#or having someone else thinking that he would like it that way and be right

[luveline]

hey babe can I request Hotch with a reader girlfriend who’s desperately shy? early seasons hotch please when he’s still smiley (maybe still has Jack tho), i would love to see how he treats a long term girlfriend in your eyes one who he’s just completely gone for 

fem, 0.9k

You should know better than to come to work without venturing up to Aaron’s private office, but you’re late coming in and there’s a ton of stuff to do and he’s supposed to pretend that he cares when you turn in your work late. You log in and start going through things slowly. There are a few emails to respond to, some queries, a consult request Aaron himself has forwarded with a note —your expertise is required. 

You wiggle your mouse to wake the screen. You hadn’t realised you’d gotten stuck until it was dark. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” someone murmurs, tipping your head back to kiss your cheek, “where have you been?” 

He speaks quietly, no one else can hear him, but he enthuses his tone with so much love that you can’t decide between laughter or tears. You turn breathless instead, a thumb against your throat as Aaron’s loving questioning continues, “I thought we talked about this, hmm? You coming up to see me? How else am I supposed to know that you’re here?” 

There’s no Emily sitting at the desk opposite yours. No Spencer adjacent, no Derek to the right. It explains why he’s butter soft, but not his worry. 

“I was nearly late. I’m sorry.” 

He starts to kiss you gently, quietly, his lips tracking over the side of your cheek and pressing in as he goes until his nose is against your temple. “Don’t be sorry, I just wanted to see you.” He holds you to him. “I missed you.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, wishing you were brave enough to tack handsome, or love on the end. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I thought maybe you were still stressed about Emily.” 

Aaron pulls away, giving you your first proper look at him that morning. He’s as handsome as ever. It makes your chest spike with anxiety. You worry all the time that you’ll lose him; the thought that he might realise all the things you’re missing and break things off is a constant at the back of your mind. It only ever goes quiet when he’s kissing you. “Prentiss has done well so far,” he says. “I’m not happy to have things rearranged above my head, but I have no problem with Emily. Now, how was your morning?” 

“It was fine.” 

“I want to know. Breakfast?” 

“Yeah, oatmeal.” 

He grins. “Me too.” 

Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when he’s commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. It’s not like his affection makes much sense, but if he’s not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“No more late mornings,” he says decisively. 

“I wasn’t technically late. I wasn’t early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didn’t bring you your coffee?” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down. 

“I don’t know. You’re much too touchy. I’m trying to deduce why, but…” 

“Profile me,” Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. “You know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.” 

Aaron’s only ever this sweet on you when you’re in his bed. Well, ‘only ever’ is harsh, but he’s never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And that’s because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps he’s being sweet on you because you’ve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesn’t make much sense. You forgot his coffee.

Your stomach goes warm. “Oh. Oh,” you say, “I called you last night.” 

“You did.” 

“I was tired.” 

“But you were beautiful,” he says, and what does that mean? It’s not as though he could see your face. “I can’t remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.”

You can’t remember it clearly. Threads of what you’d said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know it’s late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet. 

Your face is on fire. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come over, honey,” he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. “I would’ve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.”

You go hot all over. “No, I know. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you–”

“Who says you can’t call me?” 

“Nobody, but I shouldn’t have.”

“You can call me anytime you want.” He tips your chin up. “Quick, Spencer’ll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?” 

“I forgot it was your day for Jack–”

He takes your face into his hand. “Doesn’t matter, honey. Kiss?” 

You close your eyes and lift your chin. Ever your prince, Aaron squeezes your cheek gently and leans in to kiss you, far warmer than you’re expecting, his thumb rubbing over your cheek with a reverence he couldn't fake if he wanted to. 

[inknopewetrust]

Soak

Summary: Jack knows how to cure the remnants of a difficult day.

[Jack Abbot x Doc!Fem!Reader] [WC: 3.8k]

Warnings: 18+!, themes of The Pitt and ED happenings, established relationship (married), non-sexual bathing, heavy angst, Jack is a romantic through and through and a total wife guy, mentions of therapy and trauma related to work.

You thought you’d long forgotten what it felt like to be loved—to be in love.

That intangible feeling of knowing that the nervousness of devotion meant something further omitted itself, taking residence in catacombs of empty recollections. It was amassing eons of ashes without realizing how quickly time had passed because sorrow strikes with a heavy hand.

The simplistic goodness of love became harder to grasp when the abandonment grief stole from it. Love. To be loved, or love, sounded so… childish. Or the need for it, rather, that boiled inside of you like the most warranted reward you could not catch in the palm of your hand. It slipped through, time and again, at the sake of someone or something else you’d never saddle up to. Perhaps love was of importance and priority rather than devotion and emotion. It all hung the same way in the end.

It’s the ghosts that manifest when the whiplash fades away who spur periodic devastation.

When you met with ghosts, it was hard to recall what they had looked like before. Time was a cruel fiend. It masked the memories that had once been placed upon pedestals and marred them with a grisly sheen. Yet when moments of great pain cement themselves to torture you for years, it’s far too easy to remember the lasts compared to the firsts.

But time struck you with a thunderous arrow.

Cracking across the sky for your ears only, it lodged itself in your chest and forced laborious breaths to steady a foundation unearthed by fate. Today had just been “one of those days.”

The kind where you forget that love cocooned around you. Where against devastation, a healer sat in the mist.

The department riddled itself with the calling of a executioner. Perhaps at your hands, according to some of the distraught families that passed through the halls of the ED. But you knew deep down it wasn’t any fault of your own. You tried. You tried so hard to save them. However, when a MVA comes crashing through with three carloads of victims and little hope for recovery, the grim reaper sits in the shadows waiting for the right time of emergence.

And then his scythe cuts the sound of a monitor going flat. The sound never escapes you.

The sound, and the words of the families consumed by grief, also linger far longer when the shift doesn’t seem to end. One turns into two, then three, and so forth until the relief of the day shift greets desolation with a kind smile and knowing statement of “rough night?”

But it’s not enough to make the horror disappear completely. You hear it when you transfer your charts to Collins, in the turn of your lock against your locker. You see their empty eyes behind your lids as they closed at the first sight of sun after twelve long hours. And you feel their hand going lax in yours when Jack’s crosses the center console to try and say “I’m here.”

Yet it doesn’t ground you in the way he had hoped it would. The silence calcifies at a stop light seven blocks from home.

If the radio hadn’t been lowly playing a pop tune, you would have heard the sounds of your blood pumping through your veins. The shallow breathing of chaos; a tense worry growing in your chest that the world was unraveling too quickly.

Jack’s thumb grazed the back of your hand.

“What are you thinking for breakfast?”

You didn’t hear him. Lost in that endless swirl. His voice was gone into an abyss.

“Hey.” Jack moved your hand gently. He said your name as you blinked, clearing away the fog.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I was… what did you say?”

Jack dismissed your apology. “It was bad day. You don’t need to apologize.”

His hand in yours filled an empty cavern. It filled up like liquid in a jar and made your heart ache at your ignorance. Jack didn’t do anything. He was here. He was trying to comfort you. The bad days didn’t cancel out the good ones and Jack too carried with him the scars of a past he would much rather forget.

But the sun rose again on another day and no matter what, you just had to keep going.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The light still hadn’t changed.

“Not really,” you admitted. “But I’ll probably make an appointment to talk to someone about it.”

Jack nodded knowingly, thumb drawing comforting lines along the back of your hand. The light changed to green and for a moment, you were appreciative that his focus transitioned back to the road.

“That’s good.” Was all he said.

You wet your lips in anticipation of speaking more but the words halted in your throat. Breathing in shakily, your free hand ran fingers over your forehead. Jack squeezed the one he held.

“It’s ok,” he said so softly you could barely hear him over the spin of the tires against asphalt.

It’s ok. Not “you’re going to be ok” or the “situation that is completely not normal is ok” but the “it’s ok” not to be whole. That the cracks under your skin were natural after trauma. Your chin trembled as you became overwhelmed by the agony stored inside of you.

Jack hated that he couldn’t do anything more to soothe the hurt. Because when you loved someone with every fiber of your existence, the pain they carried fused with your own.

Love encompassed something larger, abstruse. It was a feeling buried deep inside of you that only awakened at the moment of greatest necessity and Jack always seemed to let that emotion bloom. It unfurled in the palm of his hand and he held tight on to it knowing what time could do if he was not careful. Jack was cautious. He walked a fine line between giving too much and never giving enough but he tried—and that’s all he was asking of you now. Try. Breathe. Breathe.

And when the tears fell four blocks from home, he let you cry in the car. He forgot about breakfast, about how nice sleep would be in a few hours.

Jack didn’t shush you. He didn’t push you to wrap up your emotional plea for the sake of the car parking in the garage. He turned off the engine and pressed the garage door closed with the remote which further shut away the world beyond.

It was just you and him and your sorrow.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Five minutes, ten… but the tears did end like they always did. They dried up and left you empty again.

“I just don’t know,” you started when you felt sturdy enough to talk, “how many more kids I can see die on my table.”

Suddenly, you hated being a pediatric physician. You hated that all of the kids that came into the ED found themselves in a room with painted animals and some of them saw their joyous faces and others never had the chance. You hated that parents blamed you for ending a life that had barely begun and you couldn’t fathom understanding an ounce of why they always seemed to place the blame on you.

You tried. You tried and wasn’t that enough?

“It’s their little fucking hands. Their little fingers and toes and eyes that have the life sucked out of them and I’m the last one they see.”

Jack listened. He didn’t push.

“And the parents today,” you groaned at the thought; sucking in a wet, unattractive noise to clear your senses. He loved you enough not to care.

“God… I’ve never wanted to quit until today.”

“Today was a bad day,” he repeated.

“Today was an awful day,” you corrected.

“You’re going to carry it with you forever.” You knew his intrusive stare was targeting your face but ignored it. “You’ll never forget the ones who don’t get to see tomorrow.”

“I keep thinking,” you shook your head a little with a self-deprecating laugh, “about how I, we, get to go home after a family’s world is changed so drastically. And I pretend that nothing happened and that it’s normal to see this every other day and pretend that when I close my eyes, I don’t see them every time.”

“No one’s asking you to pretend,” Jack reminded you. He didn’t. He just coped differently.

“But I don’t know how to function otherwise, Jack. I can’t separate them anymore and I don’t know how to get back on track.”

“You said you were going to talk to someone, yeah?” He moved his head to catch your attention and those dark, hazel eyes bore into you deeply. He needed that confirmation—that you were listening and understanding him.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“Then it’s not your job yet. Okay?” He looked at you expectantly. “It’s not your job yet. It’s not going to change without help but until you get that help, talk to someone who knows how to help you, then what more can you do than breathe? I am here, baby. I will always be here.”

You had stacked the tasks. Heal, heal, heal. Find a solution, be “normal”, and find something else to hide your time with while the struggle remained.

Jack brought you back to earth. Back from the endless orbit and to the ground where he could be the one to help for what little hours of peace you were granted.

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, then the dorsal and your wrist before turning it over and pressing into your palm repeatedly. Back and forth, back and fort, soothingly.

“Just breathe for me, alright?” He mimicked a slow intake of air before exhaling. Jack nodded at you to copy and you did. Once, then twice, and another.

“That’s it,” he encouraged.

You breathed in, then out. Over and over until that tremble of your hands ceased enough that it wasn’t the only thing he felt. Jack pressed the pressure points until your hand was pliable and unfurled with tension.

Focusing your attention, you looked out into the garage through the windshield and looked at the streaking wet remnants of water lingering behind. You hadn’t even noticed it on the way home.

“It rained?”

“Snowed,” Jack said.

“Badly?”

“Don’t worry,” Jack’s voice gained levity. You saw a flicker of a twinkle pass by his gaze when you looked toward him now. “You have the precipitation levels beat today.”

“I’m basically a prune at this point, I suppose.”

“Eh.” He let go of your hand and unbuckled his seat. “You’re a pretty prune then. The most beautiful prune I’ve ever seen.”

You shook your head at him, letting your seatbelt come undone too. “You don’t have to flatter me because you feel bad.”

“I will flatter as I please,” Jack scoffed. “You’re mine and I will compliment even if you’ve pruned the most prune-y you’ve ever pruned.”

Like routine and an attempt to lessen the burden of grief, both of you exited the vehicle and opened the doors to the back seats where your bags stored themselves on the way home. As you met Jack’s eyes across the space, he had both bags gripped in his hands.

“Jack,” you lamented.

“Go inside,” he nearly ordered. “Go change and I’ll meet you in a second.”

You sighed, holding onto the door as if it supported all of your weight.

“I can carry my own bag.”

“I know.”

“Then let me?”

He pondered it for a brief second before disagreeing. “I’ve got it.”

“J—“

“Are we really going to argue over a bag?” He asked. “Go,” he motioned to the entrance to the house via the garage. “I’ll put these away and then I’ll come find you.”

Jack wasn’t going to take the objections stored like ammunition. His stubbornness had faults but good intentions in the moment.

“Fine,” you faltered. “Alright.”

“Good.”

As you lingered a moment longer, the tiredness of it all washed over you quickly. You shut the door and felt a relief take hold upon crossing the threshold into your house. It smelled like the two of you, it felt like the both of you. It calmed when endless cycle of catatonic winters brought forth a dome of doom.

The car door closed with a beep not long after. Jack deposited the bags in the mud room along with his badge that lay in a tray beside the door. He place it atop yours and paused at the pink tint that faded into the white letters of your “doctor” plate.

It carried home. It always did.

The echos of home held sounds of you. And while his hearing wasn’t what it was twenty years ago because of the lingering legacy of service, he still knew what was you and what the ringing was. The sound of the lights going on in the bathroom that left a small hum burn through the room—you. The sounds of shoes clattering to the floor and a drawer opening in the dresser of the bedroom—you.

His life was filled with the symphony of you and even on the darkest of days, he listened to nothing but.

You felt the water run over your fingertips from the faucet. Warm and greeting, it was a luxury of the morning.

The house you had learned to love was a concession made of you both. A sanctuary of space; somewhere to heal and to love and to rest that met the untraditional needs of a unconventional household. The bathroom was one of those places. The vanity stretched across one wall with a golden, warm lighting cascading across its speckled white marble and a Spanish cedar wood beneath it.

It was spacious and accommodating. But as you looked up into the mirror and at your reflection marred from the day, your eyes caught the tub, seldom used, in the background. The porcelain often sat dry—an inconvenience because of its deep edges and lack of grip. Even in your own pampering you avoided it as habit from Jack’s own difficulties using it.

But he had insisted on it years ago. He said that you’d use it one day and yet, still, the days were far and few between.

It caught your eye now, however.

You thought about what it would be like to fill it up and see the steam roll off the top of the water in swirls. The tendrils reaching and floating to the ceiling quietly while your back would rest upon the smooth, cold ceramic.

“The pipes might be rusty.”

Jack’s voice bit through the stream of water coming from the faucet and your eyes darted to the doorway.

He stood leaning against the frame with his arms crossed at his chest. Peering at you with knowing eyes, you half-figured he knew every thought that passed through your mind at any given moment. You turned off the sink.

“I’ll just take a shower.”

“Why?” His brow furrowed. “We have a tub for a reason.”

“Yeah but it’s—“

“A really nice, expensive, tub.”

“And really excessively tall.”

“It’s a soaker.” Jack walked into the bathroom and pulled a towel from a cabinet adjacent to the shower. “They’re supposed to be big.”

You watched him moved about. “If this was another day, I would have made a joke about that.”

“I can’t wait to hear it when a better day comes.”

It was his turn to turn on a faucet—the tub. He knew you liked the water “boiling” so he turned it hot enough to warrant a longer bath. He opened up the shower door and pulled out the stool from inside of it and place it beside the tub and sat down.

“What are you doing?” You pivoted to rest against the vanity while he sat there in his dirty scrubs.

“I’m waiting for you,” he said frankly. “Come on, take off your clothes.”

He saw the way your shoulder’s sagged as your body began to take the brunt of mental pain. You challenged him to change his mind with one look but he wasn’t going to budge. The stubbornness of Abbot men ran deep within his blood.

This is what love was.

He held out his hand from his place on the stool and beckoned. You breathed in, and then out, just as you had in the car. And his hand enveloped yours once more.

“You know,” Jack started lowly, “it’s not a bad thing when someone wants to take care of you.”

His hands traveled to your hips and lifted your scrub top slowly. His touch melted warmly into the skin of your stomach and around the sides of your waist while his legs parted and brought you to stand closer. You loved the feel of his hands on your body. Not now for pleasure, but to know that he was there. He’d always be there if you let him.

“And somedays, all I want to do is make sure you’re ok. So when you’re not, I want to take care of you.”

Therapy was doing wonders for his communication.

“It’s a pity this doesn’t have a door,” you motioned down to the tub as it began to fill near the halfway line.

“Like those old fuckers have?” He looked at you with a joking offense. “I’m gray, not a hundred.”

“You know what I mean.” You knocked his shoulder with your fist. He rocked back then toward you in return. His hands pulled at your top and you helped usher it over your head.

“I would rather not be alone.”

“I’ll be right here,” his eyes laid heavy into yours.

“What if I help you?” You proposition as his grip moved to your pants. He slid them down slowly. “I can help you too. We’ve never tried it.”

“Because I’d rather not end up a patient with a description of ‘one-footed man who ate shit trying to get into a tub not made for him.’ It just doesn’t seem… right.”

You unclipped your bra and handed it to him. He put it on top the pile growing in his lap of your clothes. Instead of ogling you further, as you removed your panties and then your socks, he turned to the edge of the tub and poured soap in. Jack stirred it with his hand as the warm water radiated up his arm and the bubbles began to form around it.

Your hand found his shoulder as you tried to carefully maneuver into the tub without incident. Jack’s other hand shot out, guiding the small of your back into the water.

“Are you sure?”

The softness in your sad eyes poured into his heart. He sighed, admiring the way the bubbles hid you from view as you pulled your knees to your chest and rested your head on them.

“It’s kind of lonely in here.”

“Baby,” he let out a small chuckle. “You really want me in there?”

You nodded. The hand he had left in the water retreated and crumpled your clothes into a ball. While he was still preparing his protest, he caught the back of his shirts behind his neck and slipped them off gracefully.

“I might die for real this time.” Only people who faced actual death could joke about that.

“Well then I really don’t know what I’d do with myself,” you turned and watched as he stood to remove his pants.

“Waiting for a show?” His hands paused at the scrub ties.

“I like looking at my husband. Can’t a woman admire a handsome man?”

His lips curved into a smirk. There was a way you always distracted yourself from the flood and it was through him. Jack knew it, because he had been guilty of it too. But there was nothing telling him that when he reached the edge of the tub and you rose with your body dripping with soapy water and helping him the best you could into it, that you were trying to have sex to forget about it all.

It wasn’t healthy, for either of you, to fall into that habit.

Without incident, he slipped into the position behind you and you settled back down between his legs and for the first time, Jack was appreciative of the purchase. It was relaxing and it was peaceful.

You moved the soap bubbles between your hands in front of you as his arms rested on the sides. As he relaxed, he knew that if his eyes were to close for an extended period of time, he’d be out like a light. But you kept the water moving. Mildly lapping with every listless sway of your hand and the cupping of bubbles to be brought back down to the water.

After a few minutes the sounds ceased and though he had closed his eyes, he sensed the way you shuffled back against him and carefully, as if not to spook him, leaned backwards against his chest.

And suddenly, you were at peace.

Love floated into the spaces left cracked from the day. It caressed your arms and folded over your shoulders to hold you tightly together and feel each other in a moment of quiet reflection. A tidal wave breeched your shores again. Jack felt your body trying to ignore it. Tears slipping through your closed eyes as he nudged his head to an angle that now rested against yours.

“Just because we can’t save everyone doesn’t mean we are any less deserving of a good life,” he whispered into your ear.

Your hand cleared itself of soap underneath the water and drew back up to the side of his face, gliding across his features to leave a trail of wet and back to his hair where the strands were still damp.

“I love you so much.”

A beat.

“I love you,” you breathed.

“You are a good doctor, a great doctor,” Jack affirmed. “One day or twenty of them don’t decide you’re not.”

You thought you’d long forgotten what it felt like to be loved—to be in love.

Yet that thought was easily forgettable now.

A/N: jack abbot has been eating at my brain for weeks like a parasite and i needed to write for him so badly - also not proofed yet so don’t assassinate me

[artficlly]

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.

[alchemistc]

Inspired by Lou mentioning that we're getting B**** f*********

"Tell me about your old captain," Bobby says. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion - or if it is, Tommy doesn't have the ability to view it as anything but a demand.

Bobby's eyes catch the bob of his throat as he swallows.

They're in Bobby's office. Tommy's pretty sure he's been in this office twice since Bobby took over - he doesn't do things in any sort of official capacity, seems to hate the four walls and the door like a man with experience stuck in tight spaces.

"Off the record, of course."

Tommy's a grown ass man who's been through more Captains and Sergeants and other miscellaneous authority figures than Bobby can count on fingers and toes.

There's just something about Bobby that makes him feel wrong-footed. Like he's simultaneously the most comfortable he's ever been and the most terrified he'll ever be. Like he has to get this right.

"Sir?"

Bobby tosses a balled up piece of paper at Tommy's forehead. That's fair. That's absolutely fair. Tommy blinks, and the nerves sort of just... fall away.

"He was a homophobic, racist, misogynist prick and I still hate that I followed along like a little duckling."

Bobby purses his lips. Widens his eyes with brows raised.

The silence and the eye contact stretches.

Eventually, Bobby steeples his fingers, leans his chin on them. Stares. "We can circle back to the second part in a moment. I'm asking because I sent in your transfer papers last week."

There's that fear crawling right back in. He'd never even fucking tried it, under Gerrard. Too afraid to watch him crush that dream, too afraid to make a move for himself.

He'd mentioned flying offhand, a month and a half ago, a second serving of roast melting on his tongue while Howie stole potatoes off his plate.

Two days later Bobby'd pulled him aside and told Tommy he'd reached out to Harbor - that Harbor had an opening in air ops and he'd asked them to hold the position internally for an extra day or two. In case Tommy wanted it.

("I saw the way you look when you're talking about flying, kid. If I overstepped, tell me to shove it, but the 217 could use a man like you."

Tommy's had the words 'man like you' running on a loop in his head ever since.)

"Did they fill the spot?"

He hasn't let himself get excited about it. Hasn't told a soul other than Bobby that he's even thinking about it. He never would have done it without that push, and he's already gearing up to make himself not resent Bobby for even putting the thought in his head.

Bobby smiles. "They did."

Tommy would love it if the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Their newest pilot is going to be Thomas Kinard. Pending my approval, of course."

His heart does something strange in his chest. A squeeze, a jump, a flurry. He's gonna be in the air again. Going to have to use whatever's left of his mind to learn new birds, to teach someone else, one day. That's not as daunting a task as it would have been, a year ago.

Tommy squints, because Bobby looks entirely too pleased with himself for nearly giving Tommy a fucking heart attack. "What does that have to do with Gerrard?"

Bobby tips his head side to side, fidgets with a pen. Tommy never knows if that's a nervous habit or if he's so committed to the "fucking with you" bit that he's adopted a bunch of other people's tics.

"He tried to block it," Bobby tells him, a little solemn, finally. Tommy can feel his teeth clenching. His body tightening. His arms are crossed over his chest and he doesn't remember the act of raising them from the armrests. "I told him, respectfully, where he could stick it."

Bobby has this insane ability to ease a thousand worries with just a turn of phrase, a tone of voice. Tommy can feel the ire melting right off. "You already did it?"

Bobby huffs a soft laugh. "Professional disagreement. We don't see eye to eye on your talents. Harbor was fairly easily convinced, once I started listing them."

The lump in his throat makes it a little difficult to forge ahead. "Why'd you ask about him, then?"

Bobby's soft grin turns to a full on smirk. "Because I thought, given that this is your last week here, you might want to get it off your chest, Firefighter Pilot Kinard."

[qivrae]

say it like you mean it - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: fighting with spence ugh then you get breeded

The sound of the front door clicking shut sent a bolt of tension through your spine. You didn’t turn around right away—just stood by the kitchen sink, eyes fixed on the glass in your hand, watching the condensation trail down like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Anything to keep from looking at him.

Spencer’s keys hit the bowl by the door with a familiar clink. His bag landed on the counter a second later. And then silence. Heavy, expectant silence.

