You sneer at the roguish voice that comes from within the bank. Red-Haired Shanks steps out in all his glory, white shirt tucked into a pair of old jeans, belts hanging from his waist, and a bandolier across his chest. His hat is weathered and does a poor job of hiding his shaggy red hair.

“Fucking with your brother, looks like,” you hiss right back and aim at Shanks, eyes narrowing into slits, “Got nothing better to do than get under his skin, huh, Red?”

Shanks grins and boldly steps out on the porch, uncaring about the revolver that points at his chest. He knows that you would never shoot him, the two of you had too much history for that. He rakes his eyes up and down, eyes half-lidded as he crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his hip.

“Maybe I just wanted to come see an old friend. She won't give me the time of day unless I cause trouble in her town.”

You grit your teeth at his casual tone, eyes blazing with rage. It pisses you off to have good memories of you and the twins tossed back in your face, but Shanks had been the one to fuck all that up. Not you.

“I'm not your friend, Red. So how about you drop the act and get out of here before my backup shows up? I'd hate to see you in cuffs,” There is nothing but mean sarcasm in your voice, and you smirk at the redhead when he frowns.

“Damn it, sweetheart. I wanted to do this the easy way, but I guess you're too stubborn for that, huh?” Shanks drawls lowly, and you watch him lope forward, his gait careful but uncaring.

A bad feeling curls in your stomach and you don't have time to even make a sound before Shanks is on you. He snatches the revolver from your grip, and you hiss at the feeling of your finger dislocating from its socket. The next thing you know is pain, your weapon used to wack you in the back of the head, and down you go out like a light.

Shanks sighs and hefts you up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, “Sorry, baby doll. I'll fix you up when we get back to camp, okay?”

He knows that you can't hear him right now, but the assurance makes him feel better. Shanks looks at his crew and jerks his head.

“Let's get outta here, boys. Don't wanna linger and get caught.”

@nocturnalrorobin @sanjisleggy @mit-suri @forever-a-night-owl @sordidmusings @mfreedomstuff

[solyern]

"ABSORBED"—⟡ ILLUMI X GN.READER

Pairing: Illumi x reader

Summary: you meet Illumi during a mission as he caught you taking down a client, causing you to pique his interest.

Word count: 639

Warnings: Illumi x gn. reader, ooc's prominent so you can count this as an au, part 1/2, Hisoka mentioned.

Enjoy!

Illumi walked into the wedding reception, his sharp onyx eyes scanning the haughty over dressed people. He wasn’t there to celebrate—but for a mission. Silva stood next to him, calm yet commandingly.

“This is going to be a hassle isn’t it..” He sighed.

“It’s for a mission, stay sharp.” Silva replied, stern. “I’ll head this way, keep a look out for the father of the groom.”

Nodding, he head the opposite direction keen on his surroundings. Seating the crowd, he saw you. You stood out. A casual calm tunic with a couple oddly shaped arrows in a holder slung around your shoulder. 

“What are they doing here?”. lllumi frowned, his gaze fixed on you .

A sudden hand place on his shoulder—breaking his stare. Silva. His head gestured to the side of the venue , pointing towards the back. “Quick.” Nodding, he glanced towards you one last time—gone. Unbothered, he followed Silva. Faint leaks of scuffling came through the door.

Pushing it open, Illumi froze. There you were, locked in combat, moving with a precision and grace that caught his attention. In moments, you defeated your opponent with ease.

Illumi's eyes narrowed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Interesting.”

He knew something was up with you.

There stood to the side, his target. Quickly dismantling it, he made a mental note of who you were—what you looked like. Ever since then, he was keeping tabs on you. He was a hunter anyway, which gave him ease, but he never really knew your name.

Coincidentally, he kept spotting you at other places, specifically missions. it seemed that wherever he was you followed even at seemingly mundane locations. Who were you? Why were you wherever he was? And especially why was he so captivated with you? Every time you appeared he couldn’t keep his attention off you. For the first time, there was this weird scorching feeling in him. But at the same time ticklish? He would go to Silva or Kikyo but stop mid-way. What if it really was nothing serious? After all, it never occurred when he was in areas by himself.

Illumi wasn't one to leave things to fate, after all he was a steady man. He likes control. Soon enough these coincidental meet ups turned into purposeful ones. If he keeps seeing you, that means he wants to. After all, it intrigued him what your ability was. The one to evoke a distinctive feeling. Was it your nen? Some type of special En?

"I've had perfect control over my emotions, my body, my aura. But ever since I met them, something strange happens."

Pondering, sitting on a stool the Silky haired man zoned out playing with his straw. He didn't see you as much a threat yet, but his captivation with you..his curiosity..

It started as a whisper in the back of his mind--a small, nagging thing, easy to ignore. But the more he saw them, the louder it became.

A quiet hunger, an itch beneath his skin.

A curiosity that refused to be starved. And curiosity once it awakened, was a living thing. It needed to be fed.

At first, he assumes it's your En expanding too far, brushing against his own. But that doesn't make sense. He's been around powerful Nen users before. This shouldn't happen. Yet everytime your near his body reacts involuntarily. A twisting in his stomach, a pull toward you that he can't shut out.

So his conclusion?

"Their aura is leaking into mine. They're using an ability on me.It's affecting my body, my thoughts. This feeling is not mine."

"Perhaps," Hisoka said begrudgingly. He's been on it for an hour. Looking out at the window with a breath-taking view

"Yes that is it." Illumi stood up, with his normal stoic face, walking out.

And the only thing necessary now?

A confrontation.

p.2 coming soon!