“You’re late,” you finally said, voice neutral. He exhaled. “I called.” You nodded once. “Yeah.” Still, you didn’t face him.

“I didn’t pick up because I was in the shower,” you added after a beat. “Figured if something happened to you, someone would’ve left a voicemail.”That made him pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was cautious but not soft. Tired, maybe. Defensive.

You turned then. Leaned back against the sink and looked at him for the first time that night. His hair was a mess, his tie halfway undone. His knuckles were raw. Your stomach turned. “It means,” you said slowly, “that I’m tired of playing this game where I pretend I’m not scared out of my fucking mind every time you walk out that door.”Spencer blinked. That he wasn’t expecting. “It was a raid,” he said like that explained everything. “There were risks, yes. But it was controlled. I had a vest on—”

“Oh, great,” you snapped. “A vest. That makes all the difference when some guy with a shotgun doesn’t give a shit where he aims.” He stepped closer, just one careful step. “You knew what I did when we got together.”

“Yeah. And I knew what war was when I read about it, but it’s a little different when you’re watching someone you love walk into it every goddamn day.” The words came out too fast, too raw. Spencer’s expression shifted like the ground beneath his feet tilted and he was struggling to stay upright. He swallowed. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said quietly. “Well, I do,” you said. “I can’t not.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now like the movement could help him make sense of it. “I don’t understand what you want from me. You think I want to be in danger? That I enjoy it?”

“No! I think you forget what it does to the people who have to sit at home and wait.” You moved toward him then, voice rising. “You come home late, bruised and bleeding and you downplay it. You act like it’s nothing. But you don’t see the way I flinch when you limp through the door. You don’t hear me crying in the shower after you fall asleep.” He stopped walking. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “Well, now you do.”

There was silence. The kind that burns in your throat and behind your eyes. And then softer, you whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.” Spencer’s head dropped. His hands clenched at his sides. You watched him breathe, slow and uneven.

“I’m sorry,” he said and for once, it didn’t sound automatic. It wasn’t a bandaid. It was an apology that cracked him open. “I didn’t realize you felt like this.” You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I try not to. Most of the time, I try really hard not to feel anything at all, because it’s easier than feeling like this.”

When you looked back up at him, his eyes were already on you. Soft, guilty, wrecked. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t care,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re the one thing I think about when things get bad. The only thing that keeps me from falling apart out there.”

The air shifted. Warmer. Closer. You didn’t move away when he touched your face, just leaned into it, heart pounding so loud it drowned everything else out. “I don’t want to lose you either,” he whispered.

Your breath caught when his thumb brushed your cheek, eyes locked with yours like he wasn’t sure whether to kiss you or keep confessing. You didn’t give him the choice. You leaned forward, grabbed his face and kissed him like it would keep him here. Keep him alive. Keep him yours. And he kissed you back just as hard, just as fast, like he needed to feel everything you were saying without saying it. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet. It was a collision.

He groaned into your mouth, both hands sliding down your sides like he had to touch you to believe this was real. His fingers gripped your hips tight enough to bruise, grounding himself in the weight of you. You reached for his belt with shaking hands, fumbling with the buckle while he bit down softly on your bottom lip, kissed you again and again and again like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

When you finally got his belt undone, he exhaled sharply, like even that was too much. Like the relief of being wanted was overwhelming. “Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, “you’re still wearing the hoodie.” You laughed against him, breathless. “You bought it for me.”

“I know,” he said dragging his hands under the hem, bunching it up around your ribs so he could touch bare skin. “That’s the problem. You wearing my clothes when you feel like you’re losing me? That’s mean.” You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again, tugged at the waistband of his pants. You were desperate to feel more. To feel all of him.

He lifted you onto the kitchen counter without warning, the edge digging into your thighs but you didn’t care. All you could feel was the heat of his body, the growing hardness pressing into your hip and the sound of his breathing getting heavier with every second. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, biting the underside just hard enough to make your stomach tighten. You were so wet you could feel it and when his fingers slid under the band of your underwear and dipped between your legs, he groaned. His forehead falling against your shoulder. “God, baby,” he said. “You’re soaked.”

“Then do something about it.” He didn’t tease. Didn’t build up to it. Two fingers slid into you slowly, curling with that same pinpoint precision you always forgot about until he was inside you again. You gasped and grabbed at his shirt, nearly coming apart right there.“You’re always like this for me,” he murmured, lips dragging over your throat. “Even when we’re fighting. Even when you’re mad. Like your body knows.” You whimpered and he chuckled—low, rough, still hurt under all the lust.

“Yeah. That’s right.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, dragging him closer and he let out a breathless laugh, pulling his fingers out so he could shove his pants low enough to free himself. You tried to pull your underwear off completely but he grabbed your wrists, stopping you. “Leave them on,” he muttered. “Wanna fuck you with them still on. Pushed to the side. Want you messy for me.”

You moaned softly as he lined himself up, sliding inside with one smooth but unrelenting thrust. Your breath hitched, hands scrambling for anything to hold on to. He felt so deep, so full, you couldn’t think. “God, Spencer—”

“You feel that?” he rasped. “That stretch? That fullness? That’s mine.” He didn’t move for a moment. Just stayed buried inside you, gripping your waist like he was grounding himself in the feel of your body. “I almost lost this,” he whispered. “I thought I was losing you. You know what that did to me?”

Your throat tightened. “I love you,” you said, quiet and raw. He groaned and pulled out just enough to slam back in, making you cry out. “I know,” he hissed. “I know, baby.” Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging until he gasped. His laugh was wild, right against your skin. Then he started to move. Hard and fast, a rhythm fueled by every fear and every feeling he didn’t know how to say out loud. The slap of skin, the wet sounds between you and the harsh breaths—you couldn’t hear anything else. Couldn’t think of anything else. He reached down and grabbed the backs of your thighs, lifting your hips slightly to hit even deeper and you nearly sobbed. “Shit—Spence—”

“That’s it,” he panted. “That’s my girl. So good for me.”

“Yours,” you whimpered. “Say it again.” And you did. You did until you couldn’t anymore, until you couldn’t think about anything but him. He kissed you, open-mouthed and messy. His thrusts getting faster, rougher, his voice breaking around the words, “I love you.” he pants, “No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to make you feel like this. Yeah?” you could barely respond, “Yes—yes—Spence, please—”

“You’re making such a mess on my cock, baby. You like it when I fuck you like this huh?” You were barely breathing. Your moans were punched out of you with every snap of his hips.“Gonna come,” you choked. “Yeah?” he said, grinning now. “Do it. Come for me. Come on my cock like you were made for it.” Your whole body clenched, legs locking around his waist as your orgasm hit, crashing through you like a wave. He didn’t stop. Rode it out, held you tight, eyes locked on yours as he fucked you through it.

The way your body locked up, thighs trembling around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders like you were trying to stay tethered to the earth. Your mouth opened in a silent moan at first, head falling back and Spencer watched, completely entranced as it bloomed across your face.

“Fuck,” he groaned, arms tightening around you, “fuck, baby. You look so pretty when you come.” Your walls clenched down around him, fluttering and tight. You were soaking him all over again as he kept fucking into you without pause. He wasn’t letting up. Not when you were this wet, this open for him. Not when your body was already responding again, too sensitive to handle the pace but still twitching like it wanted more. “Spence—” you whimpered, voice broken and caught in your throat. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he whispered, hips rolling a bit slower now. “You will. You’re gonna take all of it. Just like that.” His hands splayed against your lower back, anchoring you in place as he thrust slow, firm strokes that made your eyes roll back. “Still so tight,” he muttered, breath hitching as he felt your muscles fluttering again. “Even after you came all over my cock, you’re still gripping me like you need it. Is that it? Huh sweetheart? You need this?” You nodded, helpless. “Yeah,” he coo’d, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “My smart girl. My good fucking girl.”

You were barely coherent. Every thrust sent sparks down your spine, each one threatening to knock you over the edge again. Your legs had gone numb, your hands scrabbling for anything to hold but Spencer was there, keeping you steady, whispering the filthiest things into your ear while he fucked you slow and deep. “Gonna make you come again,” he murmured, lips dragging along your jaw. “Just like this. Gonna stay inside you until you’re soaked and shaking. Until you can’t think of anything but how good I make you feel.”

You whimpered, legs twitching again. The overstimulation was dizzying but your body wasn’t stopping. Not even close. “Please,” you whispered. “Spencer, I need you.”

“You have me,” he said, voice sharp and certain. “You have me, baby. Always.”Your head dropped to his shoulder as another wave built up in your stomach, slow and molten. Your breath stuttered. Your body started to tremble again, and Spencer felt it. “Yeah,” he whispered. “There she is. Look at you.” He pulled back just enough to watch your face, to see the way your brows scrunched, lips parted in a cry that never fully formed. He didn’t blink. “Come for me,” he said, low and rough. “I want to feel it. Right now.” And you did.

A second orgasm tore through you, twice as intense as the first. Your whole body jerking in his arms, cunt clenching so hard around him that he nearly lost it right there. You moaned his name, a soft broken sob against his neck and he held you through it, still moving, still whispering praise against your skin. “So good f’me,” he groaned. “That’s it. You’re so good. So perfect like this—messy and mine.” He didn’t stop.

Even as you trembled, even as you gasped for breath, he kept going. Fucking you through the aftershocks, keeping you full and stuffed and close. You could feel him starting to unravel, his rhythm faltering, breath catching, jaw clenched like he was holding back everything until you were ready to fall apart with him.

You felt it in the way he gripped your hips tighter. The way his voice dropped into something ragged, something helpless. “You want me to come inside you?” he asked breathlessly, brow pressed to yours. “You want me to fill you up?” You whimpered, barely a nod, barely a sound and his eyes darkened like it was the only answer he’d ever needed.

He couldn’t hold back anymore. Not after everything—your second orgasm still rippling through your body, slick dripping down his cock, your eyes glazed and dazed and stuck on him like he was the only thing tethering you to reality. You were wrecked and trembling and still letting him fuck you deep, whispering his name with every breath like it meant something holy. And to him, it did.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice shattering as he fucked up into you harder now, sloppier, chasing the edge that had been threatening to snap since you started pulsing around him. “I’m—shit, baby, I’m gonna come—” You whined into his shoulder, nails dragging down his back and that was it. Spencer’s hips stuttered, the rhythm falling apart entirely as he buried himself as deep as he could go, forehead pressed to yours. His whole body tensed—his breath caught—and then he came, hard and hot inside you. A broken groan tearing from his throat like he’d been holding it back for weeks. “Jesus,” he choked, his hands gripping your hips to keep you right where he needed you. “Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good—made to take it, I swear…”

You felt him pulse inside you, ropes of it filling you up. The warmth flooding through you in slow, overwhelming waves. Spencer kept moving through it—slow thrusts that pushed it deeper, that kept him grounded while the orgasm tore through him like a lightning strike.

“Shit,” he whispered again, like he couldn’t say anything else. His voice cracked on it. You reached up and held his face, brushing the sweaty hair off his forehead and he leaned into your touch like it was oxygen. He didn’t pull out, not yet. Just stayed there, still hard inside you and breathing like he’d just run for miles and finally found his way home.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth like a confession. “Even when we’re like this. Especially when we’re like this.” You nodded, still catching your breath. You felt ruined. You felt whole. And even though nothing was fixed yet, even though the fight still lingered somewhere in the background—you knew you’d be okay. Not just because he came back to you. But because he never really left.

[twotwofroote]

When I was a kid, I wanted to break a bone. It happened often enough to other kids and I saw how people treated them. They'd excitedly sign your cast, offer to carry your books, bring you your lunch, etc. I wanted so badly to be looked after like that; to be thought about like that.

I tried to break my bones often. I would hear how someone else did it and try to replicate it. It never worked. Breaking a bone is surprisingly difficult but oh so easy at the same time.

I broke my wrist two years ago. I had stopped trying or actively wanting that over a decade prior. It was simply an accident - a fall when rollerblading. But it was nothing like I'd imagined as a kid.

TLDR: Being sick or injured doesn't give you what you want. It's a fantasy. The reality is painful and scary. I have a support system but it's just that, support. They can't be there 24/7. At the end of the day, I can be alone with my good health or alone with bad health. I'd much rather have the former.

(more context after the break)

For starters, I live in Japan. I had been for 3 years at that point but I'd never had significant medical problems. I had to learn so much while dealing with so much.

When it happened, it felt like a cartoon crunch at first. Like that scene in Teen Titans when Robin breaks his arm. But immediately after was a blinding pain I've never experienced before. I was crying and screaming for my friend but it took him a minute to come back and see what had happened. He was sweet. Trying to comfort me and make jokes. I'm glad I wasn't alone.

But when the Japanese staff came, I had to answer questions in Japanese. I can speak Japanese well enough but that pain. My god that pain. I could hardly breathe, let alone think in another language.

My friend called a Japanese friend to come get us. I stupidly thought we'd go right to the hospital and get me patched up. But it was a Thursday. Silly me breaking my wrist on a Thursday! I quickly learned that hospitals are "closed" on Thursdays. The staff kept saying "it's a bad day for this to happen. You can't go to the hospital on Thursdays. You should be more careful."

I couldn't believe it! What do you mean they're CLOSED? It's a hospital! I found out later that of course they will accept people but only if they go by ambulance. I knew that an American ambulance cost so I thought I had lucked out not going that route in hindsight. Then, I found out an ambulance here is only like $80. Live and learn.

Instead, my Japanese friend drove me to a clinic for x-rays. And boy howdy was it bad. That gave me a temporary cast/splint situation, set up an appointment at the hospital for the next day, and sent me on my way.

At the hospital appointment, I had more imaging to see just how bad it was. The doctor said I needed surgery... but that the schedule was booked up for a week. So, I went home and I waited.

It was so lonely. Nothing like I'd imagined as a kid. As a kid, I thought people could help me 24/7 and honestly I think it might have been like that. Friends and teachers to help you at school and parents to help you at home. But as an adult? My friends have jobs. They couldn't help me for 8+ hours a day. I couldn't go to work so I couldn't get help from coworkers. My family was thousands of miles away. I was so desperately alone.

I sat on my couch for a week. Scratching at my itchy splint, struggling to shower, struggling to eat. I thought surely that was going to be the worst of it. But then the surgery day came.

For better or worse, I was naively unaware of what was in store for me. I knew I was going to have to be awake which worried me at first. But then I figured, if they keep you awake, it must not be that bad, right? So I downloaded music and books on my phone. I pictured it like a tattoo - laying on a bed, one arm stretched out. I listen to some stuff, an hour or so later and boom I'm an fixed up! Like I said, naive.

The nurses were surprised when I said I wasn't nervous or scared. I thought it was silly they thought I would be. This sucked but it was still kind of interesting. Seeing an OR and being in a Japanese hospital! It was going to be such a good story to tell!

But then it was time for surgery. They strapped me down to a table - arms, legs, torso. Covered me in blankets which I thought was odd, it was August after all. I was starting to get nervous. This isn't what I expected after all. But it'd probably still be fine!

It was not fine. It was like torture. That's an hour and a half of my life that I'll never forget. It started well enough. My arm was numb so I couldn't feel anything and there were x ray cameras that I could see showing what they were doing. That was fine, I could just close my eyes after all but the sounds? I couldn't avoid the sounds. Then, idk how long in, I started to feel pain. The numbing was wearing off and I could FEEL them digging around in there. But I'd forgotten how to speak. The doctors didn't know English and I couldn't remember any Japanese. The pain was too much, I was so cold, and I couldn't move. I started to panic. I was scratching at the bed with my good hand and twisting. I tried to speak but I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling. Everyone was panicking trying to understand what this wounded animal wanted to convey. Eventually I got out the word for "hurt" and the doctor started asking me questions. It was easy to say yes or no from there. They gave me more medicine and the pain went away but the fear didn't.

The surgery took longer than estimated but eventually it was done. They took me off the table, sweating but freezing, and put me in a wheelchair. My whole arm was red and purple. I'd never seen anything like it. It didn't belong to me. The nurse went to adjust my sling but the arm escaped, hitting the table with surprising force. They apologized but I couldn't understand why. That wasn't mine after all.

I thought the worst was over. Now I could just go to sleep and when I woke the pain would be much more manageable. But I couldn't sleep. My arm was on fire. It felt like I was clutching the sun to myself. It radiated heat. The night nurse gave me an ice pack and some medicine but it didn't help. What is an ice pack to the sun?

Eventually morning came and I was discharged. The worst was behind me now but there was so so much more ahead of me that I hadn't considered. I had to go to the doctor once a month for x-rays. I had to go to rehab for 3 months, 2/3x a week. All of the doctors were friendly and I got better little by little. But I was so depressed. I just wanted my life back, my time back.

I had friends, doctors, and coworkers to help me but at the end of the day, I was at home alone. That wasn't new, of course, but the pain was, the scar was, the lack of control in my body was. I realized that the desire I had as a kid was so misplaced.

Being sick or injured doesn't give you what you want. It's a fantasy. The reality is painful and scary. I have a support system but it's just that, support. They can't be there 24/7. At the end of the day, I can be alone with my good health or alone with bad health. I'd much rather have the former.

Me: You know how when you were a kid and you’d wish that you’d get sick or injured in a way that would justify why you didn’t live up to your potential?

Everybody, apparently: No?

[ilikerafayelwaytoomuch]

What happens when the LADS guys are caught crying?

A/N: what the title says :) . I've always been someone that people have come to with their problems (forever the therapist friend) and comforting them. But I was thinking about what it'd be like to see the lads men cry, as there's a stigma around men crying (which is stupid but anyways). They're a lil short, but I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: a lil angst, mentions of death, comfort, crying

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Rafayel 

When Thomas called you saying Rafayel had been dodging his calls all day, you weren't surprised. That was typical of your boyfriend. You decided to give him a call and maybe persuade him to finish a painting or two, but he didn't answer. Growing slightly concerned, you called again, but still nothing. Rafayel never missed your calls. He had even answered one day when he was using the bathroom, never wanting to miss a call from his muse. Since you were off work today anyway, you decided to pay him a visit, grabbing your keys and heading to his place. 

It was eerily empty in his house, which worried you even more. Something was off. Had he decided to go on a spontaneous trip out of town? He would have answered your calls then. You decided to try calling him again, not knowing what else to do. Your heart sank when you heard the familiar jingle play, going towards his phone that was going off. Rafayel had left his phone behind. Even more unheard of. The first place you thought of to look for him was the sea, the beach outside his house. If he wasn't there, there were a few more places to try, but that was the closest place. Opening his back door, you stepped out into his yard, leaving it and walking along the sand. 

You had almost decided to turn around and look somewhere else when you spotted a figure up ahead. The head of lilac hair told you it was Rafayel. His knees were pulled to his chest, sitting in the sand, his head gazing out to the sea, his clothes soaked as sat where the waves met the sand, the waves brushing up against him. A breath of relief left your lips, though you were still concerned. Picking up your pace, you jogged over to him, watching him as you got closer. You could tell that something was wrong in the way he sat and gazed out to the sea. Slowing down when you were close, you could see tears falling like pearls from his eyes, slipping down his face and splattering into the sea water. Your heart broke at the sight, carefully moving to sit next to him, not caring about getting your favorite pants soaked. When your arm wrapped around him, he jumped slightly, turning to see who had joined him. Saying nothing, you pulled him closer to you, his head easily falling onto your chest, a silent way of telling him it was okay to be crying. A way to tell him that you were there for him. 

His arms unraveled from his legs and wrapped around you, the sea beginning to soak your legs and his tears soaking your shirt. You brought a hand up to his head, patting his hair as he cried. When he seemed to settle, his tears slowing, you broke the silence. “What happened?” 

“It's nothing,” he muttered. 

“If it got you out here crying and not answering my calls it's not nothing,” you argued. 

“Sorry,” he hid his face. You gently placed a hand on his cheek, encouraging to face you. 

“You don't need to apologize, Raf. I'm more worried than anything. You know you can talk to me, right? You can cry or scream or pout in front of me and I won't run. I care about you so very much.” 

“I miss home,” his voice broke slightly as he admitted what was bothering him. You nodded in understanding, staying silent. “I miss Lemuria. My friends and family. My home. The stupid fish and whales. I miss all of them and I'm the only one I can blame for that. It's my fault they're gone.” His words sat heavy in your hearts. He had told you of his history and past. You didn't remember what had happened, but believed him when he told you, feeling that the two of you were connected, the bond proving it. 

“I can't say that's not entirely true, and I don't remember what happened, but I don't think you can blame just yourself. You still tried everything in your power to save your people. You fell in love. You were young. No one can blame you for that. I know my situation is completely different, but I miss home sometimes too. It's hard. I can't even imagine how much harder it is when your home literally no longer exists,” you told him. He nodded. “Do you regret what you did?” You suddenly asked. 

“Not at all. I'd choose you every time,” he stated. 

“Then you shouldn't take the full blame for what happened. You tried. You really did.” 

Silence fell over the two of you as you watched the waves. You held him in your arms as he sat silently, a few tears falling every now and then. “Is there anything I can do to make your home here feel more like home? I can try to cook a dish from Lemuria or decorate your house,” you offered.

“You feel like home. Just you being here helps,” he admitted. I nodded. 

“Then I'll be sure to come over more often. And if you find yourself missing home, tell me and I'll come. How about we head back and cuddle up? Watch a movie or something?” You offered, knowing snuggling was his ultimate weakness as well as comfort. He nodded in agreement. You stood first, offering your hand to him. He frowned, looking up at you. 

“Those are your favorite pants, why did you come sit here?” He asked. You shrugged. 

“Cause you're more important to me.” 

“More important than that stupid bird plushie?” His eyes narrowed. You smiled at him. He held such a grudge towards the plush, as you chose one time to have it in your arms while you slept. “Even more than the plushie,” you smiled. He nodded, smiling and grabbed your hand standing up. He pulled you into his chest, hugging you. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Of course. Let's get going.” 

Hand in hand, you all walked back to his place. Once there, you both changed into dry clothes before ordering some food and picking a movie to watch. You had fallen asleep in his arms, too comfortable to not fall asleep. He smiled down at you, thankful that his bride had returned to him. Thankful that he still had part of his home. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Sylus

You waltzed into Sylus's office, excited to tell him about your promotion at work. But as soon as you entered, you froze mid sentence, looking at the sight before you. Your boyfriend, Sylus, sitting behind his desk, holding his head in-between his hands. When he looked up at you, his eyes were red, a few tears streaming down his face. He immediately looked away, praying you hadn't noticed. “Sy, are you,” you paused, stunned. “Crying?” 

“No,” he spoke, voice hoarse. You carefully walked over to him, as if afraid to scare him by moving too suddenly. He was lying of course, tears evident on his face. Moving behind the desk with him, you awkwardly hugged him, lightly pushing his face into your chest as your arms wrapped around him. 

“You know, you always tell me it's okay to cry and it doesn't make me any less strong, don't you know it's the same for you? It's okay to cry. Even when you're the big bad boss of Onychinus,” you whispered. He nodded, biting back tears. You stayed as you were, allowing whatever happened to happen. He was unsuccessful in holding back his tears, crying softly into your chest. It was still a shock to you. Sylus was the definition of someone who presented as if nothing could make him cry. It didn't bother you at all, it was just a surprise. Your concern though, was what had happened to make him cry. But you could ask later, and you did, when his tears stopped and he wriggled out of your grasp to grab a tissue. You watched him carefully, observing him. His nose and eyes red, expression downcast. It was unfamiliar to you. You had never seen or heard of him crying. “Wanna talk about it?” You asked. He licked his lips, unsure. 

“If you don't mind,” he finally decided. 

“Not at all,” you answered, moving to sit on his desk in front of him. He smiled softly up at you before taking a deep breath. 

“Some dickhead went on a rampage in the N-109 zone. Slaughtered hundreds of men, women and children for fun,” he spat. “About a year ago, I ran into a child walking around on the street. She had lost her parents and I surprised everyone by supporting her. I found a place for her to live, I visited often to make sure she was doing okay and being taken care of. She was on her way here when she was killed in front of my eyes. I couldn't do anything to save her,” he finished, looking down and biting his lip. You were stunned at the news and furious that something so horrible had happened. 

“Do you need me to go kill this guy? Because I will,” you offered. He chuckled at that. 

“He's been taken care of. Got what he asked for, I made sure of that,” he informed me. You nodded. 

“So it's the loss of this girl?” you carefully asked. He nodded. 

“It's weird and even surprised me, but she kinda felt like a daughter,” he admitted. Not knowing what else to do, you stood up and hugged him. 

“I'm sorry that happened. Truly,” you told him. He gave a slight nod and hugged you back, pulling you in closer. 

“I should have gotten there faster. I didn't know she was there. If I was quicker she could have lived,” he whispered. 

“You don't know that for sure. You didn't know she was there. There was no way to even know she was there. You did all you could, don't blame yourself. It's not your fault,” you soothed. 

“It feels like it is,” he admitted. 

“I know. But you weren't the one to take her life, you did all you could. It may be a bit too soon to think about, but do you want to hold a service for her? You said she lost her parents, so there's not really anyone to do a service,” you offered. 

“That'd be nice. Luke and Kieran have her,” he informed me, words getting softer as the reality continued to hit him. You nodded and moved to place your hands on his cheeks, guiding his lips to yours and pressing a quick kiss to them. “I'll plan it, just tell me what she liked,” you smiled softly at him. He smiled back, sadly. 

“Okay. Use my card for it all. She deserves the best service we can get.” 

“And the best she will. Wanna go get cleaned up?” You asked, he nodded and you guided him to his bathroom, showering with him both literally and with love. Making sure to scrub off any remnants of his fight and loss. You could tell he was still processing it all, upset but not fully grasping the situation. Once clean, you forced him to eat some food before getting into bed with him. Usually, he'd hold you, but today was different. He half laid down on you, head resting on your chest as he listened to your heartbeat. A few tears fell every so often, but he no longer tried to hide them, the grief hitting him. You stayed with him, whispering words of comfort to him, rubbing his back. 

It wouldn't be easy, but with you by his side, Sylus would hold the perfect service for the little girl and process his grief, thankful he had you by his side throughout the whole thing- whether he was strong or weak. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿���‿︵ ˚₊

Xavier 

When you woke up you were immediately confused, the unfamiliar sterile white ceiling staring back at you. You tried to move, but nothing happened. So you took in the surrounding sounds. The steady beep of a monitor, the sound of a distant fan and talking. You figured you must be in a hospital. It was then that you heard a sniffle, making you blink. You couldn't remember what happened. Who was here with you? Were they crying? Your eyes finally moved, glancing to the side and finding your boyfriend, Xavier. His eyes were red and puffy as he cried. He still had blood from wanderers splattered on his uniform. He looked like he had been through hell and back…maybe he had. “Xav,” you managed to croak out. His eyes widened as he saw you were awake. 

“You're awake. How do you feel? Does it hurt anywhere? I'll get the nurse,” he rambled, standing up. 

“What happened?” You asked, ignoring his questions. He froze in place and returned to your bedside, gently grabbing one of your hands. His hands trembled slightly, making you grow more concerned. 

“I-im sorry. I couldn't get there in time, I was trying to warn you, but I failed and you were hit. Bad. I thought I was going to lose you and it was all my fault. All because I couldn't get to you in time. I'm so sorry,” he spoke, tears falling once again. You managed to shake your head. 

“It's okay Xavie. I know you tried. You did everything you could, I'm sure of it. I'm okay now. You're not gonna lose me,” you comforted him. You wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to hold him and comfort him while he cried. So you tried, gasping in pain when you tried to move. 

“Don't move yet, you'll make it worse,” he scolded you immediately. 

“I wanna hold you,” you admitted. He frowned slightly before getting up and laying in the hospital bed next to you, his arms carefully wrapping around you so he wouldn't cause any further pain. “Are you okay?” You asked him. 

“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “I don't know what I would have done if I lost you.” 

“You'd move on and live your life of course,” you told him. 

“No,” he firmly stated. “I can't live my life without you. I promise I'll be faster next time.” 

“There's no need to beat yourself up about this Xavie. Part of our job is risking our lives. It was an accident. It'd take a lot more to end me.” 

“Promise?” 

“I promise. I'm not leaving you any time soon, okay?” He nodded and hid his face in your neck. You managed to gain enough strength to lift your hand and rub his back, comforting him. 

The nurse came in and he refused to move, which the nurse eventually accepted, mostly because you said you were fine for now. She asked a few questions and took the vitals she could manage to get without Xavier in the way, before leaving and informing you she'd be back later. When she left you placed your hands on Xavier's face, guiding him to look at you. You wiped away a few more tears with your thumb. “I've never seen you cry so much,” you admitted. 

“Only because it's you,” he whispered, nuzzling into your hand. You hummed in acknowledgement. “We should get some hot pot when I'm released to cheer you up,” you mused. 

“If it's what you want,” he agreed, making you pout at him. 

“What I want is for you to cheer up. Of course it's okay to cry, but that doesn't mean I like seeing you cry. I want you to always be happy.” 

“Then don't ever leave me,” he said seriously. 

“I don't plan on it,” you smiled at him before softly kissing his lips. 

“Good. Now get some more rest so you can heal up and come home,” he instructed. You nodded, moving your arms to snuggle closer to him, allowing his warmth to lull you to sleep. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Zayne 

“Guess who's favorite patient is here?! Oh shit,” you suddenly stopped, still holding the door to Zayne's office, freezing in place. His head was in his hands, glasses thrown onto his desk, his hair messy. What really threw you off though, was when he looked up, fresh tears falling down his face. You hadn't seen him cry since you were children, crying over scrapes from concrete. He quickly wiped them away, unsure what to say. You were the same, still frozen in place. Once your brain decided to process that your boyfriend was crying, you hesitantly closed the door behind you and walked over to his desk. He watched uncomfortably. You weren't meant to see him in this state. Hell, he rarely was in a state like this, no one but him should see. “I- you- are,” you attempted to formulate a question, sighing when nothing that made sense came out. “Are you okay? What happened?” You finally asked. Your heart clenched at his reaction, his face welling up in pain before a sob left his throat. Concerned, you quickly made your way around his desk, pulling him into a hug. He buried his face in your stomach, gripping onto you tightly. You had no words, still stunned by the sight, hands instinctively rubbing his back. 

You stayed like that until your back grew sore from the position, Zayne's tears stopping. He broke the hug and leaned back into his chair, apologizing. “I'm sorry you had to see me like that.”

“Don't be. Are you okay though?” You asked, knowing something was obviously wrong. He nodded. 

“Yes. I guess I just got a bit overwhelmed. With the wanderer attack I haven't been home in days. I've barely slept or eaten. It's surgery after surgery, but I can't just not perform. That's someone's life. It hasn't been this back and forth in a while,” he explained. You nodded. 

“Is there no one else who can do the surgeries? You need to rest,” you chided him. 

“There wasn't. There is now. Fucking 72 hours later,” he breathed frustratedly. 

“That explains why you hadn't answered my texts,” you mused. “I figured you were busy, but not this busy to where you haven't slept in days.” He nodded. 

“Can we go home?” He asked, looking up at you. You smiled and nodded, bringing a hand to wipe away a stray tear. “I was going to leave after gathering myself, but you've already seen the worst of it.” 

“I'm glad I did in a way. Of course, I hate seeing you like this, but I want to be there for you. Overwhelmed and crying or stoic and loving. I wanna see all of it. Want me to get your things?” You offered. He smiled and shook his head, his hand guiding the hand that was once on his cheek to his lips, pressing a kiss to your hand. 

“I've got it. Thank you my love.” He stood and grabbed his things, packing away whatever he needed. You grabbed his hand and led him out of his office. 

When you got to his home, you immediately instructed him to wash up while you cooked him something. He agreed, not bothering to argue, though a shower was definitely what he wanted at that moment. Before cooking though, you quickly slipped out, walking down the road to his favorite dessert spot and getting some sweets for him. The woman at the counter recognized you and immediately got together your usual order- filled with your and Zayne's favorites. 

When you got back to his place you snuck back in, glancing to make sure he was still out of sight. Thankfully he was, opting to take a much needed long and hot shower. After placing the bag of sweets on the counter, you got to work. Zayne left the shower some time later, announcing his presence by hugging you from behind while you cooked, the scent of his body wash filling your nostrils. “Feel better?” You asked. He hummed in agreement. “Sleepy?” You chuckled. He made a noise of agreement, muffled as he hid his face in your shoulder, taking in your scent. He was relieved to finally be home. “I got you something,” you smiled down at the food you were making. 

“You did? When?” He asked. You nodded to the bag on the counter. 

“While you were in the shower. Thought you could use some sweets.” 

“That's an understatement,” he chuckled. When the food was done, the two of you ate, you doing most of the talking as Zayne was tired. He was happy to listen though. He could listen to you talk about your day for hours. You could be reading a dictionary and he'd happily listen to every word. After eating, you did the dishes, slapping Zayne's hand away when he tried to help, instructing him to head to bed first. With a kiss pressed to your cheek, he listened. 

Once done with dishes and getting yourself ready for bed, you joined Zayne, easily snuggling up next to him. He was half asleep, but still managed to thank you. “Thank you for this. You always know exactly what I need. All I wanted was to come home to you and sleep,” he admitted. 

“I would agree, though my days haven't been quite as intense. I'm happy to take care of you. I'll ask off tomorrow so we can spend all day in bed,” you offered. 

“You don't need to do that,” he insisted. 

“Too late,” you smiled. “Get some rest, I love you Zayne.” 

“Sleep well my love,” he mumbled out, falling asleep now that he has said everything he wanted to. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Caleb 

You wanted to surprise Caleb. He was going to be in town and you hadn't seen him in a while. So instead of meeting him at your place, you decided to show up at his work. You were able to get through security pretty easily, as Caleb had brought you a few times when you visited. You excitedly knocked at his office door before opening it and stepping in. “Surprise!” You called out, a smile immediately turning into a frown when you saw him holding his arm, wincing as tears fell. You ran over to him, gently holding his mechanical arm and looking it over. “Caleb, are you okay? Where does it hurt?” You asked him. 

“It's nothing,” he answered, stopping his tears. It was the same as when they were kids. 

“How many times do I have to tell you it's not nothing if you're crying? That it's okay to cry in front of me?” You scolded him. “Now tell me where it hurts.” 

“I know. But I'm supposed to be there for you, not the other way around. I don't need to be taken care of,” he argued. 

“Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes. That's how a relationship works. You're there for me and now I'm here for you, so stop hiding,” you sighed. He looked down, avoiding your gaze. 

“It just got an upgrade. They usually hurt, but not this bad,” he softly explained. 

“Do you think there was a malfunction? Should I notify your doctor?” You asked. He shrugged. 

“I'm fine,” he got out, just before wincing again, his hand going to grab his shoulder. You frowned and picked up the phone on his desk, calling for the doctor. 

“Let me take care of you for once,” you told him after putting the phone down, hand reaching to wipe away a few tears that he failed to hold back. “Losing an arm is reason enough to cry anyway. You don't have to pretend it doesn't hurt for me. I don't want you to do that at all.” He nodded, listening to your words. You wrapped your arms around him in a hug, patting his hair until there was a knock at the door. You moved to open the door, letting in two men dressed in lab coats. Caleb explained what was happening and the two worked together to take his vitals and work on his mechanical arm. You brought a chair next to Caleb, holding his hand as they worked. He tried his best to make it seem painless, but failed, wincing every now and then. After some time, the men left. “Better?” You asked him, rubbing his arm. He nodded. 

“Yeah, sorry you had to see that,” he apologized. 

“Apologize again and I'm leaving you. You were this bad when we were kids, how have you not changed at all? I cried all the time in front of you and still do and you don't think I'm weak, right?” You asked. 

“Of course not. You're the strongest hunter I know,” he scoffed. 

“Then why do you think crying is going to make you weak? You're still the strongest commander I know. Getting used to a mechanical arm can't be easy, not to mention, it's newer tech. There's going to be errors.” 

“Yeah I guess,” he half heartedly agreed. You sighed, knowing there wasn't really a way to convince him. You decided on cheering him up the same way you did as when you were kids, knocking the hat off his head and throwing it across the room. “Wha-” he began laughing. You shrugged at him. 

“Only way I know to cheer you up. Should I continue?” You threatened with a grin. He shrugged and you pounced, immediately your fingers finding the ticklish spot on his sides, attacking him. He bursted into laughter, attempting to push you away from him. Unfortunately for him, you were much stronger now than when you were kids. It wasn't until you felt the effects of his evol pushing you away, you were forced to stop. “That's cheating!” You yelled at him. 

“I'm doing what has to be done. There are other ways to cheer me up now, pipsqueak,” he grinned, standing from his chair. His hand found your cheek, caressing it as he grinned at you. “Like this,” he whispered before leaning in and kissing your lips. 

“Such a cheater,” you muttered, face flushed. He laughed and you felt the effects of his evol wear off. He wrapped his arms around you into a hug. 

“Thank you though. For being there and not telling me I'm a wimp for crying over a little pain,” he whispered into your ear. You punched his chest lightly, pulling back to look at him.

“A little bit of pain seems like an understatement, but I won't argue further. You're welcome though.” 

“Promise not to tell anyone about seeing me cry? I've threatened both of my doctors,” he admitted. 

“So you crying and being in pain happens often?!” You exclaimed. 

“I wouldn't say often-” 

“Why didn't you tell me? I would have made sure to come to all the appointments I could have,” you interrupted, disappointed in him a bit. 

“I'm sorry. I was stupid and truly believed you'd think I was a baby, still kinda worried about that if I'm honest,” he admitted. You crossed your arms on your chest. 

“I don't think that. Never will. You've always been way stronger than me. Promise you'll start telling me when you have appointments?” You asked. He nodded. 

“As long as you promise not to tell people I cry,” he agreed. 

“Deal. Now can we go spend the weekend together? A new arcade opened up down the road from my apartment.” Caleb smiled at you before grabbing his coat (and the hat that was thrown across the room). He took your hand and led you out of his office, ready to spend time with his favorite person.

[ozzgin]

How would the yokai harem react to you talking about a manipulative ex? content: gender neutral reader x various demons

Murasaki will silently listen to your rant with the same flat expression he always wears. Or was that a grimace you just spotted? Upon further inspection, he does seem more annoyed than usual. “At least you had the brain to walk away, I suppose,” he says with a huff. It doesn’t surprise him much, in all honesty; humans aren’t exactly known for their awareness, and you’re a particularly naïve one. He places a hand on your head and gives you a swift ruffle. Christ, you’re hopeless. Thankfully you won’t have to deal with that anymore, not under his watch. Had this happened in his presence, the offender would’ve been sliced in half.

Kiritsubo is very vocal throughout your retelling. They did what?! He’s so upset on your behalf, cheeks flushed and puffed up with indignance. After clarifying some details to him, you discover that the yokai is rather...oblivious himself. Good Lord, he would’ve fallen for it even harder. He pats his sword and declares he won’t ever allow it to happen again. You can’t help but chuckle at his confidence. Indeed, you might have to help him a little in recognizing the danger. You appreciate his good intentions, nonetheless.

Suma approaches your story with a very positive outlook, which is very much like him. With a laugh, he pats your back and praises you. “It’s a hard lesson, but a lesson still. Humans and demons are difficult creatures, eh? You can’t always read them, nor can you tell their intentions. To be aware of this and continue living with an open heart means you’re brave, not gullible.” That’s just the way things are. We get hurt and we learn from it. He’s proud of you for being here despite everything. “That’s not to say you have to deal with it alone,” he adds with a cheeky smile. “Let me know about it next time it happens, alright?”

Yuugiri is very unbothered, nodding along with a smile. Oh, you recognize that grin. A cold shiver runs down your spine as you realize your mistake. The serpent yokai is exceptionally vengeful, especially when it comes to you. Your ex-partner has now become a target for unknown terrors. Somewhere, sometime in the future, they will suffer. Yuugiri will make sure of it. No one messes with his precious little human and comes out unscathed. Oh, to think they took advantage of your innocence! Of course you’re easily manipulated, but it’s a gift that must be appreciated, not abused. He should be the only one with the privilege of...influencing you every now and then.

Sakaki scribbles in his sketchbook while listening to your rant. Truth be told, you’re not expecting much from him. He’ll probably tell you that it is indeed in the nature of most humans to be this devious, and misery is inescapable. Suffering is but an eternal part of life, from which only Death can free us. Gosh, you’ve been hanging out way too much with this gloom-ridden artist. You finally glance over his shoulder and notice the intricate pentagram. “It’s a curse,” he says with a flat smile. “I just need to find the guy, and then...heh. It’s not the poetic kind of agony, that’s for sure.” You’re his only source of happiness and hope, after all. There’s no way in Hell he’d ever allow anyone to interfere with it.

Sekiya is very similar to Kiritsubo in his reaction. His face begins to twist through a range of emotions. You know him so well, at this point, that you can already guess the stages of grief crossing his mind: he’d never treat you that way, and if someone else was to dare, he’d...he’d deal with them, right? Could a weakling like him even manage? Come, now, he’s still a yokai several ranks above the regular demons. Can he prove it to you, however? You stop his thoughts before they go any further, taking his hand in yours. “You’ll take care of me, right,” you ask. His eyes widen and his chest involuntarily swells up with pride. “Of course,” he barks loudly. Oh, to think you’d put your faith in him like that! He’s drunk with delight.

[stillwatervoid]

Do you have any Mark headcanons? If yes please share :)

Heeey! So, I’m not sure if there’s a specific ‘right’ way to do headcanons, but here’s my take on it:

Mark Grayson is basically a "friends to lovers" kind of character. It doesn’t matter if you’re childhood friends, met at school by chance, or bonded on the field as heroes (if reader has powers)—if you’re friends, he’s eventually going to fall for you.

The thing is, he doesn’t even realize it at first. He’s just used to feeling light and warm and happy around you. That’s just how it is. That’s just how you two are. The feelings are there, shimmering quietly beneath the surface, but he’s either too oblivious to notice or actively ignoring them—thinking it’s easier to let them sit there, harmless, until they magically fade away.

Except they don’t go away, and every brush of your fingers, every quiet laugh, every lingering look leaves him spiraling—his heart stumbling, his thoughts a mess, his words tripping over themselves. And eventually, after weeks of denial, of pretending he’s content to remain just friends, Mark finally admits to himself that his feelings go far deeper than that.

And oh, he’s so down bad.

When Mark Grayson falls, he falls hard—and once he stops ignoring it, he’s not subtle about it either. He’s suddenly offering to carry your stuff, always walking close beside you in the hallways, casually throwing his arm around your shoulders while you’re talking, sliding his hand around your waist when you’re chatting with someone else—little touches that linger just long enough to mean something.

Just enough for you to start noticing.

Just enough for you to start returning the favor.

Mark nearly faceplants into the pavement when you kiss his cheek goodbye after school for the first time.

“What—what was that for?” he stammers, mouth dry, cheeks flaming red like he’s about to combust on the spot.

You huff a laugh, clearly enjoying how flustered he is.

“It’s payback,” you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. You’re thinking of all the times he got a little too close, held you just a bit too tight, gently nudged you when someone else had your attention—like he couldn’t stand not being the one you were looking at. Like he needed to remind you exactly where you belonged. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Grayson.”

That shuts him up real quick—but it leaves him reeling. And absolutely ready to make his next move.

Mark Grayson kisses like he’s starving.

Yup, that’s right. I’ll say it here and I’ll scream it in every piece I write.

Mark Grayson 🗣️kisses you 🗣️like he’s 🗣️ starving 🗣️ 🗣️

When he finally confesses, when he finally admits what’s been building inside him, and you—oh thank god—you return his feelings, the kiss that follows is desperate, hungry, and filled with everything he’s been holding back for so long.

His hands are shaky and unsteady, but it’s clear he’s been waiting for this moment longer than you realized. Every inch of him buzzes where he touches you, like he can’t contain it anymore. His lips seek yours with an urgency that takes your breath away, his hands trembling as they pull you closer, pressing you into him as if he’s terrified he's dreaming or something.

And despite all his nervous, jittery energy, Mark devours you.

He makes all kinds of sounds when he kisses—groans, sighs, low hums that vibrate against your mouth. His tongue searches, teeth nip, and the wet, messy sounds filling the room would absolutely make you blush if anyone else ever got the chance to hear them.

Mark kisses you like he’s thirsty. Like he’s hungry. Like you’re the last bit of air left on Earth.

And sometimes, yeah, you genuinely have to stop him before you black out.

“Mark—mmh—Mark, I need—” you mumble, half-laughing, breathless, trapped between his arms and the mess of his bed. “I need to breathe, babe. I’m not—mmh—I can’t hold my breath like you.”

Yeah, he needs a daily reminder that you’re just human and your lungs can’t handle what his Viltrumite ones can. Mark can hold his breath for hours if he needs to. And if you could too? He’d be kissing you until your lips went purple, until they were swollen and bruised and completely wrecked.

And let’s be honest—he’s not the only one starving.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting just as long.

Like you’ve been hungry too.

Mark Grayson takes you flying wherever you want, whenever you want.

Just being able to call you his boyfriend, to say your relationship is official, isn’t enough for him. Not even close. Mark can’t help but go above and beyond to prove—over and over—that he loves you every single day. Because as much as he tries, his hero life always pulls him away. He’s constantly injured, constantly exhausted, constantly needed somewhere else. And it’s not like you hold that against him. When you said yes to dating Mark Grayson, you also said yes to dating Invincible—and you’re not backing out now.

Still, he hates when plans get canceled, when hangouts have to be rescheduled, when he finally climbs through your window only to find you already asleep, waiting for him until you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. So he does what he can to make it up to you, to make it unforgetable.

When he can make time, he takes you to places you’ve only ever seen in movies. In under six months, you’ve visited half the globe. Breakfast in Italy, lunch in Egypt, dinner in Seoul. Mark makes a habit of picking you up, arms sliding around your waist, and asking, “What do you fancy eating today?” like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And when you spot a cool place online, you don’t even have to finish the sentence.

“Hey, Mark, there’s this new themed café in Japan. You think we could—”

“Yes,” he answers before you can even finish, already lifting off the ground with you scooped in his arms. “Let’s go right now.”

You barely have time to grab your jacket.

That’s how he is with you—immediate, eager, shamelessly in love.

If you want something, Mark is already three steps ahead trying to give it to you.

Flying with him becomes your new normal—not just for spontaneous getaways or international dates, but for the quiet moments too. Sometimes, when you're hunched over your desk, buried in homework or stress, he just shows up at your window, a soft tap against the glass, and before you know it, he’s convincing you to join him in the sky for a quiet moment alone. Mark treasures these moments more than anything. Just the two of you, alone above the city, with only the stars as company. Your head resting against his, temple pressed to his, as the world below fades into nothingness.

Because while Mark may not always have the time to give you during the day—between his duties as Invincible, the injuries, the endless missions—he has enough to give you at night. And he hopes that these quiet, stolen moments under the stars will somehow make up for all the things he can’t be there for.

[c4tluver02]

hair cut !

wc: 1.5k

summary: Steves hair is growing far too long for his liking, so who else could he trust more than you to cut his hair?

warnings: none!

Steves had to move his hair out of his eyes 5 times within the last 2 minutes. Each time pieces of hair fall back down to his eyes. His hair has grown long and unruly and, frankly, he's tired of it.  Summer is coming and Steve thinks it’s time for a haircut– the idea of being in the sweltering heat with hair sticking to his neck already makes him over the season. The only reason he’s even let it grow out this long was because the guy who usually cuts his hair is out of town all summer, which means he needs to find someone new. But Steve is very particular about the way his hair looks, and if it came out looking bad you would probably have a meltdown. His hair being just as important to you as it is to him. 

Steve has asked a few of his friends about where they get their hair cuts. The kids go to some kid salon, Eddie cuts his own hair, shocker, Jonathan has his mom cut his hair, and unfortunately that's the only friends he has that are guys. Maybe more importantly than a haircut Steve needs new friends….. 

You're sitting right in front of him at the dining table when you notice the struggle he's having with his long locks. 

“Y’need a headband baby?” You giggle.

“I need a haircut but my guy won't be back till next month.” Steve groans, letting his head fall into his hands. 

You can't help but smile at his dramatics. You give his shoulder a kiss and grab the bowl he was eating cereal out of, ready to wash it. “You might just have to find a new person, babe. Have you asked any of the guys where they go?” Now you're washing his dishes. How’d he get so lucky?

“Yeah and what it's told me is that they are all losers who don’t care about their hair.” Steves now resting his head on his hand watching you. 

You roll your eyes at his comment, despite sounding harsh it came out with zero malice. “I could see if the girl who cuts my hair can cut yours? I trust her with all my heart. She always teaches me things about my hair and why she cuts it the way she does.” You hum, happy to have someone who you trust to make you look your best. 

“So what you're saying is that she’s basically taught you how to cut your hair?” Steve asks with curiosity.

“I mean I’ve seen her do it so many times I probably could-” It comes out before you realize the trap he's our you in. 

“No.” You state firmly.

“Please you just said it yourself, you can do it.” Steve says getting up from the table to walk towards you. 

“I said I could possibly, maybe, cut my own hair. Meaning my long hair that just needs to be cut on the very ends. Your hair needs more because it's short!” You say trying to reason with him. You don’t know how well you trust yourself with this. 

“Angel there's no way you can mess it up, it just needs a little bit off the back, and the sides, and the tiniest bit off the top.” He says smoothing his hand up and down your arms till his hands grab onto your wrists. 

“That's your whole head Steve.” Now he's giving your knuckles tiny kisses. “I don't want to mess it up, what if you hate it? You’ll be so upset with me.” 

“I would never be upset with you over some hair. It will grow back! Plus there's no one I trust more than you.” 

You look at him, he can tell you're trying to think about the pros and cons of agreeing. 

“Plus who do I need to look good for I already have a hot beautiful amazing girlfriend.” He says with a large smile.

“I’d hope you would try to look good for your hot beautiful amazing girlfriend.” You say with a huff.

“Please baby? It’s too long, and if you cut it you can stop whenever. If I went to get it cut they'd cut it all off and it is what it is.” 

He brings up a good point, and truly how hard could cutting short hair be? You have seen Steve at every hair phase and you know what he likes. 

“Okay fine I’ll cut your hair.” You give in, mentally preparing yourself for how careful you’ll need to be. 

“Thank you sweet girl. I’ll go get some scissors and the spray bottle if you wanna get a towel?” He’s asking as he's already moving towards the stairs. 

“Okay i'll get it set up down here.” You say and you hear a ‘thank you!’ from upstairs. You pull a chair out into the middle of the room, not wanting to get hair everywhere, and grab a towel.

Steve comes down at lightning speed with a spray bottle and scissors in hand. “Sit down and I'll go put water in this.” You say grabbing the bottle from his hand. 

Steve does as you ask and places the towel around his shoulders, as if he had a cape from the hairdressers. 

“Okay, how much shorter do you want it? Like just a baby trim till your guy comes back or what?” You ask coming back with the bottle. 

“Hmm, I guess just cut whatever you think needs to be cut.” He says with his eyes closed ready for you to spray him down. 

You lay your forehead against his head in defeat. If only he was as specific as girls are during their haircuts. You lift your head and give him a little kiss as if to say ‘sorry if I mess up’ and start wetting his hair. It doesn't take long till it's dripping wet and you brush it out, trying to see the shape of it when it's not dry and bouncy. 

“Okay i'm gonna cut this is your last chance to back out.” He can feel your hands on his shoulders giving him two squeezes. He lets out a laugh, clearly not as stressed as you are.

“Go for it baby, you got this.” He says reaching his arm out behind him to give your thigh a squeeze in return. 

Steve can hear the scissors cut his hair before he feels it fall on his neck. You're starting with the back hoping it would be easier. If you cut out a big chunk in the back he wouldn't know, plus who looks at the back! There's a part of your brain holding knowledge for how hair should be cut, seeing as you've had your haircut a million times and all you can do is hope it comes out at this moment. 

Once the back looks like it's at a good spot you move up towards the top. His hair normally falls on his forehead creating a bit of a bang moment so you try to recreate how it normally looks. The sides curl out a bit and you cut just enough that it still flares out but with some cream it could be pushed back neatly. 

Working silently in peace the only sounds are the comb going through his hair and the scissors cutting off the unwanted hair. You ruffle his hair around trying to see what it looks like when it's not combed straight. Looking to see if there's any pieces you need to cut or missed. Surprisingly it looks pretty good– It’s clean and shaped nicely. 

“Okay Stevie I think I'm done.” You say wiping the hair from his neck with the towel.

“Yeah? Let's go look.” Steve gets up and brings the towel to sit around his neck and on his shoulders. He grabs your hand and brings you to the bathroom for a mirror. 

You're hiding by the door frame, scared to see his reaction in case he doesn't like it. 

“Holy shit babe. It looks perfect.” He’s messing around with it, trying to get it in his normal position. 

“Really? Is there anything you wanna change or cut?” You're unsure if he's just being nice, wanting to give him a chance to ask for a fix. 

“Nope. I think it looks amazing.” He turns off the bathroom light and gently grabs your face. He litters a bunch of kisses around your eyes and your nose till he finally reaches your lips. 

“Thank you for cutting it for me.” He says it in the most sincere way you can't help but blush. 

You grab onto his face and in return give him a big kiss. “That'll be $30 please!” Holding out your hand. 

“Yikes, I think I forgot my wallet!” He says playing along. “Anyway I could repay you with something else?” A smirk appears on his face due to his own idea. He places his hand on your hip low enough almost touching your butt. 

You laugh at his antics and lean in close to his ear giving his neck a kiss. Steve angles his head to the side so that his neck is more open for you and you rise to your tippy toes.  

“I’ll be waiting for that $3o when you have it.” You whisper into his ear giving his cheek a little peck before standing back down and walking away. 

You don't even need to turn around to know Steve's face is heated and pink.

[batsovergotham]

i don’t know who i am anymore pt 2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut, some angst, fluff, yay flashback time!!!

w/c: 18.4k

a/n: this chapter isn't really crucial to plot I left it in because I promised there would be more fluff n smut

Your room is excessively neat. Too quiet.

The graduation gown sits from your closet like it’s criticizing you. The cap is on your desk, tassel still sealed in the tiny package the school handed you during final week. You haven’t taken it out yet. You kind of enjoy the concept that if you don’t touch it, it won’t be real. That maybe the day won’t happen.

Your phone buzzes. Mark.

> you up?

You grin before you realize you’re smiling.

> barely. do i have to wear the cap or can i just glue the diploma to my chest

Mark replies quickly.

> new fashion trend but yes ben will cry if you don’t do it correctly

You pause, then smile wider. Ben. And May. They’re going to be there.

You’re going separately from Mark. Not because you’re concealing anything, you’re not. You’ve mentioned him before. Told May he made you laugh. Told Ben he helped you with chem. They know his name. They knew his voice, from the day he picked you up after school and honked twice in the driveway while you ran out the door, blushing.

But you haven’t spoken it out loud. Not yet. He’s yours, but in the manner that doesn’t always require explaining. And today? Today doesn’t feel like the proper day to characterize it.

You text him back.

> you bringing tissues? i’m guessing you’re a crier

Mark texts back.

> bold of you to think i have human emotions wait hold on just made eye contact with my mom and now i’m crying in the kitchen

You laugh and type back.

> idiot

Mark shoots back a text.

> your idiot

You ride to the ceremony with May and Ben. Ben drives. May has the radio tuned to a station that’s only playing slow, melancholy graduation music from the early 2000s. You sat in the back seat, legs hopping, trying not to pick at your gown.

Ben peers at you in the rearview mirror. “You okay, kiddo?”

You nod. “Just… a lot.”

May turns to face you. “You’ve earned this. You hear me? All of it.”

You nod again, but your throat’s a touch too tight to speak anything more.

May smiles. “And hey. That kid you mentioned once or twice—Mark, right? He going too?”

You pause.

Then nod. “Yeah. He’ll be there.”

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press.

Ben snorts. “Is that the one who almost took out a mailbox trying to parallel park?”

“Ben.”

“I’m just saying. Bold choice.”

You grin. And feel your nerves relax just a bit. You notice Mark from across the field.

He’s in line with the rest of the alphabetically arranged mayhem, his hat slightly awry, robe blowing in the breeze. He notices you the second you locate him, like his radar is tuned to you and you alone. He doesn’t wave. He just grins. You don’t wave either. You just grin back. And yet, that’s louder than anything else going around you.

You spot them before Mark does.

You’ve known Debbie and Nolan for a while, at least, in the casual way people know the parents of their close friends. There were awkward half-smiles in the pick-up line outside school, courteous welcomes and dinners on evenings where you’d help Mark study for Chem, the one time Debbie handed you a tissue at a parent-teacher conference because your sinuses were acting up and she “always kept some handy.”

She’s standing beneath a tree now, away from the rush of post-graduation mayhem, wearing her usual blue button up, grey jeans, her hair tied in a tight bun. She seems peaceful. Warm. Like someone who’s handled the camera at a thousand school events and never missed the moment that mattered.

Nolan’s beside her. Tall. Hands in his pockets. Sharp posture. Watching the audience with that softly attentive face of his that doesn’t offer much, but never feels unfriendly either.

You tap Mark’s arm. “Your parents.”

He follows your eyes, nods. “Right. Let’s go say hi.”

You move together, falling into step as always. But your heart’s racing quicker now. They don’t know yet. About you and Mark. Not really. You’ve been around. Been to his place. Had dinner with them. Laughed at Nolan’s dry comments about his novels. Helped Debbie clean the dishes once after Mark burnt the noodles.

But that was all under the guise of just friends. Now? Now it’s different. Now you and Mark have held hands in school hallways, snuck kisses behind gym buildings, murmured vows in late-night conversations about how college won’t change how you feel. You’ve spent months orbiting each other with the type of gravity that only pulls tighter the longer you remain.

And they’re about to find out. Debbie sees you first. Her face brightens up.

“Oh!” she exclaims, coming forward. “There’s my favorite graduate!”

You open your mouth to say something, but she hugs you before you can.

“You looked so grown-up on that stage,” she adds, hugging your shoulders before stepping back. “Made me tear up.”

Mark coughs. “Mom.”

She turns to him. “You too, sweetheart. Obviously.”

Nolan provides a modest nod. “Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thanks,” you say, and you truly mean it.

Debbie’s glancing between the two of you now. Her eyes narrow. Just a bit. You gaze at Mark. Mark glances at you. And then Debbie says it.

“…You two came here to hang out together?”

Mark nods. “Yeah.”

Debbie’s stare lingers. “And sat together?”

You nod. Her brows rise.

“And walked out of the ceremony together?”

Mark touches the back of his neck. “Uh. Yeah. We’re... we’ve been together for a while now.”

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s loud. In a warm, astonished kind of manner. Debbie blinks once.

Then she claps her hands together. “Finally.”

Mark’s head twitches. “Wait—what?”

Nolan lets out a low sigh that could be the ghost of a chuckle.

Debbie glows. “Oh, please. Did you honestly believe I didn’t know?”

You gaze at her. “You—what?”

She pats your shoulder, smiling. "Sweetheart, the way you look at him? That’s exactly how I used to look at his dad, back when he didn’t have so much gray."

Nolan clears his throat. "It’s not that bad."

She smiles lightly, unfazed. "Keep telling yourself that, silver fox."

Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. “You knew?”

Debbie shrugs. “I didn’t know-know. But I guessed. And I hoped. And now I know for real, so now I get to celebrate.”

Nolan eventually talks again. “You make him calmer,” he explains simply. “That’s not easy.”

You gaze at Mark, shocked. Mark, for once, has nothing to say.

Debbie goes closer and offers you another hug, softer this time. “We like you, okay? We liked you before. But now it’s official.”

You grin into her shoulder. “Thanks, Mrs. Grayson.”

“Debbie,” she corrects softly. “You can stop with the formal stuff.”

You pull back. Then Debbie turns to Mark and slaps his arm.

“Ow!”

“You could’ve told us.”

“I was going to!”

“After the ceremony doesn’t count.”

Mark moans. “I wanted to do it right.”

Nolan arches a brow. “Did you think this needed to be a thing?”

Mark shrugs. “I don’t know! I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Debbie says. “It’s you. And it’s her. It makes sense.”

Mark glances at you. And in the midst of the grass, surrounded by yelling family, confetti, and the loud sound of someone’s off-brand speaker playing a graduation playlist, he smiles like the sun’s just shining on you.

You grab for his hand. He accepts it without hesitation. And Debbie doesn’t say anything. She only offers a glance that says, ‘Good.’ Nolan nods once again. And just like that, it’s real. They know. They approve. And you didn’t even have to explain.

You don’t stay long.

There are pictures to take, relatives to manage, and dinner arrangements with May and Ben. But before you go, Debbie makes you promise to come by next weekend for dinner,“Nothing fancy. I’m making spaghetti again. He can’t burn it this time if I’m supervising.”

Nolan presents you a graduation card. Doesn’t tell anything about what’s inside. But when you open it later in the vehicle and see the check, your mouth drops.

Mark just shrugs. “They like you.”

You and Mark sit on the hood of his car after nightfall, still in your gowns, still excited from the day. You put your head against his shoulder.

“I can’t believe they knew,” you whisper.

“I can’t believe my mom used the phrase ‘finally.’”

“She’s been rooting for us longer than we have.”

Mark laughs quietly. You turn your head to look at him. And he’s already gazing at you.

Mark shifts awkwardly, but his voice is steady. "I meant it. Whatever's next... I want you there with me."

You smile, a little breathless. "Good. 'Cause I wasn’t planning on doing any of it without you."

He leans in. And kisses you. Not rushed. Not performative. Just real. And sweet. And slow. And as he draws away, he lays his forehead against yours.

“Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“Guess so.”

And the world, which earlier felt unimaginably large, suddenly feels exactly the perfect size.

The bell over the restaurant entrance jingles as you go inside, shrill and high-pitched like it always is. It’s the same sound that’s welcomed you since you were ten years old, strolling in on muddy boots and sunburnt cheeks, pleading for pancakes and chocolate milk after soccer games you didn’t even win.

But tonight, everything sounds different.

Tonight, the air feels thicker. Softer.

Like it knows this is the final time you’ll come here as a high school student. As a kid, really.

May and Ben are already in the back booth. It’s the one they usually pick, the one with the view of the parking lot and the flickering neon sign in the window that still hums on humid evenings. Ben’s waving as soon as he sees you, beaming so broadly it makes his spectacles drop down his nose. May’s almost halfway out of her seat, reaching for you with both arms.

“There she is,” she says, drawing you into an embrace. “My brilliant, beautiful, officially-graduated girl.”

You squeeze her back, chuckling into her shoulder. “I didn’t trip walking across the stage.”

Ben lays a palm over his heart. “Truly, a miracle. She’s grown.”

You sneak into the seat opposite from him, your cap tucked under your arm, your graduation case still grasped like someone would take it back.

“I feel like I should get a trophy for surviving that many speeches,” you add, laying the certificate on the table.

May chuckles, eyes gleaming. “You did great. You seemed so calm up there.”

“I was internally screaming,” you acknowledge.

“Still looked good doing it,” Ben says.

You smile, soft, bashful. “Thanks, guys.”

A server drops by to deliver you menus, but you wave yours off. “I already know what I want.”

Ben laughs. “Same grilled cheese you’ve ordered since fifth grade?”

“Why mess with a classic?”

You slump back into the old vinyl of the booth, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day. The walls of the café are yellowed from time, and the linoleum flooring creak under sneakers when the crew goes by. A couple of toddlers are fighting about jelly packets at an adjacent table. The Coke machine hisses behind the counter. It’s all so natural.

And for a second, you forget you’re standing on the verge of something new.

The meal arrives swiftly. Grilled cheese, delicately crisped. Crinkle fries, shared between you and May. Ben’s burger is too huge for one hand, and he gets mustard on his shirt inside the first five minutes.

It’s perfect. Comforting.

“Flash tripped,” May says mid-bite, and you snort.

“I know. He almost took out three people with him.”

Ben shakes his head. “That boy’s gonna become a joke someday. I can feel it.”

You grin. “He already is.”

The laughing fades slowly, and for a minute, you all just eat in silence. Until May leans over and gently nudges the diploma case on the table.

“Feels real now, doesn’t it?”

You nod. “A little.”

Ben observes you closely. “How are you holding up?”

You pause.

And shrug. “Weird. Good-weird. A little afraid. Kinda floaty.”

“That’s about right,” he adds. “Floaty’s normal.”

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’ll still be senior year,” you say. “Like all of this is some long fever dream.”

May hums. “If it is, it’s a pretty good one.”

You nod, then peek out the window, watching the tail lights burn red in the parking lot, the streetlamp flickering along the sidewalk where you used to ride your bike in figure-eights.

They don’t bring up Mark right away. But you can feel it coming. The question is floating there, dangling in the gap between bits of food and sips of milkshake. And then, eventually, when May folds her napkin neatly next her plate, she says it.

“So... we saw Mark.”

You keep your focus on your fries. “Yeah?”

“Before the ceremony,” Ben adds. “He was with his parents. Looked nervous.”

You grin faintly. “He doesn’t like crowds.”

“He kept looking for you,” May adds gently.

You peek up, just for a second. You nod slowly. “Yeah. He did.”

That’s all you say. That’s all they want. They don’t push. And let it be.

The check comes. Ben attempts to wave it off. You grasp it. May intercepts. Eventually, the server just splits it without asking.

You stroll out onto the parking lot, the air heavy with that delicious, post-rain smell, concrete and fresh grass and something electric that always comes with summer nights. The wind plays with the edges of your robe, the cap clasped in your hands now instead of placed uncomfortably on your head.

May hugs you again, slower this time.

“You did it, kid,” she murmurs. “You’re already braver than I ever was.”

You put your face onto her shoulder. “You raised me. So that tracks.”

Ben pulls you into a hug after, tighter than usual. He doesn’t say anything. He just pats your back, then kisses the top of your head as he did when you were seven and skinned your leg on the concrete.

And then they hand you the keys.

“You’re driving?” you inquire.

“Just once,” Ben adds. “You earned it.”

You grin and take them.

The engine growls to life beneath your fingertips.

The headlights slashed across the lot.

May gets into the passenger seat, her hair gleaming white beneath the dashboard light. Ben gets into the back. You take the long way home, past the school, past the restaurant, past the park where you once fell off the swings because you were showing off for a boy you don’t even remember now.

No one talks much. But the calm is lovely. Real. Safe.

Later, you’re cuddled up in bed, cap and gown hanging on the back of your door, when your phone buzzes.

> how was dinner?

You type.

> good

Mark replies quickly.

> did they ask about me?

You reply just as fast.

> kinda. but i didn’t say anything. not yet. not because i’m ashamed of you or anything. just... because it still seems like ours. and i want to keep it for me a bit longer.

Mark replies.

> i’m yours anyway take all the time you need

You gaze at the screen.

And you know what it is to have something that no one else has to comprehend. Not yet. Not right now. Just something that exists between text messages and lingering stares and shared milkshakes after the sun goes set.

The first thing you notice when you come on campus is the loudness.

Move-in day is exactly what everyone told it would be, horns blasting, trolleys squeaking, parents hollering directions over one another, someone shrieking over a mattress that’s missing and another youngster who’s obviously already locked themselves out of their room.

The third level smells like paint, hot carpets, and too many expectations jammed into too-small apartments.

Mark’s lugging a package labeled “DO NOT CRUSH,” and you’re following him with a laundry hamper that should legally require a forklift.

“Third floor,” Mark mutters. “No elevator. Of course.”

“You’re the one who said we should take the stairs for the ‘real dorm experience,’” you huff. “I’m currently experiencing the early stages of spinal collapse.”

He flashes you a grin. “Worth it.”

You nearly drop the hamper on his foot.

Room 3B is already open.

Inside, the place looks like a battle zone, half-unpacked books, a rolled-up poster of Seance Dog, a lava lamp, and a desk strewn with receipts and takeout menus. Sitting in the center of it all, arms crossed, is a guy with thick wavy hair and a look like he’s just done analyzing your moral integrity.

“You’re late,” he says.

“Love you too,” Mark answers without skipping a beat.

You blink. William Clockwell stands, wiping chip crumbs off his shirt. “I was beginning to think you’d chickened out of college entirely.”

“Please. I’d never leave you unsupervised in a shared living space.”

“Wise. You’d come back to a fort built up of Pringles cans and overdue library fines.”

Mark drops the box on his bed with a bang and turns to you. “Meet William. My best friend since first grade. He’s a threat. Don’t trust him with your password or your Netflix account.”

William’s already eyeing you. Not in a scary way, more like a scientist exploring an unexpected variable.

You offer your hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard... a lot.”

“All of it true,” William says, shaking it. “And most of it flattering. You, however... you’re the famed accomplice?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Accomplice?”

“The one who helped him pull off that science fair stunt in senior year?”

Mark moans. “Don’t start.”

“I still think that lava is a questionable project theme for teenagers.”

You laugh. “It was definitely not up to code.”

William grins. “I like you already.”

Move-in goes swiftly, surprisingly rapid, since Mark has the organizational skills of a dropped ice cream cone. You hang posters, plug in chargers, uncover his lost headphones tucked beneath a package of granola bars. William occasionally offers in color commentary, largely to keep Mark modest.

“You realize half your shirts are inside out, right?”

“I fold with my soul, not my hands.”

“You fold like a raccoon on Adderall.”

You like William. He’s got a sharp tongue, but there’s something stable behind it, something loyal. You can tell he’d go to war for Mark if he had to. Probably with a clipboard and a thorough sarcasm itinerary. Eventually, he leaves to call his parents, and the room falls quiet.

Mark crashes into the bed like a ragdoll. You sit on the edge near him.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “It’s weird. I’ve known this was coming for years, and now that it’s here, I keep thinking I overlooked something.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Something back in high school. Some part of me that didn’t get packed.”

You smack your shoulder with his. “It’s probably wedged under your bed with all the missing socks.”

He snorts. “Probably. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I wasn’t going to miss this.”

“I mean... not just for move-in.”

You look at him. And he looks at you.

“I know you’re not living on campus,” he continues. “And I get why. But selfishly? I’m still gonna miss you.”

“You’ll see me all the time.”

“I’ll still miss you.”

You smile. Then lean in and kiss him, gently and assured. When William steps back in, he doesn’t even flinch. He only raises an eyebrow.

“Should I knock next time?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “Probably.”

You draw back and stroke the bed beside you. “We were talking about how messy your half is.”

William grins. “A true bonding moment.”

Then he tosses a granola bar at Mark’s head. “Also, I stole your pillow. Yours smells like stress. Mine smells like ambition.”

Mark rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. And William’s smiling too. Because they’ve been doing this forever. And now? You’re part of it too.

The email enters your inbox at 8:03 a.m. on a Tuesday.

You’re sitting at the kitchen counter at May and Ben’s house, still in your pajamas, hair jammed into a sloppy bun and a bowl of cereal halfway to your lips when you notice the subject line.

OSCORP SCIENCE SUMMIT: TRAVEL DETAILS + FINAL PRESENTATION SCHEDULE

The spoon doesn’t make it to your mouth.

You gaze at the screen for a whole thirty seconds before you even open it. Then your heart does this odd fluttering thing like excitement and sickness got together and decided to have a party in your ribs.

You scan the first few lines.

It’s official. You’re going.

Three days, all-expense paid. Two nights at a hotel you’ve never heard of. Formal dress necessary. Your name is on the list of junior interns presenting in the Friday morning breakout session titled: Next-Gen Bio-Application Engineering: Theoretical Pathways to Active Adaptives.

Which is a clever way of saying “the tiny tech you helped patch together on week two might actually be used in something real someday.”

You scroll down deeper and freeze at the sentence in bold.

"Guest passes available. Bring someone to support you."

You reread it. Then again. And one more time, like the words may transform into something else if you stare too closely. Your brain’s already finished the thought before you do. Mark.

You wait to bring it up. Not because you’re worried he’ll say no. You know him. He would say yes to everything you asked, even if it included three hours of lab lectures and the world’s most terrible folding chairs. No, the reluctance isn’t about doubt.

It’s about timing. Because college is already its own type of storm. You’re commuting. Juggling. Oscorp in the mornings, courses in the afternoons, late-night homework cuddled up on the couch with Ben napping in the next room and May softly bringing you tea without asking if you’re overwhelmed. Because she knows. Of course she does.

Mark, on the other hand, is living dorm life, fully absorbed. Sharing a room with William, childhood best buddy and snark personified. Navigating early lectures, social circles, and the continuous circle of dining hall food complaints. You see him virtually every day, sometimes between classes, sometimes beneath the quad tree you informally claimed in week one. You bring food. He brings coffee. It works.

You just haven’t found the right time yet. Not till Friday night.

His dorm is noisy when you come. Not party-loud. Just friends in college-loud. William’s got music playing, something instrumental, symphonic and dramatic and slightly sci-fi, and he’s rearranging the bookcase with the seriousness of a man prepping for combat.

Mark greets you at the door with a grin and a bag of peanut M&Ms. You collapse on his bed. He sits next you, half on, half off, long legs splayed out, shoulders crushed to yours. William barely looks over.

“Tell me you’re here to stop him from putting his entire sock collection under the bed.”

“I’m here for the candy,” you reply. “The sock situation is between you two and your God.”

Mark laughs. “It’s fine. I just lost, like, three.”

William tosses a book onto the shelf with a thump. “He’s making a sock graveyard and calling it neat.”

You grin, but it flickers. Because now the moment is arrived. And your heart’s already straining to race ahead of your words. Mark notices quickly.

He leans in a little. “What’s up?”

You grab your phone from your sweatshirt pocket and deliver it to him, the email still open on the screen. He scans it rapidly.

“Wait—this is... you’re presenting? At a science conference?”

You nod.

“I thought Oscorp just had you cleaning stuff and filing data sheets.”

“I did,” you say. “Until they realized I actually know how to think.”

He glances up. “That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” you answer gently. “It kind of is.”

He keeps reading, eyes searching the lines until he reaches to the bold one. 'Guest passes available. Bring someone to support you.' He glances at you. You try not to fidget.

“I was going to ask,” you say, a bit too hastily. “I mean, it’s just a couple days. You’d get a badge and everything. Probably sit through boring panels, but there’s a mixer night and some showcase things. And the hotel has free breakfast. I think.”

He’s already nodding.

“Wait—really?”

“Of course.”

You blink.

“That was fast.”

Mark lays the phone aside and nudges your knee with his. “You’re kind of a big deal. I want to see you be a big deal.”

Your face gets heated.

William clears his throat without glancing over. “I’m emotionally moved. Truly. Let me know when to trigger the romantic strings.”

Mark flips a pillow at his face. “You’re not invited.”

William catches it midair. “Wouldn’t go. Too many scientists. I prefer my heartbreaks abstract.”

You and Mark broke out laughing. Later, after William’s gone to the lounge to microwave something, and Mark’s sweeping crumbs off the blanket, you lean against him again.

“You’re really okay with going?”

“More than okay.”

“I might be a mess.”

“I’ll bring tissues.”

“I might drag you into science debates.”

He shrugs. “You’ll win.”

“I might panic the morning of.”

Mark leans down and joins his fingers with yours.

“Then I’ll be there. Exactly when you need me.”

You grip his hand. And for the first time since the email arrived, you genuinely believe it.

The suitcase won’t close.

You press down with both hands, knees braced against the side of Mark’s dorm bed, biting your bottom lip like somehow that’ll make the zipper listen. It doesn’t. Mark steps in just as you let out a noise halfway between a moan and a battle cry.

“Need help?”

“No,” you reply between tight teeth. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m a disgrace to physics and rubix cubes.”

He grins, lays his coffee down on the desk, and crosses the room. You sit back and let him take charge. He doesn’t even flinch at the amount of clothes flowing over the edge.

“What did you bring? Five days’ worth of clothes for a three-day trip?”

“I need options.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How many ‘options’ are made of this much wool?”

“That’s my presentation blazer.”

“You brought three.”

“They’re different colors!”

He manages to pull the zipper halfway when one corner of a collar gets hooked, and he groans in feigned discomfort. “This feels like a test.”

You smirk. “It is.”

“You’re evil.”

“And yet here you are, helping me.”

He gets the bag closed on the third time, straightens himself, and mock-wipes perspiration off his forehead. “That’s love.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you slip an entire shoebox of chips into your backpack.”

“Conference food is a lie and I refuse to starve.”

You giggle, then slump back onto the bed. Mark lies alongside you, the springs squeaking slightly beneath his weight. From across the room, William speaks out without turning away from his laptop. “For the record, this is the most hetero rom-com shit I’ve seen all week.”

“Thank you, William,” you say without raising your head.

“I strive for accuracy.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I do. Daily.”

William flicks a pencil into the air and catches it. “Try not to make a scene at the conference. I don’t want to get a call stating you threw your jacket at someone during a panel discussion.”

“Only if they deserve it.”

Mark tilts his head toward you. “You nervous?”

You shrug. “A little. I mean, it’s Oscorp. And I’m not even technically a complete intern yet. I’m still under review.”

“You’ve got this.”

“You have to say that. You’re legally bound as my supportive moral rock.”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss on your temple. “Yeah. But I also mean it.”

You close your eyes. Breathe in. And for a second, the anxieties settle. That night, you stop by May and Ben’s to grab the remainder of your belongings. Your trip suitcase sits on your bed, folded clothing pouring out like your closet burst in slow motion. May leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that mom expression, fond and amused and somewhat frightened.

“That’s a lot of clothes for three days.”

“I need backup outfits. Blazers. Professional things. Emergency snacks.”

“You sounded like me before my first teaching conference.”

You turn, holding up two virtually identical coats. “Be honest. Which says ‘young but intelligent up-and-comer’ and not ‘sweaty undergrad who could faint during Q&A’?”

May tilts her head. “The one on the left. But bring both. Just in case.”

You grin and slip both into your carry-on.

Ben pops his head in a minute later with your printed itinerary. “Highlight the address. And the emergency number. And don’t eat anything off of a strangely unmarked buffet tray.”

“You’re projecting,” you mumble.

Ben winks. “Yes. Because I once had food poisoning at a tech convention and had to lie down under a folding table for two hours. Don’t repeat my sins.”

You giggle, then grab for your charger and zip up the final bag.

May steps closer. “You’re ready for this, you know.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “You’ve been ready for a while. You’re just now having the room to prove it.”

You feel something constrict in your neck. “Thanks.”

“Take notes. Make eye contact. And for the love of God, don’t drink coffee before you speak.”

“Not even one cup?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“...Half a cup?”

“Fine. Half.”

Ben tosses in, “You call us if anything weird happens. If the hotel’s suspicious or they lose your badge or you feel weird, you call.”

“I will.”

You mean it. You embrace them both at the door.

May lingers just a little longer, smoothing your hair back and whispers, “I’m proud of you.”

The airport is pandemonium. You anticipated it to be bad, it’s early morning, middle of the week, and every airport is full with business travelers and Oscorp interns in wrinkled blazers, but this? This is something else. The type of travel day that makes you rethink every decision that lead to this point.

You and Mark make it through security fairly unhurt, though your tote bag gets flagged and they yank out your backup phone charger like it’s a nuclear weapon. He laughs to the TSA agent about you being a “dangerous scientist” and you answer by flicking his ear once you’re free of the conveyor belt.

“I’m never traveling with you again,” you murmur, shouldering your suitcase.

“Bold of you to assume I won’t save your life at least twice on this trip,” he answers with a grin.

It’s still early enough that your mind feels hazy, like your ideas are wrapped in fog. But you’ve got your boarding pass, your coffee, and the boy who makes you forget your own tension standing beside you, so you can’t complain too much. Not out loud, anyhow. You board in group C.

No frills. No improvements. Just economy seats, an air freshener that smells like lemon floor cleaner, and exactly six wailing babies within hearing range. You slide your carry-on beneath the seat, buckle your belt, and peek sideways. Mark's already glancing out the window, fingers tapping softly against the armrest. His leg is bouncing. He hasn’t even taken off his bag yet.

“You okay?” you ask.

He startles. Just a bit.

Then nods. “Yeah. Just... not a big fan of flying.”

You tilt your head. “Really?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I’ve done it. Vacations. Visiting family. But it’s never... comfortable.”

You nod, taking him at his word. There's something weirdly appealing about the idea that Mark Grayson, your easygoing, always-has-a-snack boyfriend, gets frightened on an airplane.

“Do you want the aisle instead?”

“No,” he responds hastily. “I’m good here. Just... could be quiet for a bit.”

You smile. “I won’t hold it against you.”

You reach over and hold his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. He squeezes back. Doesn’t let go. Takeoff is tough. The normal lurch. The little dip. The odd quiet before the engines scream.

Mark holds the armrest with his free hand, mouth tight. You keep your eyes on the window, chatting gently about absolutely anything else, how bizarre the hotel itinerary was, if Oscorp really required four distinct lanyard colors, whether your presentation slide backdrop is too dark for a morning panel.

By the time you achieve cruising altitude, he’s breathing easier.

“Still with me?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah. Just... odd to not have control, you know?”

You don’t question it. You don’t realize how much that statement means to him. Not yet. You fall into a groove. You bring out your laptop to examine your presentations for the tenth time. Mark pulls out a sketchpad. He claims he brought it for note-taking, but you know better. About half an hour in, you peek over and discover he’s sketching. You’re not surprised, he’s usually doodling on discarded napkins or the margins of lecture notes, but this sketch is different.

It’s you.

Focused. Half-turned toward the window. Elbows on your tray table, face lighted by the illumination of your laptop.

“You’re drawing me again,” you mumble.

Mark doesn’t look up. “You always make a good subject.”

“Flattering.”

“Factual.”

You smirk, but you don’t push. You just let him sketch. There’s something calming about it. Something grounding. You go back to your slides. You make a few notes.

And when you put your head against the window a short time later, you close your eyes and let the hum of the engine cloud everything else. The open seat fills around forty minutes in, middle-aged man, Bluetooth headphone, travel pillow that smells like a retirement home. He nods pleasantly and instantly falls asleep with a snoring. You and Mark gaze at each other. His lips twitch. You mouth, help me.

He grins and inserts one earpiece into your palm. “White noise playlist. You’re welcome.”

You grab it and lean toward him. He doesn’t move away. Somewhere over the mountains, you start chatting about Oscorp.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” you mumble. “It’s my first real shot at being taken seriously in the field. And I’m not even a complete intern yet. If I mess up this presentation...”

“You won’t,” he adds simply.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” he answers. “Because you’re better at this than anyone else in that building. And so even if you trip over your words or forget what slide you’re on, they’re still going to remember you.”

You gaze at him.

“Because I’m a mess?”

He grins. “Because you’re the kind of mess that builds things.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. You just let your hand slip into his again, and hold on.

When the flight attendant passes with beverages, you both grab ginger ale. You divide a bag of pretzels. You make silly jokes about cloud forms. He sketches a bit more, this time a window full of stars and a silhouette that looks disturbingly like you.

You rest your head on his shoulder after that. He leans into you. And you doze there, someplace between time zones, somewhere above everything else. The instant you step out of the gate and into the rush of arrivals, you feel it. Not simply the dry, over-conditioned airport air or the soreness in your shoulder from carrying your bag but the prickling awareness that something’s going to happen.

And then you see him. Tall. Hair blown from the breeze flowing in via the automated doors. Expensive sunglasses sat on top of his head. One hand in his pocket, the other carrying a tablet. Leaning nonchalantly against a pillar like he’s posing for a GQ piece he pretends he doesn’t know he’s in.

Harry. You halt mid-step. Your heart leaps.

“Holy crap,” you murmur.

Mark glances at you. “What is it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You’re already moving. You run to him. Not fast. Not theatrical. Just real. Like your body chose before your mind did. Harry glances up just in time. And suddenly your arms are around him.

“Whoa-!” He drops the tablet, startled, but then he’s holding you back, tight, one arm around your waist and the other wrapped protectively behind your head.

“God, you’re alive,” you whisper into his shoulder.

Harry laughs, shaky and full of something old and familiar. “I’m alive? You’re the one who vanished into Oscorp’s basement for six months.”

You don’t let go right away. Neither does he. When you eventually move back, your hands are still on his arms, and his are still ghosting over your ribs like he’s terrified you could disappear again.

“You’re taller,” you say.

“You’re lying.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Okay, that one’s fair.”

He grins. And you realize you missed that grin more than you realized. Mark approaches a few seconds later. He doesn’t interrupt. But you sense him standing there. Close, quiet. You turn to him, cheeks heated.

“Mark, this is Harry. Harry, this is Mark.”

Harry reaches out a hand. “Harry Osborn.”

Mark shakes it. “Mark Grayson.”

There’s a beat. Then Harry’s smile curves just a bit. “Boyfriend, right?”

Mark blinks. “Uh. Yeah.”

You nod swiftly. “Yeah.”

Harry glances at you. Then at Mark.

“Cool,” he says. Smooth. Even. Nothing in his speech gives anything away. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Mark’s jaw tics once. “Same.”

You fold your arms, still beaming, trying not to jump on your heels. “What are you doing here? I thought you were upstate for prep.”

“Was. Came back yesterday night. They required someone to organize arrival. I volunteered.”

You blink. “You volunteered to be my glorified chauffeur?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m owed a few favors. Plus, I get to make you uncomfortable for the next three days. Win-win.”

You laugh. It’s the type of chuckle that leaves you a bit breathless. And behind you, Mark adjusts his weight. Harry notices. Of course he does. He tilts his head, gaze moving between the two of you. His smile doesn’t fade, but it steadies. Calibrates.

“You guys get any sleep on the flight?”

“A little,” you say. “He passed out. I went over my slides till I hated them.”

“Typical.”

“I’m very productive when miserable.”

“Is that why you did all your AP Chem homework during a stomach bug in eleventh grade?”

“Don’t remind me.”

Harry turns to the luxury car sitting at the curb. “Come on. I’ve got the luggage already loaded. Hotel’s fifteen minutes out.”

The ride is quieter. You and Harry talk, filling the stillness with inside jokes and tiny recollections. Mark listens. He doesn’t insert himself, doesn’t attempt to compete. But you can sense him thinking. When you gaze at him, he grins. But it’s a touch tighter than normal. Outside the hotel, Harry pulls your bag from the trunk before you can resist.

“Still allergic to letting people carry things for you,” he says.

“Still refusing to let me pull my weight.”

“That’s because you’re still made of string cheese and spite.”

You smack his shoulder. Mark lingers at your side. You can almost hear the silent question emerging.

Harry glanced at the check-in counter. “I’ll go confirm your rooms.”

And suddenly he’s gone. You and Mark are alone again. And the quiet between you is weighted.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

Mark nods. “Yeah. Just... I didn’t know how close you two were.”

You pause.

“We’ve known each other since kindergarten,” you say. “He’s family. Not in a romantic way. Just... he’s always been there.”

Mark nods again. But he doesn’t say anything else. You grab his hand. He takes it. And squeezes. But his eyes linger on the door Harry just disappeared through. You gaze at your reflection for longer than you mean to.

Your hotel room mirror is too clean, too harsh under the LED lights. Your hands are firm, but only because you’ve previously practiced every action five times. Blazer on. Lip balm. One final breath. You look nice. You look prepared. You don’t feel prepared.

The presentation isn’t till tomorrow, but Oscorp’s giving a formal supper tonight to welcome all their younger researchers, mentors, and visitors. A pre-conference “casual professional” gathering. The sort that’s theoretically optional, but not really. You know better than to skip it.

Mark is waiting in the hallway when you step out of your room. He glances up and genuinely blinks.

You halt, feeling self-conscious. “Too much?”

He shakes his head, slow. “No. You look...”

You raise a brow.

“...Insanely smart,” he finishes. “Like someone who’s way too smart for me and could prove it without even trying.”

You laugh. “That’s the goal.”

He extends out his arm. You link yours through his. And together, you head down. The banquet space Oscorp leased is obnoxiously lovely. Soft jazz sounds over ceiling speakers. Waiters in black vests hover around offering trays of sparkling water and bite-sized fusion dishes no one can recognize by look alone. The house smells like fresh carpet and expensive aftershave.

You see Harry almost immediately. He’s toward the front of the room, speaking with an older man in a fitted three-piece suit. He catches your eye mid-sentence, and his smile transforms instantaneously. Real. Bright.

He excuses himself, strides directly for you.

“Damn,” he exclaims, grabbing you into a hug. “You clean up good.”

You laugh. “You’ve seen me in a lab coat and stained hoodies. This isn’t a high bar.”

Mark stands next to you, quiet, smiling as nicely as he can.

Harry turns to him. “Grayson.”

“Osborn.”

They shake hands. It’s not unfriendly. But it’s not warm, either.

“Glad you could make it,” Harry adds, his tone level.

Mark nods. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

You feel it. The weight of their words. The way they glance at each other for a second too long.

You cut in swiftly. “Are we sitting? Or do I have to elbow someone for a table?”

Harry grins again. “Come on. I reserved you a spot.”

You’re seated between them. Harry on your right, Mark on your left, the table full of Oscorp interns and mid-level academics sipping wine like it’s just grape juice and mumbling names you dimly know from science papers.

Mark doesn’t speak much. He listens. Observes. His hand keeps resting on his thigh. Yours finds it midway through the appetizers. Harry’s talking to someone across from you about your project as if he developed it himself. He name-drops your work with ease, familiarity, even pride.

You’re not sure if it’s flattering or suffocating.

“You should’ve seen her in the early stages,” he continues. “She caught a pattern in the test batches that even the senior team missed. Half of the engineering pivot happened because she caught it first.”

The researcher, someone named Dr. Li, nods appreciatively. “Impressive.”

Mark glances at you. You grasp his hand under the table.

Dinner is a flurry of voices and clinking glass.

Harry chats. Laughs. Teases you. Reminds you of the time you blew up a beaker in tenth grade chem and attempted to blame it on a draft. Reminds you of when you fell asleep in AP Bio and drooled over your textbook. You laugh along. But you can feel Mark’s quiet. Not cold. Just... distant. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t challenge. He doesn’t lean in or crack jokes the way he typically does. When the dessert comes, some fancy chocolate swirl with a name you can’t pronounce, he finally moves near.

“You okay?” he whispers. You gaze sideways.

“I think so.”

“You seem quiet.”

You hesitate.

Then. “You do too.”

He smiles, warm and crooked. “Just watching.”

You push your knee against his under the table.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He glances at you.

“I am too.”

The night finishes gradually. People wander out. Harry sticks behind to chat with a few execs. You and Mark stroll outside into the quiet hotel courtyard, where the air is cooler and the lights are dimmer. You lean on a railing. He stands by you.

“I think I’ve eaten seventeen thousand calories in stress,” you say.

Mark laughs. “Worth it.”

You gaze up at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

You nudge him. “You sure?”

He nods. “It’s just weird.”

“What is?”

He exhales, brushing a palm over his face. “Seeing you like this. In your element. With people who’ve known you forever. And I’m... the new guy.”

You step in closer. “You’re not just the new guy.”

Mark looks at you. Really looks. And the anguish flickers there for only a second.

“You hugged him like you forgot I was there.”

You blink. “ Mark-”

“I get it,” he says. “You guys have history. I’m not trying to damage that. I just... I think I didn’t expect to feel so on the outside.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I want to be.”

He leans on the railing now, viewing the stars. You stand beside him. And say nothing. Because it’s not about jealousy. It’s about space. And who fills it. And who doesn’t.

You barely speak a word during the elevator ride. The silver doors glide shut with a gentle hiss, trapping you and Mark in with mirrored walls and soft overhead lighting that makes your reflections appear like strangers.

Your feet hurt. Your head is noisy. And you can sense him standing just slightly aside from you, not far, not frigid, but... far enough to notice. The elevator dings quietly. You lead the way out. Room 1024. Your room. You key in gently and enter inside, the subtle click of the door behind you making the whole suite feel 10 times quieter than it did this morning.

Mark follows you in, letting the door close gently behind him. You kick off your shoes. Your blazer lands on the back of the desk chair. He waits near the doorway, arms folded, watching you move.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say gently. “Wash the Oscorp off.”

Mark nods.

You disappear into the restroom before he can say anything else. You stand under the hot water until your fingers wrinkle. Not because it’s chilly. Not because you’re exhausted. Because it’s all finally catching up to you.

The dinner. The pressure. Harry’s return. Mark’s peaceful remoteness. Tomorrow’s presentation.

You’ve been holding it together all day, smiling, nodding, networking. Laughing too loud as Harry taunts you. Squeezing Mark’s hand under the table to make up for all the words you didn’t know how to speak out loud.

And now? You’re just... afraid. The type of afraid that doesn’t always have words. When you emerge out of the restroom in an enormous Oscorp T-shirt and bare feet, Mark’s still awake.

He’s sitting on the side of the bed, scrolling absently through something on his phone, hair unkempt from running his fingers through it too many times.

He glances up when he hears you.  And grins. Small. Tired.

You sit next him. He puts the phone down.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Mark turns slightly. “For what?”

You gaze at your hands.

“For hugging him like that. For making you feel like a third wheel. I didn’t mean to.”

Mark doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t move away either.

“I’m not mad,” he says finally.

“I know.”

“It’s just... hard to feel like I’m still catching up. Like you and he share a language I don’t speak.”

You nod slowly. “We kind of do.”

He glances at you. You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t easy to be friends with. I was awkward, and weird, and talked too much about things no one cared about. I wasn’t-” you swallow, blinking fast, “I wasn’t the kind of person people stuck around for.”

Your throat tightens, but you push through it.

“But he did. Even when he didn’t have to. Even when everyone else grew up and got cooler and louder and better… Harry never treated me like I was something he’d outgrown.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting for steady breath.

“When I bombed that exam and thought it meant I’d never be good enough… when Flash made me feel like I was nothing… When I hated even looking in a mirror, Harry was the one who showed up. He didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there. Just stayed.”

You finally glance up, and it’s harder than you expect, because Mark’s there, listening. Really listening.

“I’m not… I’m not saying it like it’s some big thing. I just-” your voice wavers, fragile and messy, “I guess I’m scared. That maybe… if people could outgrow me back then… it could happen again.”

You blink hard, shoulders stiff, trying to pretend like you’re fine. But your voice is too small when you add, almost too soft to hear.

“I don’t wanna lose you too.”

Mark doesn’t interrupt. You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. Mark doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t have to. He’s sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, solid and steady and right there. Not moving away. You drop your eyes to the comforter again, cheeks burning for a whole new reason.

“And just so you don’t get the wrong idea…” you mumble, your voice low but honest, “I don’t feel that way about Harry. I never have.”

The words sit there for a second, heavier than you meant them to be.

You risk a glance up, half-expecting him to look mad or jealous, but Mark’s just… looking at you. Soft. Real.

“He’s my best friend,” you add, quieter. “But you’re… different.”

You don’t know if he hears the full meaning of that. You don’t even know if you could say it out loud yet. And he stays right there. He hesitates.

“You sure about that?”

You glance up. Not defensive. Just honest.

“I know what I feel. And it’s not for him.”

Mark scans your face. Then nods.  And eventually relaxes a little. You cuddle into the pillows. Mark lays alongside you. Not touching yet. But close. The hotel room is quiet save for the hum of the air vent and the faint shuffling of linens. You pull the cover up to your chin and look at the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” you mumble.

Mark doesn’t pretend not to hear you.

“Of tomorrow?”

“Of messing up. Of freezing. Of speaking the wrong thing. Of them realizing I’m just a kid who got lucky.”

He turns toward you.

“Hey.”

You don’t look at him.

“You’re not lucky,” he adds gently. “You’re good. You worked for this. You earned it.”

You still don’t speak. So he leans out and takes your hand. And suddenly you can breathe again.

“You’re going to get up there tomorrow,” he adds. “And you're going to do exactly what you’ve always done, blow people away and forget that they scare you the moment you start talking.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Because I believe in you.”

You eventually gaze at him. And he’s still gazing at you. Like you’re the only thing that matters.

In a bit, the lights go out. The city lights dimly through the drapes. You lie in the dark, eyes open. Mark’s breathing is steady. You shift closer.

Your fingers are still tangled loosely with his beneath the blanket, and you finally glance at him, heart doing its awkward little somersault thing when you catch how soft his expression looks. He must feel you staring, because he turns his head a bit and meets your gaze.

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. With Harry and everything.” you murmur.

He exhales, long and slow. “I didn’t wanna say anything either. I mean, it's not like I didn’t trust you or whatever. It just… felt like I was watching something I wasn’t part of.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek for a second. “I get it. If I were you, I’d have felt the same way.”

Mark’s mouth quirks, almost a smile. “I was sitting there next to you, nodding along like an idiot while Harry’s talking about the time you both got banned from a Six Flags for hacking the rollercoaster music system.”

You groan, pressing your face into the blanket. “That was one time. And we didn’t get banned, we got strongly discouraged from returning.”

He laughs, and it’s real now, quiet, but warm. “I dunno. He made it sound like they were gonna put your faces on a watchlist.”

You grin against the sheets, heart hammering a little too fast again, but not from embarrassment anymore. From something else. Something hopeful. You lift your face, your voice going soft again.

“You know none of that means anything, right? I mean… not like this means something.”

His eyes meet yours, and they’re so open it almost knocks the breath out of you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know now.”

The silence between you tightens again, but this time it’s charged in a completely different way. You shift a little closer, your thigh brushing his under the blankets. His fingers curl tighter around yours. Your voice comes out smaller than you expect.

“Can I… kiss you?”

Mark’s eyes widen just a little, his breath catching. Then he nods, barely more than a breath. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You lean in slowly, your pulse a roar in your ears, every nerve in your body dialed up. You’ve never been good at this. Kissing. Intimacy. It’s not that you haven’t wanted it. You’ve just never been sure how to get there. But Mark’s there, waiting, and when your lips meet his, it’s soft. Gentle. More of a brush than a kiss. You pull back, half-expecting to have fumbled it, but he’s already chasing after you with a smile.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come back.”

You do. The second kiss lingers longer. Still soft, but with more intention. Your nose bumps his and your hand accidentally catches his chest in a weird, flat-palmed way that makes you both laugh against each other’s mouths. It’s not perfect. It’s better. It’s you.

He kisses you again, and this time you relax into it, fingers finding his shirt and curling there for something to hold onto. His lips move against yours like he’s not in a rush but doesn’t want to stop either. You part your lips, testing the waters, and when his tongue brushes yours, it sends a thrill down your spine you didn’t expect. You make a small sound, a surprised, involuntary gasp, and Mark pulls back just a little, checking your eyes like he's making sure you’re still with him.

“You okay?” he asks, voice husky, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of your face.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Just… new.”

His smile softens into something tender. “That’s okay. We can go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod again, your hand now sliding under the edge of his shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of his side. It’s warmer than you expected. He leans in again, kissing you deeper now. You shift closer, until your leg is draped over his, your chest pressed lightly to his, and god, the way it feels to have his body against yours makes your brain completely short-circuit.

You don’t even realize how much time has passed, how many kisses. Everything’s a blur of soft mouths, breathless sounds, hands that explore in halting, reverent paths. He’s not rushing. He’s matching your pace, like he’s reading your mind. Every movement, every graze of his thumb on your cheek or the slow drag of his palm down your side, it’s all careful, respectful, but electric.

Your lips are swollen now, flushed and tender from the growing intensity of every kiss, every breathless gasp between them. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been like this, tangled up in one another, kissing until the rest of the world faded down to the warmth of Mark’s body and the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

His hand is on your waist, fingertips digging into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt, and yours is fisted in the fabric of his tee, pulling him closer every time his mouth meets yours like you need more of him. The air around you feels thicker, heavier. Charged.

You shift again, instinctively, your thigh pressing more firmly between his legs, and that’s when you feel it. The slow, aching pressure of his hardness through his pajama pants, against your leg. The awareness of it hits both of you at once. You freeze, barely a breath away from his mouth, and he exhales through his nose, shuddering.

“Shit,” he whispers, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting this either. “That—wasn’t on purpose. I swear.”

You swallow. “I know.”

Neither of you moves for a second. Then your voice, quieter, more raw, “It’s okay. I… don’t want to stop.”

His eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to find the edges of your comfort. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want this. I just—I’m figuring it out as we go.”

Mark kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. His hand slips beneath your shirt, not groping, just palm-flat and warm against your back. The contact sends a jolt through you. You gasp into his mouth, your leg shifting again, accidentally grinding against him.

He groans. Low, guttural. His hips buck forward, just barely, like he’s trying not to move too much, but can’t help the reaction. You feel it again, how hard he is. How hot this is getting.

Your hand trails down his side, hesitant but curious, and he catches your wrist gently.

“I don’t want to go too far,” he says, voice thick, but controlled. “But if we… stay like this…”

You don’t let him finish. You roll your hips, shy but deliberate, grinding into his thigh where it rests between yours. The friction sparks something sharp and needy in your stomach, and you gasp, clutching at his shirt.

Mark’s breath catches like you’ve hit him with a punch. “Okay,” he murmurs, “okay, yeah, that’s—god, that’s good.”

His hips move again, this time meeting yours, slow and tentative at first. You both moan, quiet, startled. There’s fabric in the way, layers of it, but somehow it only makes it more intense, more charged. You can feel him through the denim, and he can feel every shift of your hips against his leg.

You move again, grinding into him a little harder this time, your breath hitching as the friction hits just right, a soft cry escaping your throat. Mark growls under his breath and grabs your waist, steadying you, guiding you as you move against each other.

“You feel… fuck, you feel amazing,” he says, mouth against your neck now, teeth grazing your skin. You arch into him instinctively, pushing closer, chasing the pressure, the pleasure building between your legs in slow, delicious waves.

Your bodies fall into rhythm. Clothes still on. Nothing exposed. And yet the sensation is almost unbearable, the way your clit grinds against your underwear, the damp heat building there, the way his cock twitches beneath his jeans every time your hips roll together.

You whimper, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder. “Mark…”

He groans your name like it’s a prayer, hands gripping your hips tighter, pulling you against him as he thrusts up to meet you. “Keep going,” he whispers, “I’m so close—I can’t-”

You nod, frantic now, chasing your own high, your body moving on instinct, your thighs tightening around his, your clit catching perfectly against the seam of your underwear with every grind. The pressure is unbearable and perfect and building so fast you can’t breathe.

Your moans are louder now, breathier, and Mark's voice is rough in your ear, panting, muttering half-formed words, “just like that—don’t stop—fuck, you’re—so hot-”

You cry out, shuddering, as it hits you hard and fast, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave you didn’t see coming. Your thighs seize, hips grinding in a desperate, uneven rhythm as you ride it out, shaking against him.

Mark groans, body going tense beneath you, and a second later he jerks up into you with a broken, desperate sound, and then he’s gasping into your neck, cock twitching through his boxers as he comes hard, grinding against you one last time.

Silence falls again, but this time it’s charged in a completely different way. You're both panting, flushed, your bodies still tangled. The world shrinks to the hot, sticky thrum between your thighs and the warmth of his arms around you.

Your skin’s still buzzing, your heart hasn’t slowed, and Mark’s hand hasn’t left your body since he kissed you breathless and made you melt against the sheets. You’re curled on your side, facing him, still flushed and warm all over, your sleep shirt rumpled high around your waist. His fingers are drawing lazy lines along your thigh like he doesn’t want to stop touching you, and honestly, neither do you.

You look at him, your lips parted, still catching your breath. “That… was a lot.”

Mark grins, eyes a little wild, like he’s still not totally back in his body either. “Good a lot?”

You nod, cheeks hot. “Very. Just… I didn’t expect it to feel that good. Like my brain turned off.”

He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s kinda the point.”

You exhale, grounding yourself in the weight of him beside you, in the way his hand brushes along your hip like he’s memorizing you by touch. You shift slightly, parting your legs a little under the blanket, letting the warmth and tension start to build again. He notices. His eyes flick down, then back to yours, checking.

“You want more?” he asks, voice low, careful.

You nod slowly, nerves fluttering under your ribs, but not enough to stop you. “Yeah. I… I think I want you to, um…” Your eyes drop, and you swallow. “Go down on me?”

Mark doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. Just smiles softly like that’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’d love to.”

Your heart stutters, and he shifts immediately, kissing your lips once more before moving down the bed. He pauses when he’s kneeling between your thighs, hands sliding gently up your legs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His gaze is reverent, warm, focused entirely on you.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good, okay?” he says, looking up at you.

You nod, voice small. “I trust you.”

He smiles at that. “Good.”

Then he lowers his head.

His lips press a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher, a slow trail up your thigh that has your stomach clenching. His breath is warm, teasing, and when he kisses the soft crease beside your center, you gasp, hips twitching involuntarily. He doesn’t dive in. He waits, fingers smoothing over your skin, easing you into it.

Then finally, finally, his mouth settles between your thighs.

The first touch of his tongue is light, just a slow, warm stripe over your slit that makes your toes curl. Your fingers bunch the sheets, your head tipping back against the pillow as a soft, helpless sound slips out of you. He groans against you at the sound, the vibration of it making you shiver.

Mark licks again, firmer now, tongue dragging up to your clit in one smooth motion. When he flicks it, your whole body reacts—hips lifting, thighs squeezing around his head before you can stop yourself.

“Oh my god—Mark-”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice muffled, lips brushing you as he speaks. “That feel good?”

You let out something between a whimper and a laugh. “Yes. Jesus.”

He chuckles, low and smug and so affectionate, and then gets back to it. His hands hook around your thighs, pulling you open gently, holding you steady as he focuses on your clit now, licking slow circles, sometimes firm, sometimes soft. Every shift of his tongue feels different, like he’s reading every reaction, adjusting just for you.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. One ends up in his hair, fingers tangling instinctively, the other gripping the pillow beside your head. Your breath stutters with every pass of his mouth, every change in pressure.

When he sucks, just lightly, testing, you moan, sharp and sudden, your legs shaking around his shoulders.

He hums in approval, licks harder now, zeroing in on the rhythm that makes you come undone. Your thighs start to tremble, the pleasure curling in your gut, growing tight and hot and right on the edge of too much.

“Mark—Mark, I’m-” you gasp, barely able to form words. “I think I’m gonna—oh my god-”

“Do it,” he breathes against you, voice ragged, “I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes. You break, coming with a cry you can’t even hold in, your hips jerking, back arching off the mattress. His name slips from your lips in broken pieces as he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now, easing you through it, drinking in every second.

You collapse back, panting, dazed. Your legs fall open, spent. Mark finally pulls away, lips slick, cheeks flushed, grinning like he just stole the sun. He crawls up the bed, brushing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, letting you taste yourself, your heat still on his mouth.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb brushing your jaw.

You nod, swallowing hard, voice soft. “I think my soul left my body.”

He grins, nuzzling close. “Then I’ll just have to kiss you ‘til it comes back.”

Mark’s sprawled out against the pillows, shirtless, pants still half-on, but loose around his hips now. His chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His hair’s a mess, his lips are pink and parted, and he’s looking at you like he’s not sure he’s still conscious.

You reach for the waistband of his jeans, your fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his lower stomach. You glance up at him, cheeks flushed. “Can I…?”

He nods quickly, already breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”

Your hands work the button open, sliding the zipper down slow. He lifts his hips to help when you tug his pants and boxers down, revealing him fully. You pause for a second, just looking, taking in the way his cock is flushed and hard, resting against his stomach, thick and twitching in time with every breath he pulls.

You’re flushed all over now, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. But you want this. You want him. And it’s not about returning the favor, it’s about the way he looked at you earlier, like you were something he’d dreamed about touching and couldn’t believe was real.

You lean in, your breath brushing over him, and he lets out a strangled sound just from that. You smile, barely, and then press a kiss to his hip bone, one side, then the other. Your hand wraps around the base of him, gentle but sure, and he groans, low and sharp.

You glance up again. “Okay?”

Mark’s eyes are almost black now, his voice wrecked. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

You lower your head, letting your lips ghost over the tip, tasting him, salty, hot, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He twitches in your hand. You open your mouth and take him in slowly, inch by inch, your lips wrapping around him as you sink lower. His hand clenches the bedsheet beside him, the muscles in his stomach flexing hard.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice already strained. “You’re… wow, okay.”

You smile around him, letting your tongue glide under the shaft, dragging back up to the tip with a slow flick. He shudders, his hips barely lifting before he reigns himself back in. You start to move, careful at first, your hand stroking the base while your lips slide up and down over the head, learning the rhythm of his breath, the way he twitches when you go just a little deeper.

He groans again, voice muffled. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.”

You hum around him, and his whole body jerks, a strangled moan slipping from his throat. You glance up and his eyes are on you, dazed and wide and wild, like he can’t believe this is happening.

“You look-” he chokes out, “fuck, you look so hot like that.”

You keep going, taking him deeper now, inching farther with each pass. Your throat tightens, your jaw working, your hand stroking in tandem. His abs are tight beneath your palm, his thighs trembling just a little where your fingers rest against them.

Mark’s hands twitch like he wants to touch you, maybe tangle in your hair, but he doesn’t, he just watches, eyes locked to yours every time you glance up. You speed up a little, hollowing your cheeks, letting your spit drip over your fist, making it easier to stroke him faster, smoother. You can feel him start to lose control, his breathing faster, his hips shifting in short, needy thrusts.

“I’m close,” he says, voice shaking. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close.”

You take him deeper, until you feel the head hit the back of your throat. Your hand moves faster, twisting around the base, and you moan softly around him. That’s it. That’s what pushes him over.

He comes with a groan that borders on a whimper, his hand shooting out to grip the sheets, hips stuttering. Hot, salty release spills into your mouth, thick and sudden, and you keep going, swallowing as best you can, letting the rest dribble out and down your chin as you ease off him, slow, careful.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, crawling back up beside him. He’s panting, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other still clenched in the sheets like he doesn’t know how to exist in his own body anymore.

When you settle beside him, he turns his head slowly, eyes glazed, lips parted in a dazed grin.

“Okay,” he says. “That was… that was insane.”

You laugh softly, settling your cheek against his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I think I just died. And I don’t even care.”

You smile, lips brushing his collarbone. “You’re alive.”

“Am I?” He reaches over and pulls you in tighter, still breathing hard. “Pretty sure I flatlined.”

You kiss the side of his neck, warm and soft. “Guess we both need CPR.”

Mark snorts, breathless. “I think you gave me CPR. With your mouth.”

You grin, biting his shoulder. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you,” he says, turning his face toward yours, brushing your hair out of your eyes, “are amazing.”

He kisses you, slow and deep and grateful, tasting himself on your lips without flinching, without even hesitating. Just kissing you like he wants to stay there forever. When you finally pull apart, both of you a little breathless again, he presses his forehead to yours.

“We’re doing that again,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Which part?”

“All of it. Every single part.”

The room feels different now, thick with warmth, the air humming with the weight of what’s been said, what’s been done, what’s about to happen. The sheets are tangled around your waist, your body still trembling slightly, flushed from his touch, from his mouth, from the look in his eyes like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever held. And you are, right now. You feel it in the way Mark touches you. No rush. No pressure. Just reverence. Just care.

You’re lying beneath him, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His hands are warm against your sides, thumbs brushing over the soft skin just below your ribs. He’s hovering above you, fully naked now, his body lean and strong, toned from fights and flights and all the impossible things he does daily, but still human here. Still yours here.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice so soft it barely fills the space between you.

You nod, slowly. “I’m sure.”

Mark exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a beat like he needed to hear that, needed to feel it in his bones. When he opens them again, they’re darker, heavier with emotion, something raw and vulnerable behind the desire.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I’ll go slow. I promise.”

He leans in and kisses you, not rushed, not hungry, just deep, like he’s saying something he can’t put into words. You kiss him back with the same unspoken understanding, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. His body settles over yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you, grounding you, thrilling you.

He reaches down between you and lines himself up, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh. You gasp at the feel of it, the size, the pressure, the weight of what it means. He strokes himself once, slowly, before he presses the tip against your entrance, and both of you go quiet.

Mark kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple, whispering between each press of his lips. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop. I’ll stop anytime.”

“I want this,” you breathe, your voice shaking but sure. “I want you.”

He pushes forward, just a little, and your breath catches in your throat.

The stretch is immediate, your body fighting the unfamiliar intrusion. It’s not painful, but it’s… intense. Tight. Full. You tense on instinct, your fingers digging into his biceps.

Mark freezes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forcing yourself to breathe. “Just… slow. Keep going. Just slow.”

He nods, kissing your forehead. “You’re doing perfect.”

He moves again, gradually, inch by inch, until he’s partway inside you, his hips trembling with restraint. You feel him everywhere, stretching you open, grounding you, filling you in ways that feel impossibly deep. You gasp again, blinking hard, focusing on the heat of his skin under your hands, the sound of his voice murmuring soft encouragement into your ear.

“So tight,” he breathes. “So perfect.”

He goes deeper, his cock sinking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts until he’s fully sheathed, buried inside you. His breath stutters, his eyes fluttering shut, jaw clenched hard to keep from losing control. You can feel every inch of him, feel your body stretching around him, learning how to take him.

You moan softly, hips shifting as you adjust, and when the sting fades into something fuller, warmer, you let out a shaky breath.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, legs curling around his waist. “You can move.”

He starts slow. Rolling his hips in shallow, careful thrusts, keeping his body pressed close to yours, never breaking contact. His hand strokes your side, your thigh, your cheek, anywhere he can reach. Every time you tense, he slows, waiting for your body to trust him again.

And it does. Little by little, the discomfort melts away. You start to move with him, rolling your hips up to meet his, gasping every time he sinks deep and grinds against something that sends sparks up your spine.

“God,” Mark groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel… fuck, you feel amazing.”

You cling to him, overwhelmed by the heat, the closeness, the sound of his voice breaking into gasps every time your hips meet. He picks up a little speed, still slow, still careful, but more confident now. Every thrust fills you completely, the pressure building into something real. Something intimate. Every soft slap of skin, every low moan that spills from his lips, every helpless sound you make beneath him, it all adds to the rhythm, the heat, the connection.

Your fingers drag down his back, nails biting into muscle, and he groans, pushing deeper, harder, still slow but more intense now. He lifts his head, looks down at you with so much awe, so much feeling it’s dizzying.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours, sweat glistening on his skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You moan, your body clenching around him, your thighs shaking. “I think I’m close, Mark—don’t stop-”

“I’m here,” he says, voice thick and ragged. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

The wave crashes over you without warning, shuddering and hot and endless. Your back arches, your mouth open on a cry as your walls pulse around him, the orgasm tearing through you like a current. Mark groans, burying his face in your neck as he follows you, thrusting once, twice more before he stills, hips pressed tight to yours as he comes hard, shaking in your arms, gasping your name.

Everything is still after. No sound but the ragged breath of two bodies wrecked and clinging.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathes into your neck, his arms wound around you like he’s afraid to let go.

Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes heavy, lips soft.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, not from pain—just emotion. “Yeah. That was… good.”

Mark leans down and kisses you, slow, tender, no rush. No hunger. Just love.

The room’s gone soft around the edges, dim light pooled in the corners, sweat cooling on your skin, your muscles loose and twitching from the first time he’d taken you apart. The air’s heavy, damp with your breath and his, the sheets kicked to the bottom of the bed in a pile of tangled cotton and clothes. Everything smells like sex. Like him. Like you.

And you can feel him behind you.

Still hard.

You shift slightly, and his cock presses against your thigh, warm, heavy, twitching, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. You blink slowly, hazy, your body pulsing between your legs like it’s already remembering what it felt like to have him buried inside you.

“You’re still…” You glance down, blushing. “Wow.”

Mark laughs, but it’s quiet, breathless, like he’s just as surprised. “Yeah. Apparently, I’m eighteen again.”

You snort, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth. “I didn’t even know it could do that. Like, that fast.”

He shrugs, shifting beside you. “I mean, you were literally moaning like someone rewrote your brain chemistry with their dick, so…”

“Oh my god—Mark—shut up-”

He grins, eyes glinting. “Next time you’re gonna be that loud, maybe warn me. I wasn’t exactly planning on getting hard all over again five seconds later.”

You bury your face in the pillow, groaning. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s still pending peer review.”

Mark laughs again, but there’s a quiet behind it now, something deeper. He shifts toward you, his hand sliding over your bare hip, slow and warm. “Do you wanna go again?” His voice is soft now, careful. “I mean… only if you’re feeling okay. I know you said you were sore.”

You breathe in slowly, feeling the ache in your thighs, the pleasant throb between your legs. You are sore. Your body’s worn and flushed and used. But underneath that soreness is a craving you didn’t know you could feel, something thick and hot and electric.

You nod. “Yeah. I want to.”

Mark’s breath stutters. He leans in, kisses your shoulder, your neck, his lips trailing heat across your skin. “You wanna stay like this?”

You hesitate. Then you push up slowly, onto your elbows, then your hands and knees, arching your back, your ass lifting high.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your face is already on fire.

“I, uh…” Your voice cracks a little. “I want to try it this way.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Mark makes a strangled noise behind you. “Okay. Okay, you can’t just do that and expect me to function.”

You giggle, nervous, shifting your knees a little wider. “I don’t even know if I’m doing it right.”

Mark’s hands settle on your hips, and you feel him slide up behind you, kneeling. His fingers tighten, holding you in place like he’s grounding himself, and then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lower back.

“You’re doing everything right,” he says, voice rough now. “You look so fucking good like this.”

You shiver, suddenly very aware of how open you are, how vulnerable. But it’s not scary. Not with him. You trust him more than you’ve ever trusted anyone.

He strokes his hand up your spine, then down again, until he’s cupping your ass in both hands, gently kneading the soft flesh. You feel the blunt head of his cock nudge between your folds, and your breath catches.

“Okay?” he asks again, even now, still checking.

You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. Just… go slow again?”

“Always.”

He presses forward, and you feel the stretch immediately—sharper this time. Deeper. You breathe through it, bracing your arms as your body adjusts, the pressure building until he’s fully inside you, hips flush to your ass.

You whimper, legs shaking. “God, Mark-”

He groans, holding still, trying not to move. “You’re so fucking tight. I can feel everything.”

You breathe, slow and deep, getting used to the new angle, the depth. It’s intense, so much more than before. It feels like he’s deeper inside you, hitting places that make your toes curl.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s just… a lot.”

“Tell me when.”

You shift your hips experimentally, grinding back against him, and that alone makes you both moan.

“There,” you gasp. “There, I’m good. Move.”

He pulls back, just a little, then thrusts back in, slow, deliberate, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid he’ll lose you otherwise. The sound is obscene, wet, messy, needy, and your thighs tremble as you rock back into him.

Mark starts to fuck you in earnest, his rhythm picking up, the sound of his skin slapping your ass sharp and filthy. You can barely breathe, your face pressed to the pillow as your body jerks forward with every thrust.

“God—fuck—you feel so good,” he pants behind you. “I can’t believe this is real. You’re—fuck—you’re so good.”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a moan as he hits a spot inside you that makes your vision go white.

He leans over you, his chest against your back now, his arm wrapping around to reach between your legs. His fingers find your clit, slippery and swollen, and he starts rubbing tight, fast circles in rhythm with his thrusts.

You scream, bucking under him. “Mark—fuck—I’m gonna—oh my god-”

“Do it,” he groans into your neck. “Wanna feel you come around my cock again. Wanna hear how loud I can make you.”

You unravel in seconds, your body locking, your pussy clenching down around him so hard it rips a growl out of his throat. You shake, crying out, eyes squeezed shut, legs useless beneath you.

Mark thrusts through your orgasm, chasing his own, and a moment later he slams in deep one last time, groaning loud as he comes, cock pulsing, his whole body jerking with it.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathless, ruined.

After a long, quiet minute, he rolls off to the side, pulling you with him, your body limp against his chest.

You don’t speak. You can’t. You just lie there, letting the warmth of him bleed into your skin, his hand stroking your back like you’re something fragile and important.

Finally, Mark exhales a soft laugh. You’re curled against him, your head tucked beneath his chin, his hand smoothing up and down your back like he doesn’t want to stop touching you. And honestly? You don’t want him to either.

Your skin still tingles. Your thighs are sticky, your lips sore from kissing. You feel raw and loved and dizzy.

But deep beneath all that?

There’s still need.

Not playful. Not curious. Heavy.

You swallow, your voice small. “I’m still... kind of wired.”

Mark hums above you, lazy. “Wired?”

“I mean, like…” You shift slightly, pressing your hips against him without thinking. “I thought I’d be spent. But it’s like my brain's fried and my body’s just... still on.”

You glance up at him through messy strands of hair. “You ever get that? Like your muscles should be exhausted, but your whole body’s still buzzing?”

Mark lifts his head and looks at you.

And he’s not smiling this time.

His face shifts, just a little. Like something in him’s been quiet this whole time and now it’s starting to wake up. That soft, sweet boyish glow in his eyes dims, changes. Not gone. Just shadowed. Heated.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “I get that.”

His fingers slide down your side, finding the dip of your waist, his palm spreading over your hip. He holds you like that for a second. Still.

Then. “You wanna go again.”

It’s not really a question.

But you nod. “I do. I just… I don’t want it gentle this time.”

Mark blinks slowly, like he’s processing that. Then he exhales, breath shaky, and shifts to sit up slightly, his hand still warm on your waist. “You mean like—what? Different position, or like—more intense?”

You hesitate. Then push onto your elbows and roll onto your stomach, deliberately slow. You stretch your arms out and tilt your hips up just enough. Not knees. Not lifted like before.

Flat.

Heavy.

Open.

Your voice comes out low. “More intense.”

There’s a long pause. You feel it, him watching you. Breathing harder.

Then Mark says, quietly. “I don’t think I can be nice if we do it like this.”

You glance back at him. His jaw’s tight. His eyes are dark, locked on where your thighs are already pressing together, slick and aching.

“Then don’t be.”

That breaks him.

Mark shifts behind you slowly, spreading your thighs just a little more with firm hands that feel bigger like this, heavier. He settles on his knees, your hips tipped up with the help of the pillow beneath you, your chest and cheek pressed into the mattress. Your back arches without meaning to, presenting, offering, your entire body opening up for him without hesitation.

You feel him line up, the head of his cock dragging slowly along your entrance, teasing once, twice, more to coat himself in your slick than to test your patience.

“You’re still soaked,” he says, low and ragged.

He presses in with one smooth, solid thrust.

Your mouth falls open. No words, just breath. The stretch hits immediately. He’s thick, the angle is deeper than before, and the way your thighs are pressed together amplifies everything. The heat, the fullness, the pressure on every nerve ending. Your walls clamp down reflexively, overwhelmed, and Mark grits out a curse behind you.

“Jesus Christ—you’re tight.”

You try to nod, but it’s more of a twitch. He’s all the way in, his hips pressed firm to your ass, and for a long second, neither of you moves. You both just exist in the feeling.

Then Mark pulls back.

And slams into you.

The first thrust punches a sound out of your mouth. A sharp cry that bursts out before you can catch it. Your hands fist in the sheets, and your hips jerk forward from the force of it.

He does it again. Harder. Deeper.

His hands lock around your hips, gripping tight, holding you in place as he finds his rhythm. It’s not rushed, but it’s rough. Purposeful. Every thrust lands hard, rocking your body into the mattress, making the headboard rattle gently with the force.

You’re gasping now, helpless. “Oh my god—Mark—fuck-”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice raw. “You like this?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak. It’s too much, in the best way. Your body’s strung out, shaking, the friction relentless. Each thrust drives him so deep inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half and rebuilding you in his shape.

The sound of it fills the room, skin on skin, slick and fast and wet, your cries rising with every thrust.

He leans forward a little, changing the angle, and suddenly he’s grinding against something inside you that makes your vision spark. You jolt, head lifting from the mattress as your whole body tenses.

“There,” he breathes. “That’s the spot.”

He keeps hitting it, again and again, each time with more force, more intent, his cock stroking over that perfect pressure point like he means to ruin you.

You sob into the sheets. “Mark—Mark—I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re taking it so fucking well.”

One hand slips off your hip, snakes around to your front, fingers sliding over your clit. You’re already so sensitive the first brush makes your hips jerk, but he doesn’t stop. He rubs fast, firm circles, in sync with his thrusts, and the combination nearly knocks you out of your body.

The burn is everywhere. Your legs are trembling. Your muscles are tight and twitching, your breath broken into whimpers. You don’t know if you’re saying his name or just thinking it, chanting it, praying with it, begging.

“Please—please—I’m gonna-”

“Come,” he murmurs lowly, barely holding it together behind you. “I want it. I wanna feel it.”

You come like lightning. There’s no slow build, just a sudden, electric collapse. Your pussy clenches hard, convulsing around him, your voice breaking into a sharp cry as your whole body locks up.

Mark groans, deep and strained, his hips faltering. He fucks you through it, his cock dragging through the wet, pulsing heat of your orgasm, and then he slams in once more and freezes.

“F-fuck—” he gasps, head dropping to your back. “I’m—fuck—”

He shudders hard, cock twitching as he spills into you, his whole body jerking with it. One hand clenches around your waist like he’s trying to ground himself while the other braces against the bed beside your head. You feel the tension ripple through him, feel him lose it inside you.

And then it’s over. But the heat doesn’t fade right away. It lingers, wrapped around your body like a second skin, sinking deep into your bones.

Mark stays inside you for a moment longer, chest heaving, his breath hot against your back. Then, carefully, slowly, he eases out, one hand on your lower back as he moves, gentle again now, like the moment’s intensity is still ringing in his hands.

He pulls you into him when he finally lays down again, your back to his chest, arms tight around you like he’s trying to hold the moment in place.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, your bodies tangled, your skin still tacky with sweat, but the quiet between you doesn’t need filling. It’s not silence, it’s peace. The kind that only comes after something real. Something that breaks you open and puts you back together in the same breath.

You’re not sure how long it’s been. Minutes? An hour?

Time’s gone soft around the edges, all stretched out and blurry. Your skin is sticky, flushed. Every part of you feels sore in that half-numb way that says we went too far and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Your thighs ache. Your lips are swollen. Your muscles don’t want to move.

Mark is breathing slowly behind you. His chest rises against your back in that heavy rhythm you only get when your body’s winding down after something primal, after all the tension’s burned off and all that’s left is heat and heartbeat and the way you fit together.

You shift just slightly, trying to get comfortable, and immediately wince.

“Ow,” you whisper, wry and quiet.

Mark stirs behind you. He’s half-asleep, but not gone. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. “Mm?”

“I think my spine left the building,” you murmur, face still buried in the pillow. “My thighs are mad at me. My everything hurts.”

Mark chuckles. It’s low and sleepy, his breath warm on your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You snort. “I didn’t say I regretted it.”

He hums and nuzzles closer, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss between your shoulder blades. “Good. ‘Cause I definitely blacked out for a few minutes in the middle there.”

You turn your head just enough to look back at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed and still dazed, eyes half-lidded. He looks soft like this. Disarmed. Like he’s not trying to be anything but yours.

“Can’t feel my legs,” you murmur.

“Same,” he says, voice muffled now, mouth resting against your bare skin. 

You laugh quietly. “Romantic.”

“The most romantic.” He kisses your neck this time. “Can’t believe this started with you explaining something about thermodynamic collapse at dinner.”

You groan into the pillow. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, it was hot,” he mumbles. “You had charts.”

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

You let silence stretch out for a little while. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because it’s nice, being quiet with him. Not needing to fill space. His thumb strokes absent circles into your side. The fan hums softly from the corner of the room.

“Hey,” you whisper eventually.

Mark makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, his grip on you not loosening an inch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” you say, the words barely audible. “Not just… sex. But this. Being held like this.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he shifts just enough to hook his leg over yours, tangling you together even more.

“Me neither,” he says.

You smile. Close your eyes. Press your fingers over his hand, holding it there.

Mark kisses your shoulder again. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I’m sweaty and ruined and I probably have sheet lines all over my face.”

“Exactly.”

You huff out a laugh and feel it ease something in your chest. That pressure that’s always there, especially when you get too in your head, too tangled in what things mean. It’s gone now. There’s no future to plan for, no awkwardness to decode. Just warmth. Skin. Comfort.

Eventually, Mark’s breathing starts to even out behind you again. Slower. Deeper. You think he’s about to fall asleep, until his hand squeezes your hip, one last time.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“I’m still hard.”

You choke on a laugh. “Mark-”

“I’m just saying.” His voice is thick with sleep. 

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m in love.”

You freeze. He doesn’t seem to notice he said it, too sleepy. He’s already burying his face against your shoulder again, breathing the evening out. But you hear it. You feel it. And as your hand drifts back to find his under the blankets, your fingers twining between his, you realize the words don’t scare you. They feel right.

You whisper into the quiet, “Me too.”

And let yourself fall asleep tangled in him, no space between you. Just breath. Just warmth. Just him. You wake up before the alarm. Not because of the sun, though it’s already rising, a subdued gold streaming through the curtain edge. Not because of the nerves, though they're creeping up your neck like static.

Mark shifts next to you, so you awaken.

Not a lot. Just the tiniest finger twitch on your bare waist, the gentle, drowsy exhalation against the back of your shoulder as he moves and falls back into the sheet tangle. The warmth strikes you all at once. The intimacy. The stillness. And the fact that it’s today. You blink carefully, allowing your eyes adapt, but you don’t move.

Still snuggled behind you, Mark's chest pushed to your back and one arm draped over your stomach. Your legs are knotted with his. The room smells like hotel soap and shared flesh, and your body hurts in all the ways that make last night seem heavy and real and right.

You close your eyes again, just for a second. It’s not the nerves that drag you out of bed. It’s the weight of time.

You move carefully, sliding out from beneath his arm without disturbing him. You discover your clothes, your polished pants, your clean shirt, the jacket you picked out in a swirl of anxious energy the week before. You gather your bags, your badge, your quivering hands, and go silently into the restroom.

The water is too hot, yet you don’t turn it down. You lean into the tile, forehead on the wall, and let the steam fill your lungs. You’re not crying. You’re not breaking. But you are unraveling a little, and here is the only location that seems secure enough to do it without falling apart totally. This is it. Today. Your Oscorp presentation.

You know what to say. You’ve rehearsed it. Memorized it. You’ve revised your slides six times. You’ve spoken your introduction in the shower, in the mirror, in your sleep. But knowing what to say and feeling you’re ready to speak it in front of a room full of business executives are two very different things.

You dry off gently, wrap your towel firmly about you, and gaze at your reflection in the mirror. You don’t feel brilliant. You don’t feel like someone who deserves a seat in the room. But you button the shirt nevertheless. One at a time.

When you step out, your hair still damp around your shoulders, Mark’s awake. He’s sitting up in bed, hair ruffled, wearing nothing but sleep-wrinkled boxers and a bewildered face. He blinks when he sees you. Then grins. Soft. Proud. Sleep-warm and boyish.

“Morning.”

You exhale. “Hi.”

He stretches, arms extending over his head, and lets out a deep breath. “You’re already dressed?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You okay?”

You nod.

He glances at you for a second longer. “You sure?”

“No.”

Mark scoots to the edge of the bed and puts his elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”

You hesitate. Then go. You sit alongside him, your bare knee caressing his thigh, and he threads his fingers with yours without a word.

“You don’t have to be okay right this second,” he offers gently.

“I want to be.”

He shrugs. “You will be. Once you’re in that room.”

You gaze at the floor.

“I can’t tell if I’m more scared of failing or of doing well and not knowing what comes after.”

Mark hums. “That’s fair.”

“You’re not gonna try to talk me down?”

“Nope.”

You gaze up at him.

And his look is peaceful. Grounded. Certain.

“I’m just gonna remind you you’re not alone,” he says. “You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

You push your forehead to his. Just for a second. Then breathe out. And let him hold your hand for as long as it needs.

The ride down on the elevator is calm. You’re dressed in your presenting best. Your badge catches the light every time the elevator shifts. Mark’s dressed casually but neat, dark jacket, tidy pants, your favorite of his shirts beneath.

His hand touches yours in the confined space. You take it. Without speaking. Without thinking. You just take it.

The convention lobby is full. There are interns everywhere, stiff suits, coffee cups clasped like lifelines, frantic eyes darting from registration tables to room schedules to glossy name tags of higher-ups strolling by like gods. Your badge says PRESENTER. Silver. Heavy.

Mark doesn't say anything. Because he’s just a visitor. But he walks with you like he’s more than that. Like he always has. You find the check-in table, confirm your time, and receive your placement: Panel Room B, second slot. Thirty minutes. You nod. You try not to reveal how your pulse is beating in your ears.

The woman behind the counter grins. “There’s a prep room across the hall. Just presenters and organizers allowed.”

You gaze back toward Mark. Her eyes follow.

“Guests can wait outside the panel room,” she offers softly. “We’ll start seating soon.”

Mark glances at you. “You want me to stay close?”

You nod. “Front row.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The prep room is quieter but not calmer.

There’s a row of seats, a pitcher of water, a countdown clock on the wall. You sit. You grasp your iPad with white knuckles. You practice your opener in your thoughts again. And again. And again. Your chest feels tight. But suddenly the door opens slightly, and a worker comes in.

“First presenter’s almost done. You're next.”

You stand. Your legs feel like someone else's. And then you’re in the hallway. Then you’re standing behind a curtain, waiting for your name. You hear muted applause.

A voice over the mic. “Next up, a promising development in adaptive nano-tech applications-”

And your name. Clear. Loud. Sharp. You step into the spotlight. You don’t trip. You don’t freeze. You talk. Your voice shakes just for the first few syllables. But then you lock eyes with someone in the front row.

Black hair. Blue eyes.  Strong jaw. Leaning forward in his seat. Watching you like nothing else mattered. Mark. His expression is steady. Soft. He grins when you make it through your intro.

He mouths the word “yes” when your first graph loads without glitching.

He nods along as you hit your stride. And when you pause for audience questions, he’s the only person in the room you trust to look at. Because he’s still there. Still holding you together. Without touching a thing.

The applause still resonates in your ears even as the doors close behind you. It’s not thundering. It’s not cinematic. But it’s enough. Enough so you don’t feel like you failed. Enough that your lungs finally feel like they can fill again.

You stroll out of the panel room and into the corridor, where the carpet seems too soft under your shoes and the lights buzz somewhat louder than before. The high is wearing off, fast, and the weight of what you just accomplished is crashing over you in waves.

You don’t even know you’re trembling until you reach the corner near the prep area and touch your palm on the wall to stabilize yourself. Your breath is short. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is still hammering. But you did it. You did it. You look down at your badge, still fastened to your jacket, still sparkling with that strong silver PRESENTER print, and let yourself feel it for just a second. You deserved that.

“Hey.”

You turn. He’s already there. Mark. Leaning nonchalantly against the wall like he didn’t just witness you rise up and own a stage you thought you’d fall on. Like he hasn’t been holding his breath the entire time you talked. But his smile tells everything. You exhale like you forgot how.

“I didn’t screw up,” you reply, almost incredulous.

He pushes off the wall, approaching toward you with the deliberate, controlled stride of someone who’s trying not to run.

“You didn’t just not screw up,” he says. “You crushed it.”

You gaze at him, eyes wide. “I think I blacked out halfway through.”

“You didn’t miss a beat.”

“I—I tripped over one of the bullet points in slide six.”

“No one noticed.”

“I was shaking.”

“I noticed that.”

Your voice catches. “Was it bad?”

Mark stops in front of you. And shakes his head.

“It was honest,” he replies gently. “It made everyone pay attention. Made them believe you.”

You blink fast.

“I feel like I’m going to cry.”

“You should.”

He reaches up, moving your hair back from your face, fingertips sliding over the contour of your cheek.

“You earned this,” he murmurs. “Every second of it.”

You lean toward him before your knees can make any wrong judgments on their own. He captures your lips like he was waiting for it. Holds you. Not tightly. Not dramatically. Just long enough to inform your heart it’s good to slow down now. Just long enough to make it real. You don’t know how long you stay like that.

Eventually, a few more presenters stream by. A pair nod in your direction. One delivers a short, “Nice job in there,” before going down the corridor. You’re not sure if they mean it. But you nod nevertheless. You let go of Mark just enough to breathe again.

“Is it weird that I don’t remember most of it?” you mumble.

He grins. “You will. Once the adrenaline wears off.”

You look down at your hands. They’ve stopped shaking. For now.

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

“I thought I’d fall apart.”

“You didn’t.”

You nod, blinking hard again.

“Did you see who was in the front row?”

Mark nods. “Yeah. Dr. Li. And the guy from R&D with the weird eyebrows.”

“I think he was judging me.”

“I think he was crying.”

You laugh. A complete one this time. Unfiltered. It feels natural. Like breathing. You sit on one of the seats in the corridor with Mark, sipping the water he took off a catering tray while no one was watching. He offers you one of those lemon sugar cookies you usually claim not to enjoy, and you take it without objection. You lean against him, head against his shoulder. And just... exist. For a while.

Until a shadow crosses your range of view.

And a voice replies, “Told you she’d kill it.”

You glance up. Harry. Wearing a jacket you surely haven’t seen before, and smiling that little, familiar smile that never quite gives away what he’s thinking.

“You were in there?” you ask, shocked.

“Of course I was,” he admits. “Front row, four seats behind your boyfriend.”

Mark stares at him but doesn’t say anything.

You shift upright. “What’d you think?”

Harry shrugs. “Could’ve used more lasers.”

You laugh. “Be serious.”

“I am. But no—seriously? You were solid. Professional. Sharp.” He pauses. “You didn’t flinch when they asked about the lab failure data. That was impressive.”

You try not to shine too much. But it’s hard. Especially when the people who’ve known you the longest are the ones observing you the closest. Harry reaches out a hand. You shake it.

He leans in. “Also, Dr. Li was scribbling notes the entire time. That’s typically a positive sign.”

Your stomach flips again. But in a nice way.

He winks. “Catch up later?”

You nod. Harry slips back into the crowd. And you’re left with Mark again, looking down at your now-empty water cup.

“You okay?” he says again, softly.

“Yeah.”

And then, after a pause. “I think I really did it.”

Mark grins. “You did.”

You gaze forward to the far wall of the corridor, where the next group of presenters is being called in.

“Does it feel weird?” you ask.

“What?”

“Seeing me like this. Not as... me. But like this me.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “You’re always this you.”

You scoff. “You know what I mean.”

He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. It’s weird.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“But it’s also amazing,” he says. “Watching you take up space like that? Watching you be seen? I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder.”

Your chest pulls tight. Mark lays his head on yours.

“You belong in that room.”

You nod slowly.

“I’m starting to think maybe... maybe I do.”

You’re still clutching the empty water bottle when you hear your name. The hallway backstage is quiet now, humming with leftover tension and the distant echo of footsteps, Oscorp volunteers, panel coordinators, applause still bleeding faintly through the walls. You just stepped out of the room where you presented, out of the lights, out of the pressure. Mark’s waiting farther down the hall. 

“Miss,” a voice says, calm and quiet.

You turn. And there he is. Dr. Otto Octavius. You freeze. The only thing louder than the blood pounding in your ears is the realization that he’s here. You didn’t see him at the panel. Didn’t know he was attending. And yet, somehow, it makes sense. He doesn’t sit in crowds. He observes from the shadows.

He’s taller than you expected. Not imposing, exactly, but deliberate. Measured. Like everything about him was engineered for efficiency. His glasses catch the hallway light. His posture is impeccable. His look is unreadable.

“You presented clearly,” he remarks without preface. “You didn’t falter, even when pressed on your control variable gaps.”

You nod, trying not to noticeably brace. “Thank you, Dr. Octavius. I didn’t know-”

“I wasn’t announced,” he adds, cutting you off with the ease of someone who never wastes words. “I prefer to observe when the subject doesn’t know they’re being watched.”

Subject. Your spine gets rigid.

“Walk with me.”

You gaze down the corridor, toward where Mark had gone. But you follow. He walks slowly. Not because he has to, but because he expects you to keep pace.

“I run a program,” he adds after a pause. “A very specific one. Experimental, sponsored privately, shrouded by enough nondisclosure to black out half a city block.”

You look over at him. “What kind of program?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Cross-species neural adaptation,” he explains. “Specifically… arachnid-based.”

The word clicks against your ribcage.

“Spiders?” you ask, since you have to. He eventually turns his head.

“Yes.”

He stops walking. You stop too.

“The Midtown Spider Genetics Lab houses Oscorp’s most advanced neuroadaptive research,” he explains. “We’ve been isolating and enhancing spider genomes to test the limits of cognitive transference. Behavior mapping. Memory rewriting. Selective mutagenesis. And more.”

You don’t talk. You can’t. His eyes are fixated on you now.

“What we’re doing isn’t theoretical,” he continues. “It’s real. It’s volatile. It demands exactness. Focus. A steady hand and a sharper mind. That’s why I’ve only ever asked very few interns to shadow the project.”

You gaze at him.

“And you want me to be one?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “I want you to be the first of a new branch. The others were observers. I want you in the lab itself.”

You swallow. He sees it. Doesn’t flinch.

“You’ll finish out your academic year,” he says. “The program begins next fall. One semester. Midtown lab. Closed-access wing. Three days per week.”

You hesitate. The corridor is so silent you can hear your heartbeat. Octavius steps closer. Not looming. But close enough to make you feel the gravity.

“You didn’t flinch today,” he says. “Not when they pressed you. Not when you tripped. You held your ground.”

You nod slowly. Once.

“I’m in.”

His smile is a flash. Not approval. Something sharper.

“Good,” he says.

He hands you a folder. Simple. Sealed. Your name on the front.

“Review it. Skim it. Report to the Midtown Genetics Lab next September.”

You take it.

And before you can ask anything else, he’s gone, walking back the way you came, like he was never there at all. You stand in the lonely corridor, holding a folder that suddenly weighs more than the building around you. In your chest, something shifts. Not fear. Not yet. Something smaller. Sharper. The initial thread of something that will tug until there’s nothing left but truth. 

And spiders.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17 / @mhrasm / @yzzaqczec / @pickledsoda / @qxuanii / @tr3nzit444s / @ketsuekiakane / @jiminie-08 / @thatwaspossesion / @xoyumiqls / @liliesclouds / @maki-ki / @wifeofmarkgrayson / @pixviee / @sugawoonie / @uselesstutor09 / @marinefreaakk / @monaekelis / @woodle-isbae / @simping4l1fe / @wasitforrevenge

[ashthesalamipiece]

hey ash can i please request soemthing? a katsuki bakugo x female reader they are married and reader is like extremely weak? like physically and she got pregnant-a high risk one the type where the doctor would say to consider a abortion? something like that? you dont have to do this Just a request from a fellow follower love your works they are chaotic and love them :)

Hii mll♡

Of you can request anything I appreciate ittt♡

I hope this is up to your expectations♡

---

"Stronger Than You Know"

Bakugo had never imagined himself the marrying type—at least not back when he was the hotheaded teen with a short fuse and a tunnel vision for victory. But somehow, you had wormed your way into his life with gentle hands and soft words, the exact opposite of everything he used to think he needed.

He used to think strength was everything.

But then he married you.

You weren’t strong like him. Not in the way that counted for most people. Your body was fragile, your energy limited, and your constitution was nothing short of worrying. Some days, he’d carry you from the bed to the couch because your muscles trembled too much. He always did it without complaint, though he grumbled under his breath just to keep up appearances. You’d laugh and call him a softie, and he’d call you a brat.

But he never once resented it. Not once.

Because you were the only one who could make him feel calm. Needed. Loved.

So when you told him you were pregnant, his reaction was… complicated.

He stared at you for a full minute before the words even processed. You were sitting on the couch in one of his old shirts, fingers wringing the hem, face pale and eyes a little wet. You’d looked scared—not of him, but for yourself. For the tiny, forming life inside of you.

And he felt like the ground tilted beneath him.

You were already so delicate. The idea of you carrying a child—his child—through nine months of hellish strain made his stomach twist in fear.

Of course, the hospital visit only made things worse.

“The pregnancy is high-risk,” the doctor said, voice carefully neutral. “Your body might not handle it. If complications arise, it could be fatal… for both of you.”

You’d gripped Bakugo’s hand then. He could still feel how cold your fingers were. The doctor kept talking, listing options, risks, and the word he hated more than anything in that moment: abortion.

Bakugo didn't speak. He didn’t trust himself to.

The moment you two left the office, you waited until you were in the safety of his car to finally whisper, “Katsuki… what should we do?”

He didn’t answer right away. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“Do you… want to keep it?” he finally asked, voice low.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I want to try. Even if I’m scared.”

He looked at you for a long time. Your face was full of fear and hope, all tangled together. You weren’t strong—at least not in the way people measured it. But he had never seen someone braver.

“You’re not doing this alone,” he said, turning fully to face you. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together. I’ll be there for every damn second.”

You gave him a watery smile, and he kissed you before you could say anything else.

---

The following months were hard.

You were in and out of the hospital more times than either of you could count. Bakugo adjusted his patrol schedule, sometimes canceling it altogether just to sit beside you during check-ups. The staff got used to seeing the pro hero sitting with you, his scarred hands cradling yours, whispering quiet reassurances that didn’t match his usual brash image.

There were nights he’d sit beside your bed, wide awake while you slept restlessly. He’d talk to your belly when you were too tired to stay conscious, his voice low and steady.

“Your mom’s the toughest damn person I know, you hear me?” he’d mutter, fingers gently tracing circles on your skin. “She’s stronger than any hero out there.”

Sometimes the fear crept in.

Like when you collapsed while walking across the kitchen.

Or when the doctors said your blood pressure was too high again.

Or when they prepared an emergency bag “just in case.”

But you always pulled through. Even when your body screamed and the world felt like it was stacked against you, you kept going.

Because you had a reason now. A heartbeat you heard on fuzzy monitors. A future wrapped in warmth and baby clothes folded neatly in drawers. And Katsuki’s hand, always there. Always strong. Always steady.

---

The birth wasn’t easy. It was a blur of beeping machines, sterile white lights, and a level of panic Katsuki never wanted to experience again.

They rushed you in after you started bleeding—too much, too fast.

He wasn’t allowed in the OR.

He punched a wall.

Paced like a caged animal.

Nearly lost it when a nurse asked him to “stay calm.”

But then—

A baby’s cry.

And the nurse came out.

“A girl,” she said. “She’s healthy. And your wife… she made it. She’s going to be okay.”

Bakugo didn’t remember sitting down, but he did.

Didn’t remember the tears, but they came.

When they let him in, you were pale, exhausted, barely awake—but smiling. And in your arms was the tiniest, angriest baby he had ever seen.

“She’s got your scowl,” you whispered hoarsely.

He looked down at the two of you—his whole world in one hospital bed—and something in him broke open.

He kissed your forehead.

“You scared the shit out of me, idiot.”

You laughed weakly. “Worth it?”

He looked at the baby again, who had just punched the air in protest.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, it was.”

[dismalflo]

can i request a remus x insecure reader who feels like she isn’t enough to deserve their relationship?

hi darling, thank you for requesting! i hope you enjoy <3

remus lupin x reader who thinks they should break up ✩ 1k words

cw: angst, tiny bit of fluff at the end, insecure/depressed reader

Something’s wrong. It’s in the way your shoulders sit high and tense, the restless shifting of your hands, the faint crease of worry etched between your brows. Remus notices how your eyes flit to him every so often, and each time, he pretends to read a book he hasn't turned a page of in minutes.

A quiet mix of concern and confusion stirs in his chest, just beginning to surface, when your voice slices through the silence—soft, fragile.

“I think we should break up.”

The world shifts. Everything around him narrows, shrinks, chills. You sink further into the cushions beside him, retreating inward, and Remus watches with wide, disbelieving eyes. His heart stumbles as he sets the unread book gently on the coffee table, his fingers trembling.

He swallows, throat thick. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Why… why would you say that?” The words scrape against his throat, shaky with disbelief. “What happened?”

You draw your knees closer, shoulders curling forward. You don’t meet his gaze, and the small movement of turning away feels like a knife to his chest. Remus leans in slightly, as though closing the space between you could keep whatever this is from slipping further out of reach. The pressure behind his eyes builds.

“I just…” Your voice falters, lip caught between your teeth. “I just think it’d be for the best.”

Remus reels, emotions crashing hard—hurt, confusion, but above all, fear. Fear that he’s already lost you without knowing it. A wall has risen between you, quiet and invisible, but now impossible to ignore. You’ve always had moments where you retreat, but this? This feels different. You look… hollow. Like something’s drained the light from you, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

In another moment, in another fight, maybe he’d reach out. Maybe you'd lean in, and this would all melt away. But now, his hands stay frozen in his lap. Instead, he fumbles for words.

“I don’t understand, dove,” he says finally, the nickname catching faintly in his throat. His voice is low, tender, uncertain. “Where’s this coming from?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers twist together in your lap. Then, so quiet he nearly misses it:

“Do you not get sick of me?”

His breath catches, sharp. For a moment, he’s not sure he heard you right. Your voice—so quiet, so broken—hits him harder than anything else could have.

"Sick of you?" He repeats, as if testing the words in his mouth, his mind struggling to comprehend. The confusion on his face deepens as he shifts closer. 

“No. I could never…” He trails off, struggling, voice fraying at the edges. “I don’t know what’s going on inside your head right now, but sick of you?” He shakes his head slowly. “That’s not something I could ever feel.”

You shake your head in return. The look in your eyes nearly undoes him.

“I just… I don’t think I’m a good partner,” you say, each word like a stone in your chest. “Not for someone like you. I feel like I’m holding you back—from someone who could give you everything you deserve.”

The breath leaves Remus’s lungs like a punch. Your words crack something deep in him, something tender and unguarded. He wants to reach for you, to insist you’re wrong, but he knows shouting down your pain won’t fix this.

So he chooses quiet.

“Do you expect me to be perfect?” he asks, voice low.

You look up fast, startled. “Wha– No!” you exclaim, eyes wide, cheeks damp.

Remus gives a soft, broken laugh — not unkind, just weary. “Then why would I expect that from you?” he murmurs.

He waits, watches the way that the question settles. Your lips part like you want to argue, to resist, but nothing comes. Your hands still in your lap. You look smaller somehow—like the weight you’ve been carrying has been pressing down for too long.

Remus leans in, just slightly, his voice still quiet, careful. “You think you're holding me back, but dove, that’s not– I love you. A lot. And I don't know what I’d do without you sometimes– most of the time.”

Your mouth opens, trembling, and for a second it looks like no words will come. But then they do, choked out through the beginning of proper tears that well and spill over before you can stop them.

“I don’t actually want to break up,” you confess, voice thick and warbling. “Not really.”

Remus's breath catches again, this time with something softer—relief, maybe, but wrapped tight in the ache of watching you crumble like this. Your apology slips out next, rushed and raw and muffled by your hands when you lift them to cover your face.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, I just— I didn’t know how else to say it. I didn’t know how to tell you how I’ve been feeling.”

But he’s already moving.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. His arms are around you in a heartbeat, gathering you in and pulling you close, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, the pieces of you will start to fit back together. You press your face into his chest, and the quiet, shuddering breaths you take against his shirt break his heart in a hundred new ways.

He presses his lips to the crown of your head, voice gentle and steady against the shake in yours. “You never have to apologize for feeling like this,” he murmurs. “Not with me.”

You cling to him, fingers curling into the fabric at his side, and he just holds you tighter.

“Anytime you need reminding,” he says softly, his words a promise, solid and warm, “I’ll tell you. I’ll remind you how much I love you. How much I want you. All of you.”

Your shoulders start to ease then, just a little. The worst of the storm passes in his arms, and he doesn’t let go.

[darling2411]

Matchmaker

Charles Leclerc x fem!reader

Summary: After meeting Charles for the first time, Lando is hell bend on bringing the two of you together

Word count: 1.5K

Warnings: None, maybe slighly suggestive (i think )

Part one

—☽—☽—₁₆—☽—☽—

That evening as you laid in your bed in one of the guest rooms you couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened with Charles. What did it mean? Did it mean anything at all?

What was gonna happen next ? Would you want something to happen next?

This was all so confusing. Did Charles even want you in this way?

Of course he did or he wouldn’t have indulged in the kiss and everything else, right?

Oh man what were you going to do?

—☽—☽—₁₆—☽—☽—

Pierres Birthday was the following day.

You were extremely nervous on the way down for brunch. Were you going to sit next to Charles again? The thought made you giddy but you were also anxious. What if he didn't want anything to do with you after yesterday? After all, the two of you had never met before. If he wasn't going to speak to you again this would become very awkward very fast.

When you arrived you noticed that the other drivers showed up right on time for brunch.

Immediately your eyes fixed onto charles. His gaze already locked onto you and he was smiling. ‘Thank god, this was not going to be weird after all.’ you thought and smiled back at him.

Unfortunately the seat next to Charles was already taken and you were forced to sit next to a stranger.

“ Hi I’m Lando and you are?”, he introduced himself. His boyish grin was charming, but compared to how Charles' smile made you feel it did nothing for you. The two of you hit it off though, his humour and laugh contagious.

Lando and you were joking and laughing all throughout brunch and the whole time you could feel someone watching you. You didn’t need to look up to know who was looking at you, your body's reaction told you whose eyes were on you.

And if that wasn't affirmation enough Lando commented laughing “ Charles is staring at you. And he's not even sneaky about it. “

You blushed “ Uhhh, I feel like there is a story hereeee.” he said and you rolled your eyes at his antics. Still you motioned for him to come closer.

“He's killing me with his eyes right now, so I don't believe this was very wise....Now im intrigued!”

You giggled and told him how Charles and you kissed yesterday.

“Wow, and you two have never met before?”

“No, that's the problem. I’ve never done anything like this before so I feel super weird. But I saw him and I wanted him and I guess he wanted me too s-”

“You Guess??!” Lando exclaimed so loudly that multiple heads turned in your direction

“Why don't you just shout it from the rooftops, God? Shhh!"

He winced” Sorry. But girl be for real, he followed you into the bathroom, kissed you breathless and now he can't keep his eyes off you and he looks at me like he wants me to burst into flames. How are you not absolutely sure that he wants you? He's literally looking at you as if you're the only woman in the world.”

You roll your eyes again,” You’re exaggerating.”

“No I’m really not.”

“You know what?" I’m gonna prove to you that he is down bad in a I want her for myself and not let her out of bed for the near future type of way” Lando states with a sly smile.

“Oh god what are you going to do?” you ask dreadfully “Getting you your man sister” he giggles, GIGGLES.

Now you really need to be scared.

—☽—☽—₁₆—☽—☽—

After everyone was finished you and Lando headed to the pool.

Pierre and Kika were off doing god knows what and everyone else was also just lounging around having a good time.

Lando was already at the pool when you got there after changing into your swimwear.

And he wasn’t alone. As it seemed Carlos and Charles were joining you two for a swim.

You put down your towel and other stuff and started applying your sunscreen.

You were oblivious to the way Charles was tracing you form with his eyes wishing it to be his hands but Lando noticed.

His fool proof plan to get his new friend together with Charles was starting right now.

” Q1 starting now” he whispered to himself. Oh how he loved playing matchmaker and really you two just needed a little push.

Before you could ask Lando to put sunscreen on your back he grabbed Carlos and pushed him and himself into the pool.

“Hermano,what was that for !?” Carlos cried out. Lando just winked at him and titled his head into yours and Charles' direction.

A knowing look passed over Carloses face and he began to laugh lightly” Ah I see what is happening here. You are trying to get them to be parejas” he wiggled his brows. “ Yeah, whatever that means”

Meanwhile you muster up all your courage and ask Charles if he would be so kind and apply sunscreen to your back.

“Of course cherie” he smiled at you “ Lay down on your stomach for me “

You did. Your bare back facing him like an invitation. Butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the nickname he used again.

Charles squeezed a line of sunscreen onto his palm. His hands moved gently over your back, slow and careful, like he was memorizing every freckle. You shivered a little “ Cold?” he asked and you replied that “ yes the sunscreen is a little chilly” and it was but that's not the real reason you shivered. His touch was to blame for that. You inhaled softly when he moved lower following the dip of your back. He leaned in, close enough to breathe you in and close enough for you to feel his breath ghosting over your skin. His finger traced your form in a way that wasn’t about protection from the sun anymore. You leaned into his touch when his thumb grazed the side of your rips , a moan threatening to escape you. “You're being very thorough” you say, voice breathy. “ Charles smiles “Just being sure that everything is covered.”

His hands glide lower, circling your hips and pressing in firmer, the sunscreen was already rubbed into your skin, but Charles couldn't seem to stop touching you. He leaned in closer again, his lips hovering above your shoulder not quite touching your smooth skin” All done” he murmured, voice dripping with suggestiveness.

“Thank you”

You remain in your spot. Unable to move just yet while Charles gets up and joins the other in the pool. You use the time the sunscreen needs to absorb into your skin to collect yourself. The simple act of applying sunscreen shouldn't be this arousing but you could already feel wetness pooling in your underwear.

In the pool Lando and Carlos gave each other a meaningful look before Lando said to Charles teasingly” Well you certainly took your time with her.”

Charles glared at him” Shut up”.

Oh Lando was going to have so much fun bringing the both of you together.

—☽—☽—₁₆—☽—☽—

Landos plan was in full motion.

The First phase was a complete success. He saw how you reacted to Charles and vice versa. 

Q2 was about to begin and Lando felt like a little kid on Christmas morning.

You were helping Kika and Pierres mother prepare something to eat for a quick snack. A variety of fruits crackers and cheese was quickly assembled. Kika called for Pierre to help bring out the food and you took a seat next to Rebecca and Carlos who were sitting close to Pierre and Kika in the lounge and were joined by Charles and Lando.

Lando pushed Charles into your direction so he had to sit next to you.

He sat directly beside you barely a breath between the both of you. If the others noticed they didn't let it show.

The bowl of fruit stood in front of you and you reached for a strawberry the same time he did. Your fingers brushed his and neither of you pulled away.

He took one, plucked off the stem and popped into his mouth a smug smile playing on his lips. Your gaze flicked to his lips momentarily and when your gaze locked again he winked at you.

Butterflies erupted in your stomach and before you could say something embarrassing you reached for a strawberry and bit into it.

“You’ve got a little something there…” Charles said, pointing vaguely to the juice on your lips.

“Here.”, He leaned in, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb slowly. “Got it” he murmured,his face so close to yours you could feel his breath on your lips.

If you would lean in just a little you could brush against his lips in a soft kiss. 

Seeing the look in your eyes and the flush on your cheeks, he chuckled. “ You enjoy my suffering way too much,” you mumbled. 

“Yeah, especially when you're so bad at pretending you don't love this.”

That made you scoff. “ Fine lets see how much you enjoy this” you voice and pick the plumbest berry in the bowl. Holding his gaze you took a bite. Juice ran down your fingers and you sucked them clean while still looking at him.

His smirk faltered “ Still feeling superior?” you ask, your voice dripping in faux sweetness.

He groaned adjusting himself, “That is incredibly distracting. I need to find a new strategy”

“New Strategy for what ?” you ask, confusion evident on your face.

“Getting you to kiss me again of course.” 

"Again? You kissed me the first time” you huffed. “Did not” Charles said leaning in closer once more. “ Wanna bet?” he murmured.

“Bet on what?” you ask, your voice breathy “ On whose gonna cave first?”

“Exactly, pretty girl. If you give in first I'll allow you to drive my ferrari for 15 minutes and I allow no one to do that but if I win you let me take you out on a date.” 

“ Deal” 

Lando the little fucker was listening in on your conversation and smiling to himself. He will make you lose that bet even if it's the last thing he does. You will go on that date with Charles one way or the other. 

Time for Q3.

—☽—☽—₁₆—☽—☽—

Taglist

@ellabellabus07

@motylekrozi

@meaganjm

[theoretically-questionable]

I've often found myself confused by people who use LLMs for tasks that involve communication, even in an office or other setting where a non-trivial portion of emails/messages are 'box-checking' rather than strictly interpersonally communicative.

Having thought it over, I think the difference in attitudes is probably akin to the split between people who value small talk and people who regard it, with extreme distaste, as "pointless and annoying": i.e., there is something the former is getting out of small talk that the latter group is not.

This is mostly just a rambling tangent, but oh well.

I like communicating and I do so with intent. I've heard the sentiment from some other autistic people that they'd love to have an 'autoresponder'-style module for their brain to automate away layers of necessary-but-draining/pointless conversation. Never been able to relate, in significant part because doing so would give people communicating with said autoresponder the entirely wrong impression about how I was feeling.

The purpose to communication is to transmit information from one person to another. There are so many layers to this information — something I have definitely struggled with, as an autistic person. Some of those layers were totally opaque to me for a long time. Hell, sometimes I didn't even know some layers existed.

In a collaborative environment, even rote/'pointless' communication rituals have a huge density of information. That is the point. It is important. If Joe Bloggs over in HR replies to my routine email confirming details for this week's parking garage allotments in a more abrupt way than usual, or slower than usual, that's contextual information.

Maybe I'll pick up that he's probably got a lot on his plate or feeling stressed. Maybe that's not relevant. Maybe I need someone from HR to do something later that day, and then I can either loop in someone else from the department or just know to approach Joe tactfully, rather than just passing the task along as I usually would.

When people start using LLMs to write emails, summarize meetings, and 'touch up' all of their work, all of that context turns to unparseable sludge. It's entirely random. You can't "get used to" how someone writes and learn to pick up context clues when everything longer than a single-sentence reply is being filtered through an LLM.

It genuinely ends up being a bit of a nightmare for me, having absolutely no access to any kind of context, just taking a ride down a river of vaguely polite- and professional-sounding drivel, all without even the barest grace of useful context. It just... makes things worse. It becomes a self-perpetuating loop with no eject button.

If it's really easy for everyone to maintain the 'professionalspeak' facade, nobody ever has times when they break the facade. And *breaking the facade* is important. Being able to shape the communication norms of your department/company over time is... I mean, I think it's essential? Willingly choosing "we all communicate via LLM" seems horrifying, like not just acquiescing to but actively reinforcing the worst parts of corporate expectations of overly sanitized communication standards handed down from your manager's manager.

And yeah, some of my feelings on the matter are definitely my own baggage, but it feels just as frustrating as having to work with someone who actively scorns 'small talk' and deliberately makes every single communication as stripped-down as possible — and ends up being less efficient overall, not more, because what they're actually doing is refusing to engage with their colleagues or make sure they're getting all the right information across.

The other thing is that LLMs don't actually, by default, have access to all the information you do. If you want to get specific information across in the output, you have to give it to the LLM first. I've never hit a scenario where I would have preferred an LLM-generated email instead of. like. just the bullet-point list of information that was used when prompting it.

If you're time-poor and easily frustrated by communication tedium, I would rather *know that*, and know for sure that none of the information you're giving me has been twiddled accidentally to be slightly wrong by a context-free LLM, than get 'professionally formatted' emails from you all the time.

the scariest thing about the generative AI thing is how quickly people have accepted it as an indefinite, irrevocable part of their reality. people have genuinely convinced themselves that ChatGPT is the only solution to most tasks - tasks they did with their own brain without any large effort two years ago. like you know damn well all of us used to write emails ourselves why are we pretending like this is an impossible task to do with your own two hands. what's with the fucking. AI revisionism. i feel like i am going insane.

[dramalove247]

Unpopular opinion? The apology was perfect.

a Dori 🐠 rambles post

Apparently my brain has decided not to move on from Top Form. But with an episode that gave us all of this:

why am I stuck here???

I just can't stop thinking about that scene; what I wanted from it vs what happened vs what Akin needed.

Before I go any further, let's make a couple things clear.

Akin has nothing to be ashamed of. He was not responsible for what happened to him. Period. Choosing to become intoxicated does not mean you are responsible if a predator takes advantage of the situation. It is never the victims fault. However, that doesn't mean people in that situation don't blame themselves. I wish Akin had been angry at the right people instead of himself, but Akin's reaction is tragically common and relatable. And as much as it would have been refreshing to see Akin angry, I respect the series for showing us this very toxic and real reaction to what happened to him. This post will be focusing on Akin's feelings and in no way am I implying he should feel this way.

It doesn't matter if it was SA or rape. The violation to one's autonomy doesn't change. No one here is minimizing what Johnny did because he got turned off when Akin said someone else's name and stopped. And I don't think the show was intending to do that either, even if it includes the toxic forgive and forget we commonly see in Thai dramas. But not knowing what has happened to you, if anything, is a trauma all by itself. It's okay for Akin to be relieved to know just how his body was violated, even if it doesn't change that his autonomy was stolen.

I apologize in advance if any of my word choices or attempt at explaining my thoughts causes any discomfort. I'm doing my best to explain what I saw in this story/characters and what they were feeling. If any of my phrasing comes across as insensitive or dismissive, please give me the benefit of the doubt and some room to be human.

On to the main event

I initially felt pretty meh because the apology didn't give me everything I wanted, but I was willing to call it good enough and move on. But I've changed my mind. The more I think about it, the more it feels like the perfect resolution.

🐈 Kat did an excellent job talking about what WE wanted vs what Akin needed in this amazing post. And I agree, Jin gave Akin exactly what he needed in Episode 7.

I know a lot of us had different reactions to episode 7. I'm not here to tell people they are wrong for interpreting things differently from me or for wanting something different from the story. I was angry as hell at Jin for his behavior in episode 6, and although I could understand his pain, I had a lot of things I wanted from episode 7. I was not ready to forgive Jin easily. But as Kat pointed out, Akin wasn't mad at Jin. Akin already felt ashamed and guilty for what happened, Jin didn't cause that. What made things worse for Akin in that garage was seeing Jin in pain. He didn't need Jin to apologize because Akin felt he was the one who was at fault.

Akin didn't need to forgive Jin, he needed to forgive himself, and Jin deserves massive credit for recognizing that.

I do believe Jin felt awful for how he had reacted and for leaving Akin. Initially, Jin's own pain and feelings had made him blind and deaf to Akin's suffering. Even fearing that Akin had cheated, knowing Akin was lying to his face, what Jin desperately wanted was for Akin to give him hope that there was still something to fight for. So when Akin couldn't give him that, Jin fell apart. But just because I can understand Jin, that isn't an excuse for how he added to Akin's pain and I wanted him to take responsibility for every one of Akin's tears in that garage!

But as much as I was angry at him, I honestly don't believe Jin was looking for an apology from Akin in episode 7. I don't believe his tears in that theater were about him hearing Akin say sorry, I think it was his reaction to seeing Akin's pain, not understanding what caused it, but knowing he was part of it. In that moment, Akin's pain became more important than his own and Jin needed to do something about it. Only then does he confront Johnny. I don't know what Jin suspected, but the fact that he recorded the convo is telling. I think he was looking for a way to help Akin, not clarify if they had slept together or not, so he could give Akin the answers he needed and the tools to forgive himself. I don't think it mattered at all to Jin how far things had gone. Once he realized Akin was hurting over what had happened, Jin had the hope he had needed to fight for their relationship.

And then that's what Jin did:

Akin texts Jin to meet. Jin is excited. But Akin came to give back the necklace. Akin: "Sorry. I'm probably not right for it." Jin askes if that's is really why he came and Akin says yes. But there is pain and longing there and Jin sees it and it's the hope he needs. So he kisses Akin and Akin falls apart.

Akin is the first to apologize because he blames himself. But Jin wasn't looking for that and immediately says he is the one that should be apologizing. Not because he was wrong about what had happened with Johnny, but because he knew he had left Akin alone. Jin: "I'm sorry for making you sad. I am sorry for leaving you that day. I'm sorry. You're not wrong." But Akin's shame won't allow him to believe Jin's words that he wasn't wrong. He doesn't believe he deserves Jin's apology or love. And Akin falls more and more apart as Jin continues to apologize and fights to run because it all hurts too much.

Jin is trying to reach Akin. Trying to get him to understand. Jin: "I love you. I'll never let anyone take you away from me." But this is exactly why Akin got out of that car. He knew how Jin felt about him, could see Jin's pain, and Akin couldn't bear being the source of that pain.

Jin can see the way Akin's shame and self blame is tearing him apart, so he reassures Akin that he didn't sleep with Johnny. Not to minimize Akin's SA or imply that somehow everything is okay as long as there wasn't actual sex. It's to reassure Akin that what he feared most, what he couldn't forgive himself for, didn't happen. That Akin has nothing to hate himself for, nothing to regret. (not that he was ever to blame, but that is how Akin felt) And Akin's reaction to this realization is shattering to watch.

Jin tells Akin over and over again that he did nothing wrong and Akin is finally able to hear that and believe that and the healing can start.

And I apparently live there now.

I was absolutely sick about what they did to Akin in episode 6. I have done a lot of mental gymnastics to overlook toxic messaging in series, but this time it had gone too far for me just to be able to ignore it. There was a narrow path that they could walk for me not to rage quit this show and it involved being VERY clear that Akin was not responsible for what had happened to him. And we got that. And even though I didn't get the groveling Jin and angry Akin I wanted, I think what they gave me was better for the story they were telling. I said I needed them to make me respect the story they were telling to forgive them for this story line, and I am relieved to say that they did just that.

They showed just how ugly and traumatizing SA can be. They made it messy and hard to swallow and showed the harm that can be caused when people do and say the wrong things to someone already in a self loathing shame spiral. And then we saw the difference love and support can mean for someone struggling with misdirected self blame. So well done to the script and epic acting in delivering a truly devastating story.

Also, very much appreciated the flash to Akin being drunk and Jin caring for him. Being drunk isn't a crime and I am glad to see that reflected in the inclusion of that clip.

Editing to add that the apology wasn't perfect for me (and I said as much in this post), but I do feel it was perfect for the characters, their relationship and this story.

If you made it to the end of this, welcome to my head. 🤣 Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk!

Here's Kat's excellent post if you haven't seen it already: