#readers. readers. i need you to understand

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 07. An explosion of emotions

PREV PART trigger warnings: anger, medical + emotional neglect, shouting, Reader loses their shit because Jason triggers their fight and flight, mental breakdown, mentions of wanting to die, basically a very angsty and dark chapter misgendering (Reader isn't out yet), introduction of a dc character main m.list           series m.list

Ignorance is bliss, and you wish you kept that ignorance. After Maria sent you an article that has been logging Penguin crimes, you just couldn’t help but research them obsessively as you walk back to the manor.

You wince as you see a mugshot from your supervisor flash by. Yeah, you are closing this article and forgetting everything you read. The job pays well, and when you get into university you’ll just quit and get a job or two on campus. It will most likely be shit pay, but at least it wouldn’t morally weigh on you. “Just until you can move out,” you mumble as you open the front door. “and the colleagues are kind…”

When you walk through the door, there was Jason, you try to ignore him. Swimming in your thoughts, yet to notice how impatient he has been, how irritation was brewing in the air.

“You and I are going to have a chat about your behaviour towards Alfie,” Jason says, snapping you out of your thoughts and your eyes snap up to his. You could feel your heart start to pound, why was Todd speaking to you. “and before you refuse, we are going to the park.”

He looks irritated, but his eyes aren’t that glowing green. They are dull, not the vibrant colour that haunts you every time you close your eyes. “...No…” you assert, picking the skin around your fingers, your posture slumped and you look terrified. “I see no need to go anywhere with you, I see no reason why you would need to speak to me about my behaviour.”

He just sighs and shakes his head. “My god, I suggested a public area, we need to talk because you’re a disrespectful piece of shit. Stop being a---”

“No. We don’t, and you are the piece of shit! I am just done taking everyone’s bullshit.” you interrupt, your tone harsher and your stance more confident than before but you still look pathetic to Jason. You still look like the same teen he beat up that day, sure your eyes are harsher and your body is littered with scars he gave you. But you are still the same pathetic child clingy to the memories of your mother. “You have yet to show remorse for your actions after all these years, I will never be alone with you again.”

He scoffs, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s not like he could deny that the apology was insincere, and he still feels little to no remorse. He sighs; “It was years ago, grow up.”

“Why don’t you fucking grow up!” you suddenly shout, throwing your bag on the ground. The echo of your shout loud and you could hear doors open. “You beat up a child! I was barely a teen and you still can’t fucking apologise! You still can’t look me in my eyes and admit what you did was wrong! None of you can! I was attacked by my supposed brother in my own room!” You could feel your muscles tense as your pain intensifies, anger is a painful emotion to have. But to hold it in is even more painful. “You destroyed most of what I had left of my mother and her family! Why?! Because you were jealous that Bruce took in his recently orphaned biological child?!”

You step closer to Jason, your eyes are scaring him, you look like you are in pain. But at the same time you look vengeful. You look like you’ve been pushed to the limit. “You don’t understand,” he hisses, stepping closer to you. He won’t be intimidated by a civilian.

“Then fucking let me!” you shout, basically spitting it out. Your nose flaring and your hands shaking. “You all tell me that I don’t understand, yet you all tell me that I have to forgive and forgive as you tear my heart out! And I am done! I am finally getting my life together, finally taking the next steps. And now you suddenly want to talk?! But you still refuse to explain?!”

You laugh, it was hysterical. If Jason didn’t know the laughs of the Joker, intimately, he would compare them in a heartbeat. Without thinking he grabs your arms, trying to force you away from him. Your siblings were watching the fight, he didn’t want to turn around to see Stephanie, Cassandra and Barbara. If he did, he would see their confused faces. He would see how they don’t understand your anger, and he would see Tim finally telling them the full story. A story that Cassandra had deciphered from just your shouting. A story that made it seem like you were in great physical pain.

“None of you have any rights to my time!” You shout, trying to get your arms lose from Jason’s grip. “And you have no right to touch me!” But Jason still didn’t let you go, you want to keep shouting, you want to shout at him until he let’s you go. Until he realises what harm he has done to you. Until your whole family finally realises all they’ve done, why did Tim seek you out? Why couldn’t Alfred just leave you be?! Why couldn’t you just keep your anger hidden until you were gone?! “Stop touching me, I hate you. I wish I died that day! I wish I didn’t have to live like this!”

You weren’t even shouting at him anymore. You were shouting at all of them, you were shouting about everything they’ve put you through. But you were also finally letting out the emotional pain your illness has given you. You’re shouting to the heavens, you are shouting to whoever will listen. You are shouting because the pain has finally become too much to handle.

The straw that breaks the camel's back has finally come.

You’re like a bucket overflowing with water, you are full of emotions that Jason had never seen you express. The only time he has ever seen you shake like this was that day, oh gods, what has he done?

You’re broken in ways he will never understand. You are in pain, and he’s the reason why. You are slipping, you’re breaking down and he doesn’t know what to do. “Step away from them,” he suddenly hears Duke’s voice, a boy that Bruce had recently thought about adopting, a meta that joined their ranks. Wait, is he calling her, them? “before I knock your teeth out.”

Jason steps backs in shock, his hold of you disappearing, but you didn’t even notice. Your hands going up to your shoulders as you start scratching. Oh my dear, you look crazed, you look as if you belong in Arkham Asylum. And Duke, he looks like he knows you. “(Name)” Duke whispers, trying to get you to stop scratching yourself. It almost seems as if you were trying to scratch away your pain, and by the gods, you were attempting to. Your fingertips bleeding, your eyes full of tears. “I am here, it’s Duke, your lab partner, what can I do for you?”

“I need to die,” you whisper, your eyes snap to his. “can you kill me?”

“You know I can’t,” he whispers, brushing some of your hair out of your face. Carefully making sure that his fingers don’t get tangled in your hair, if his fingers were to do that you would panic even more. Your mind would set you back even more, at least now you seem partly lucid. “but I can and will listen.”

You choke on a sob, and tears start streaming down your face as you slowly stop scratching. You barely know him, and here he is in your home (for whatever reason unknown to you), offering his ear to you. “What’s going on?!” Jason whisper-shouts, staring at Dick for guidance. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to act, not with the slimy feeling in his chest. Not with this voice in his head whispering that this is all his fault. Dick stares at him and mouths; ‘I have no idea’

But you ignore it all.

“You promise?” You ask Duke, your eyes show how scared you are to be hurt. Your body language defensive. Black spots were slowing clouding the corner of your eyes.

“I promise.”

And with that you close your eyes.

NEXT PART Notice how I was in a dramatic mood here?

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[nadvs]

the power play (part five)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

You haven’t spoken to Rafe since he angrily left your dorm three nights ago.

You’re sitting in your booked study room, waiting for him to arrive, wondering if he’ll be regretful of your argument or be ready for round two or pretend it never happened.

Either way, you’d prefer to make light of it and move on. He may no longer be your fake boyfriend, if he really meant what he said, but you’re still going to be seeing him every week.

You hope that you can just give him back his jersey and leave what happened in the past.

The guilt that Rafe has been running from catches up to him once he walks in and sees you. He blew up the other night and you met him with understanding he’s never been given before, softness he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Let’s just get it out in the open,” you say as the door clicks shut behind him. “We fought. I was expecting a bouquet of apology roses, but maybe they got lost in the mail?”

He huffs. Typical of you to make a joke about it.

He sits down, slouched back as he unpacks his things, his long legs stretched out beneath the table. He doesn’t know what to say and is relieved, for once, that you fill the silence.

“I get why you got annoyed,” you say, “but I haven't changed my mind. This doesn’t have to be weird. No hard feelings, right?”

His jaw tenses as he sets your copy of We Have Always Lived in the Castle on the desk. He got through it quickly. And he actually didn’t hate it.

He’s sure it was only because reading killed the time he’d normally had spent training, but he figures this is a good enough topic to start with.

“I finished it,” he murmurs, looking down at the paperback. “It was good.”

“Oh. Wow,” you say, perking up. “You liked it?”

He nods, earning a prideful smile from you.

“Because…?”

“It was short,” he says.

“You walked into this room, I think a month ago to the day, and looked insulted when I asked you if you liked reading,” you say. “And now you’re telling me you enjoyed a book. That’s huge. I need way more than it was short.”

“You’re being a lot right now.”

“I know.” Your smile doesn’t falter. You motion for his laptop, he hands it to you, and you open a new document. “Keep talking. What did you like about it?”

“It got to the point.”

“The prose is very clear,” you agree, typing in the note. “What’d you think of the twist at the end? Did you see it coming?”

“No.”

“This is why I love this class. It introduces you to books you might’ve never picked up,” you gush, then take a breath. “You better not be trying to trick me. You knew I’d get excited about this and forget that we argued. But I’m already over it. Okay, I’m talking too much. Your turn.”

The relief of seeing you act like you normally do has lifted the weight that’s been sinking into Rafe since the night he snapped at you.

Now that he’s with you again, confined in a room he didn’t think he’d ever not mind being in, there’s no avoiding the fact that you have an effect on him.

Against his expectations, he cares about what you think. About how you feel. And he just wants to fix this.

“You don’t know what my fights with her used to be like,” he says. “I’ve heard it all.”

You still for a moment, then rest your elbow on the table, chin in your hand as you gaze at him through compassionate eyes.

You can sympathize that not knowing what Emma said is irritating him, but you couldn’t repeat her cruel words, even if you wanted to.

“I understand,” you say, “but I can’t bring myself to tell you something that’ll just hurt you.”

“That’s my point,” he scoffs. “It won’t hurt me.”

“It could.”

Rafe sinks into the realization that he’ll just have to take the loss here. You’re not going to tell him what he wants to know, because you don’t want to wound him. Even though he kind of deserves it for his outburst.

“I know I…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know I didn’t have to lose it on you like that the other night.”

“Yeah,” you breathe a defeated chuckle. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

He fans through the book just to have something to do with his hands.

You take in the remorse etched into his handsome face and you admire that even though he can be rash, he tries to clean up the messes he makes, pushing aside his ego when he needs to.

“We’re past it,” you conclude. You look at the laptop screen again, glad this will be a clean break. “Let’s write what we can about this book first and then go back to the other essay. What else did you like?”

Rafe expected that you’d bounce back after your rift. Your positivity is so relentless that it almost tires him out. But he needs to make sure you know he uttered those words out of disingenuous impulse.

“I didn’t really mean that we should end it,” he clarifies.

You look at him again, a crease formed between his brows.

“Are you trying to un-break up with me?” you tease. “This is awkward. I already started pretend-dating one of the other guys I tutor.”

“You tutor other guys?” he asks before thinking.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you play along.

Rafe’s chest pinches. He doesn’t know why he assumed you exclusively tutored him. He thought he was the only one you see like this, the only one you ramble to and nag and joke with. Why does he hate that he’s not?

“Come on,” he murmurs, shoving past the unwelcome thought. “I know you miss me.”

You laugh. His typical brand of humor is detached and blunt and it’s nice to see another side of him, a playful side that makes him seem warm.

“I have to think about it.” You shrug. “Okay. We’re back together. I had a feeling you were just being mean the other night anyway.”

Rafe’s lips fall into a guilty frown. Without thinking, he scratches the back of his neck, grimacing and letting out a sharply exhaled fuck as his shoulder stings in pain.

“Are you okay?” you ask, serious now.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“Convincing,” you say. “What is it?”

He sees no reason to hide it. You did tell him that he can vent to you and if there’s anyone he’d complain to about this, it’s you.

He’d rather not tell anyone on the team. Not even his closest friends. He doesn’t want to look weak.

“My shoulder’s fucked up,” he admits.

“Is it from that board check the other night?”

He nods and says, “Physio said it’s a strained muscle.”

“How bad?”

“I’m benched. He’ll look at it again before game two.”

“You mean you can’t play the first game of the championship?” you surmise.

Rafe’s tight expression tells you that you assumed correctly. You grimace sympathetically.

“Did he say if you can use anything to help with the pain?”

“Heat when it gets bad,” he says.

“I’ll be right back,” you say.

He watches you rush out, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. Moments later, you come back with an instant hot compress and place it on the desk in front of him.

“The library has a bunch of first aid kits,” you tell him, sitting back down.

“How’d you know that?” Rafe squeezes the package in one hand, the subdued pop cracking through the small room. “You really like it here that much?”

“A student of mine got a papercut once,” you explain with a laugh. “But yes, I do enjoy being surrounded by books.”

“Right,” he huffs, still in disbelief of how different you two are. “Thanks.”

He rests the package on top of his shoulder, comforting heat spilling through his t-shirt.

When Rafe lets out a velvety, satisfied groan, you find yourself flustered within half a second. Your mind sprints away from you. A mere sound has never made every inch of you tense like this before.

Your imagination can’t keep doing this to you, but it feels impossible to ignore the physical pull you’re starting to feel towards him.

You swallow hard and look at the laptop again, blinking.

This is bad.

You’re crossing the line and you need to yank yourself back into rationality. Rafe is a friend and all the affection he’s given you has been a sham and it’s disconcerting that you keep having to remind yourself of that.

You know he could never give you what you need in a relationship. The last time you saw him was cold, hard proof of that. He’s much too volatile to make a good boyfriend.

And that’s accompanied by a very big if he even likes you like that, which you highly doubt, given how easily you frustrate him. You refuse to overthink, to tumble into infatuation with another man who’ll just hurt you.

“Anyways,” you say, your eyes locked on the screen. “We really should get to work.”

════════

With ten minutes left of the session, Rafe’s laptop dies. You slide it towards him, disappointed you couldn’t upload the essay you’d just finished before the battery drained.

“Make sure to submit it before midnight,” you say. “Oh, and Lyla and Beck’s parents are hosting their birthday party on Saturday, so consider me unavailable for fake girlfriend duties that night.”

Rafe opens his backpack, pushing his laptop in as he mulls over your words. That sounds like the type of event you’d want him to come to.

“Do you need me there?” he asks.

“You were invited,” you say, “but I’ll say you were busy. You’d hate it. It’s an hour away, with a bunch of strangers you’d have to impress, and there’s obviously no way your ex would be there. I can do this on my own.”

Rafe stills before he speaks again.

“Do you need me there?” he repeats, more evenly.

It riled him up to see Emma leave the last party with another guy. To see his arm around her at the game. He hoped he’d be able to count on you to be by his side if he sees them together again this weekend.

But mostly, and more importantly, picturing you at that birthday party alone, in the same room with the guy who hurt you, all because you didn’t want to make Rafe feel forced into going, gnaws at him.

You stare at him, trying to make sense of his tight expression. It’s confusing that he’s still even in this room, asking if you want his help after you’ve given him an out.

“Are you sure?” you ask. You’re positive you’d be fine without him, but he’s sort of become a security blanket.

“I’ve… seen her around with some guy,” he tells you. “It’d be good to get away from campus. And I owe you for losing my cool the other night.”

“Do you even have a cool?” you chuckle.

Rafe glares at you, but it’s proven disingenuous by the small, dimpled smirk he chooses not to stifle.

“I hope I’m with you the next time you see them together,” you say. “Anyways, we can drive up together, then?”

Your eyes brighten with your smile. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at him like that, purely and truly excited to spend time with him.

“A bunch of friends from high school will be there, and obviously Beck and Lyla’s parents, who basically consider me their daughter,” you continue, “so we’ll need to be convincing. It’s a casual dinner, then we’ll just hang out as long as we want. Can you pick me up at five?”

“Yeah,” he says. He stands up, pulling his bag over his good shoulder. “See you.”

You watch him pace towards the door, relieved that you’ll have him there, grateful that he's doing this for you even though you’re certain he really doesn’t want to.

“Hey,” you mumble. He looks at you again. You motion to his injury. “Be careful with your shoulder. And… you’re going to call me corny, but I’m really glad you’re coming.”

A few seconds of silence pass between you.

“You’re corny,” he replies.

You share a smile before he steps out of the study room into the quiet library.

Emptiness abruptly digs into his chest once he’s not with you, growing deeper the farther he walks away.

You’re unlike anyone he’s known. You don’t try to hide how much you care about him and you see things in him he didn’t know were there and you combat his temper with humor and with tenderness and with reassurance that makes him feel like he’s not irreversibly fucking up all the time.

He’s never felt like this before. Like the void he’s always trying to fill isn’t bottomless after all.

════════

Your exhale is shaky as Rafe exits the freeway with only a few minutes left of the drive to Beck and Lyla’s home.

You pull down the sun visor, gazing at your reflection. You’re suddenly quiet and fidgety after you’d chattered for most of the ride.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “And why the hell do I have to ask?”

You chuckle, catching his implication that you typically blab about what’s bothering you without him having to check in.

“I don’t know how I’m going to look their parents in the eye and lie.”

“It’s that hard to pretend to like me?” Rafe murmurs. He’s glad there’s no edge to his tone, glad he can hide that your words stung him a little.

“No,” you chuckle. “When you’re being nice, I like you. Just not like that, obviously.”

Obviously. It’s happening again, the painful crook in his core, the tangled feelings that just keep twisting together.

He used to not care if you liked him. Because he didn’t like you. But your last conversation did something to him, something that was already quietly building up, something that he needs to strip before it sticks.

After every fight he had with Emma, he sensed the palpable cracks forming between them. With you, things felt stronger once you moved past your argument.

Fuck. Why is he thinking about you like you’re his actual girlfriend, comparing his last relationship? This is the last thing he needs.

“It just feels… official. Like I’m bringing a boy home,” you continue. “Nobody’s seen me in a relationship before and they might question your intentions and I don’t want it to be weird.”

You look in the mirror again.

“And I think I’m having a bad hair day. And a bad face day. And I kind of hate my outfit.”

Rafe can’t take your nonsense. Insinuating that you’re anything short of beautiful is the most ridiculous thing he’s heard you say.

He shuts the visor and utters, “You’re doing that overthinking shit again.”

“Okay, so, that’s a perfect example of you not being nice,” you laugh.

You know if you really liked him as more than a friend, his curtness would hurt you. It’s reassuring, the realization that your attraction to Rafe will never be more than physical.

You breathe a sigh, anticipating being with your friends again after you’ve parted ways to different colleges. You wonder if anyone’s changed in the few months since.

You glance over at Rafe.

“What were you like in high school?” you ask.

“The same,” he answers.

“So, just as warm and cuddly?” you tease.

He smirks. You smile like you do every time you crack his facade. It always makes you feel a little proud.

“Better when I started playing hockey,” he relents. “How about you?”

You purse your lips in thought.

“What do you mean better?” you prod.

Rafe’s in no mood to elaborate, stiffly repeating, “How about you?”

You roll your eyes. It’s like pulling teeth, getting this man to share anything.

“I haven’t really changed much,” you reply. He finds himself thinking that it’d be a shame if you ever did.

Rafe follows the GPS to pull into a quiet suburban street. He slows down in front of the house and parks. You gaze out your window to see helium balloons surrounding the front door and reach for the handle.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You turn your head to meet his eyes.

“You don’t need to freak out. We got this. And you…” He looks away. “You look good.”

The words are tight coming out of his mouth, like he really didn’t want to have to say them.

You start to thank him, but he’s already stepping out of the car.

════════

The party is so busy that you and Rafe disappear in the crowd. He stands close by as you catch up with your friends, remembering details about where they’ve gone after graduation, asking questions, making jokes.

When it’s time for dinner, you sit next to him at the table, diagonal to Beck, who has done nothing but flash you awkward smiles here and there.

He’s hardly spoken to you. You wish you weren’t doing it again, second-guessing if he really is jealous.

You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I didn’t get a chance to say hi,” Lyla’s mother says. You smile at her and sit up to give her a hug.

“There’s a lot of people,” you say understandingly.

“My kids are too social,” she jokes quietly, leaning over. She looks over at Rafe. “You must be…?”

“Rafe,” you say. His smile is faint, but believable.

“I hope you know I have to grill you a little,” she tells him.

“I know,” he says, glancing at you. “She warned me.”

He’s playing it entirely cool. You’re relieved. You had nothing to worry about. He has this handled.

“How’d you meet?” she asks.

“I’m his tutor,” you tell her.

“Always been a smart one,” she replies, squeezing your hand. “Is that what made you like her?”

Your eyes land on Rafe again, nerves pricking your spine.

“It’s… one a lot of things, yeah,” he says.

“What else?”

Rafe’s heart thrums.

“I don’t know anyone like her.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, the amusement in them replaced by a depth you’ve only ever seen in glimpses, when his guard slips a little. “And she has a good heart.”

“She does,” Lyla’s mother says, straightening to stand. “You better treat her right.”

“I will,” he says with a nod. When she steps away, you nudge his knee with yours.

“That was amazing,” you say. Your praise gives him a high.

“I’m a great liar,” he replies.

You nudge him again, laughing.

“I don’t care,” you say. “You can’t take any of that back.”

He wouldn’t want to anyway. It was the truth.

════════

After dinner, Beck and Lyla’s mother brings out an ornate cake, prompting the room to break out in song. You watch Beck and Lyla blow out the candles as everyone applauds.

“I’ll never forget what the nurse said the day you two were born,” their father announces as he stands by the head of the table, holding a glass up. “Even when they’re big, you’ll picture them this small. And it’s true.”

He looks down, nodding curtly, lips twisting.

“Here we go again,” Lyla laughs.

“He cries every year,” you explain to Rafe in a hush.

He gazes at your profile as their dad continues his toast. He was aware you knew Beck for a long time, for years, but seeing this makes it real.

He can picture it now, you spending your adolescence in this house, making memories with this family, falling for the guy sitting on the other side of the table who brushed you off, who’s blind to how happy you make everyone around you.

The night you sat on that kitchen counter in that frat house back on campus, your eyes deepened with a sadness that hardly ever comes across your face, and you told him what you saw in Beck. What made you fall for him.

Fun. Kind. Nice to everybody.

And it’s a reminder of why this fire that’s growing inside Rafe for you needs to be put out. He’s the antithesis of the guy you’re in love with. You’d never want him like that.

“I’m so proud of both of you,” their father continues. “Happy birthday.”

Rafe looks down at his plate, wishing he’d been prepared for the wave of pain that’s crashing down on him as the sounds of conversation and dishes rattling and joyous laughter ricochet across the room.

He hates to admit it to himself, but Beck has everything he wants, down to a father who’s proud of his son.

He glances over at you again, but you’re still looking at Beck, your smile both happy and sad, your eyes trained on the one person you’re doing all of this for.

════════

The party moves to the rec room after Beck and Lyla’s parents wish everyone a good night.

Rafe’s hand is in yours as you lead him down the carpeted stairs, then settle on the plush sectional couch next to him as you chat with your friends.

He always hated his impulsivity. He was just telling himself to put out the fire, but he only throws fuel onto it when he curls an arm around your waist, pulling you closer the moment Beck walks in.

You nuzzle in, shifting to look at him again, your noses nearly bumping from how close you are.

“It’s the other shoulder?” you confirm softly, making sure you aren’t putting pressure on where he’s hurting.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod and absorb yourself back into the group’s conversation. Your back is pressed against his chest and he hopes you don’t feel how hard his heart is pounding.

But he knows that the way you make him feel isn’t unique to him. He sees it now that you’re with your friends. You make everyone feel this way, like you want them around.

Drinks start getting passed. You look at Rafe again.

“I’m staying sober tonight,” you tell him. “Thought I should reassure you that I won’t be inviting myself over for another sleepover.”

He wants to ask why that’d be such a bad thing and it’s like he left his sanity upstairs, because now he’s wondering what the hell he’s doing wanting to flirt with you.

“Everyone’s playing,” Lyla announces as she places a box in the middle of the coffee table. “And nobody’s allowed to sit out. You legally can’t say no to the birthday girl.”

“It’s my birthday, too,” Beck says.

“Who cares?” Lyla jokes, opening the box. “It’s truth or dare. We’ll take turns picking a card and reading it out loud and if you won’t do either or you fail at a dare, you have to drink.”

“Oh, no,” you whisper to Rafe.

“Just be happy you found a way to read at a party,” he replies.

You crack a genuine laugh. His lips pull into a smile as he watches you, gratified that the joy you’re feeling right now is entirely because of him.

You feel Beck’s stare on you from his spot on the couch a couple of people away. You look up at him and he looks away and it’s like a discombobulating shove into the past, reminding you of when you’d catch him staring and let your mind run away with daydreams.

The feeling of Rafe’s arm tightening around you grounds you in reality, but it also sends a rush of heat through you and you hate that it does that.

“Truth: what's something you're glad your family doesn't know about you?” Lyla reads out. “Or dare: keep your eyes closed for three full minutes. Easy. Dare.”

She closes her eyes, then points to her right. The game continues around the circle and when it’s your turn to pick, you select a card, feeling everyone but Lyla’s stare on you.

“Truth: what’s the last excuse you used to cancel plans? Dare: don’t laugh or smile until your next turn.”

“Worst dare you could’ve gotten,” Rafe murmurs.

“You’d never manage,” your friend, Marcus chuckles.

You laugh, then laugh again when you realize you just proved both of them right.

“Damn it,” you say. “You know what? I’ll take the dare.”

You put the card down on the table and exhale deeply, trying to focus.

Rafe’s eyes flit to Marcus, whose eyes stay on you longer than he’d like them to.

“Your turn,” you say to Rafe, stone-faced.

He’d rather not play this, but he’s supposed to be acting like a good boyfriend. Besides, there’s something about disappointing you that makes him feel worse than disappointing anyone else.

He leans forward, his arm lifting off of you for a moment, and picks up a card. His hand settles on your hip again as he reclines, his bicep hard against your back.

He’s only staring at the card, so you tilt your head back to read it aloud for him.

“When was the last time you cried? Or, let someone in the room write whatever they want on you with a permanent marker.”

You look at him, holding back your smile, knowing you’re both thinking the same thing. As his girlfriend, it’d make sense that you’d be the one to mark his body.

He would never admit to crying, especially to a group of strangers. The reminder of Emma’s words, of how she’d said he called her in tears, makes your stomach drop. Suddenly, not smiling doesn’t take any effort anymore.

“Dare,” you answer for him. “I need a marker.”

“I’ll get it. Someone help me,” Lyla says, her eyes still shut as she stands. She feels for her way around the room as one of your mutual friends stands up to accompany her. “Keep playing!”

The next person starts their turn, and you take Rafe’s free hand and rest his arm across his lap, gently to not tug too hard and strain his shoulder.

It’s a shock how instinctually you did it, how touching him is natural now, yet still manages to make your heart race a little faster every time you do it.

“I’m going for a meaningful one. I’m thinking my name,” you tease, running your finger up the length of the inside of his forearm, eyes travelling over the faint lines of veins, “from here to here. Sound good?”

“No,” he answers gruffly. You crack a smirk. “And you lost your dare.”

“Don’t tell,” you mumble, forcing your smile away. “You know I can’t hold my alcohol.”

When both girls come back downstairs, Lyla blindly hands you the marker. You meet Rafe’s stare before you look down at his arm.

“The card said whatever I want,” you say quietly, mischief in your tone.

He watches you lean in, eyelashes fluttering as you blink, lips pursing in thought. The wet ink hits the inside of his wrist and his stomach goes numb when you start to slide the smooth, thin end of the marker over him, your thumb gently pressing into his skin as you hold him steady.

Rafe stares as you concentrate, and he starts to breathe a little deeper simply because the way you smell has become a comfort now, a familiarity, a hit of dopamine.

You sit up seconds later. He looks down to see Room 205 written in small, black characters. Your study room.

“You’ll never forget where to go,” you say happily. “Well, until it washes off.”

You finally meet his eyes again. He’s wearing the same concentrated look you’ve seen before, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What, did you really expect I’d write something that bad?” you say as you snap the cap back on the marker.

The group continues with the next round, and when it’s your turn again, you have to choose between sharing your biggest insecurity or whispering a secret to someone in the room.

“Dare,” you decide, putting the card on the table and leaning back, lifting your chin to whisper into Rafe’s ear.

He slightly angles his head so that nobody can read your lips, shivers spreading over his skin from the feeling of your cheek on his.

“You’re probably my favorite student that I’ve ever tutored,” you say quietly.

It’s not a lie. Even with all his flaws, Rafe has given you something you’re not sure anybody else would have. He came into your life at the perfect time, came up with the perfect idea, and you’re deeply grateful for it.

He hastily cups your jaw, his hand so large it covers your cheek completely, as he tilts your head so he can tell you something, too. His lips brush over the shell of your ear.

“Just probably?” he whispers back. “That’s bullshit.”

You pull back, laughing, your eyes lingering on him.

“Don’t start making out, please,” Lyla teases.

You roll your eyes and look at the group again.

“I’ll spare you all the PDA,” you reply.

“Why start now?” a friend jokes.

“Yeah,” Beck quietly huffs. An ache of confusion rattles through you.

The game carries on, but Beck’s eyes linger on you. He’s never looked at you like this before. And it makes you believe what Rafe has been telling you this entire time.

════════

You leave the party holding Rafe’s hand and untangle your fingers from his the moment you’re out of the house, the moment there aren’t any eyes on you.

Rafe’s palm is cold now that your touch is gone.

Again, he’s powerless to the way his heart does whatever it wants and doesn’t give his head a chance to catch up.

He wasn’t supposed to like you.

He never expected to.

But when he looks at you as you tread towards his car together and the hushed moonlight bathes your features in its glow and you offer him that smile that makes his heart splinter in a way it never has, he yields to the truth, unable to put up a fight any longer.

He’s hopeless. You’ve pulled him under. And he had no choice but to let you.

(to be continued)

>>> new parts drop every friday at 8:30 pm eastern

author’s note and the yearning (that eventually turns mutual) begins 🙂‍↕️

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[4linos]

the letter pt. 2

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & miscommunication, emotional cheating undertones.

wc: 8740

[the letter part. 1]

Acceptance didn’t come with a sudden epiphany.

It came slowly, quietly, like water wearing away at stone.

At first, the silence nearly destroyed you. The ache of waiting for a call that never came, the sting of every passing day that confirmed what you didn’t want to believe: Jisung wasn’t going to show up. He wasn’t going to reach out. He wasn’t going to be there. It was a hard truth, one that settled into your bones like winter, cold, heavy, impossible to ignore.

But slowly, with time, you began to understand something else: you didn’t need him to.

You didn’t need Jisung to make this real. You didn’t need his permission to move forward. You didn’t need his love or his regret to love this child growing inside of you.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. It took tears. Sleepless nights. A million conversations with Jia and Lana, where you said the same things again and again until the words lost their sting.

“He’s not coming back,” you had whispered one night, curled up on your couch, the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like armor. “He read it. I know he did. And if he wanted to be here, he would be.”

Jia nodded, her expression soft but steady. “And that’s on him.”

Lana, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of snacks in her lap, added, “You don’t owe him anything. He made his choice. And now you’re making yours.”

Their words didn’t fix everything, but they helped you breathe a little easier.

You started to remember all the things you used to dream about when you were younger. The things you whispered to yourself late at night when the world felt too loud. You’d always wanted a child. Always wanted a tiny person to love, to protect, to raise into someone kind and strong. Your reasons weren’t grand or poetic, they were simple and honest.

You wanted someone to call yours.

A little hand to hold. A sleepy head to kiss goodnight. A home that echoed with laughter and quiet footsteps. You had always dreamed of family. Of stability. Of unconditional love.

And Jisung had once felt like a part of that dream.

But dreams change.

And now, though it was different, though it wasn’t the picture-perfect family you’d envisioned, complete with a partner who held your hand through morning sickness and doctor appointments, you were still going to have that love. You were still going to have someone who would call you theirs.

A child who would look at you like you were their whole world.

You began talking to your baby more. Not out loud at first, but in thoughts. Little whispers as you lay in bed, hand splayed over your stomach. You imagined what they’d look like. What kind of laugh they’d have. Whether they’d like music like Jisung, or books like you. You tried not to think about him much, but sometimes the thought crept in of him holding your baby, of him realizing what he’d walked away from. It still hurt.

But the hurt wasn’t as sharp anymore.

More of a dull ache. A scar instead of an open wound.

Jia and Lana were your constants, showing up with groceries, dragging you out of bed when the nausea wasn’t too bad, helping you put together a list of things you’d need. They kept reminding you that this child was already loved. That you were loved. That you hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting something Jisung couldn’t give.

“You’ve wanted this your whole life,” Jia said one morning as she rubbed your back while you heaved over the toilet. “This baby? This is your dream. Maybe not how you pictured it, but it’s still yours. That matters.”

You cried after she said it, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of yes. Yes, this was yours. This life you were building, even if it was cracked around the edges, was real. It was happening. And it was going to be beautiful, even in its broken places.

Eventually, you stopped checking your phone for his name.

Eventually, you stopped wondering if he’d show up.

You started making lists, cribs, baby names, pediatricians. You started reading articles, watching videos, planning. You let yourself feel excited. Nervous. Hopeful. Because as lonely as it sometimes felt, there was something growing inside of you that had nothing to do with Jisung anymore.

This baby was yours.

And you were going to love them enough for the both of you.

At first, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The letter.

That goddamn letter.

It sat in his office desk drawer like it had claws, like it had buried itself deep into the wood, refusing to let go. Jisung had tried to forget it. He told himself it didn’t matter, that whatever you had to say was too late anyway. That if you really cared, you wouldn’t have walked out of his life like it was easy. Like he hadn’t fallen apart the moment the door shut behind you.

The drawer was closed, but his eyes kept drifting toward it.

Every time he sat down to write, to work, to practice, his gaze would flicker. Brief, but persistent. He told himself it was just curiosity, not hope. That it was normal to wonder. Normal to think about you. About the things you might’ve written.

Maybe it was an apology.

Maybe it was a desperate plea to get back together, to undo the fight, to rewrite the ending.

He convinced himself that’s all it could be. That you wanted him back, that you missed him like he missed you, except he wasn’t going to let himself believe you were sorry. Because then he’d have to forgive you. And Jisung didn’t want to forgive you.

He was angry.

Still heartbroken, sure. But underneath all that pain was anger, real, raw anger that scorched through his chest like wildfire every time he remembered how quickly you’d walked away. How you'd looked at him like he was the enemy for not wanting the same things. Like he was less because he hadn’t pictured the same white-picket-fence future you did.

So no, he didn’t open it.

He refused to.

The letter sat unopened for weeks, untouched but never fully ignored. It became part of his daily life, a silent weight in the back of his mind. A temptation. A wound. Something he both despised and felt tethered to.

He moved around it. Literally.

Every time he sat at the desk, his movements became sharper. He'd slam drawers harder, avoid resting anything near that one. He reorganized his workspace to make sure he wouldn’t have to reach near the envelope, as if proximity alone might make him cave.

Sometimes he’d linger there at night, just staring at the drawer. Fingers twitching. Wondering.

Not about you. He tried not to think about you anymore. But about what you thought you had to say. What gave you the nerve to write to him after leaving the way you did. After choosing a future without him.

Because that’s what it had felt like, hadn’t it? Like you’d made your choice. You wanted a family. A child. A life of stillness. And Jisung… Jisung wanted freedom. Music. The quiet, sacred simplicity of not being tied down, not yet. Not now. He hadn’t lied to you about that. He hadn’t pretended he wanted things he didn’t.

And yet, somehow, it still hadn’t been enough to make you stay.

So why write?

What could possibly be in that envelope that mattered now?

He started forgetting about it eventually. Or he told himself he did. The drawer stopped calling to him quite so loudly. He buried it beneath a stack of old receipts and tour paperwork. He told himself he didn’t care anymore.

And he didn’t.

Not until he started dreaming about you again.

Not until he walked into his apartment one night, bone tired, body aching from rehearsal and saw your old hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Something you must’ve left behind. He didn’t remember it being there before. Maybe it had fallen out of the closet. Maybe he’d just missed it. But the sight of it twisted something deep in his chest.

He sat down and held it for the first time in weeks.

Brought it to his nose, hoping for the faint trace of your perfume. The scent was long gone, but the memory of it was enough. He closed his eyes. Saw your face. Heard your voice.

“I just want something real, Jisung. Something stable. You don’t get it.”

He’d fought back that night. Screamed things he didn’t mean. Told you that stability wasn’t everything, that you were suffocating him with your picture-perfect expectations. He didn’t mean that either.

He never meant to lose you.

He just didn’t know how to give you what you wanted.

The dreams came harder after that.

Nights filled with half-remembered moments. You, crying. You, laughing. You, walking away. The drawer became heavier again. Not physically, but in the way it felt, in the way his chest grew tight every time he sat down at that desk.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if maybe the letter wasn’t what he thought it was.

If maybe you hadn’t written to beg, or plead, or apologize.

What if it was a goodbye?

What if it was closure?

The thought made him sick. And yet it stayed. Brewing. Spreading. Curling like smoke around the corners of his resolve.

Still, he didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Because once he did, there’d be no going back. Once he read what you had to say, whether it shattered him or made him ache to run back to you, it would mean something. It would change something. And he wasn’t ready.

Not to feel that kind of heartbreak all over again.

Not to face the truth of whatever words you'd left him with.

Not to know if the dream he’d been trying to forget… had already come true without him.

-

He hadn’t planned on checking his phone again that night.

It was late, past 1 a.m. and he should’ve been asleep. He was exhausted, not just in his body, but in a way that seemed to linger deep in his bones. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from long studio hours or back-to-back rehearsals. No, this was the kind of tired that came from missing something that used to feel like home.

But still, he scrolled.

A quiet habit now. Not for his fans or updates or even entertainment, just to feel connected to something, anything. Something that wasn’t the silence of his too-big apartment or the ache of everything you’d taken with you when you left.

His thumb stilled mid-scroll when he saw it.

Jia’s post.

A carousel of pictures, captioned with something casual, “good company, good weather, good wine.” But he didn’t read it right away. He couldn’t. Not when he saw you.

Laughing.

Head thrown back, leaned gently against someone’s shoulder, a guy, unfamiliar, laughing just as openly. It was a candid shot, clearly taken without warning, but it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.

You looked happy.

And it hit him like a punch to the ribs.

He stared at the picture, unmoving. It was the first time he’d seen you in months. Jia and Lana hadn’t posted you in so long that he’d started to wonder if they were keeping your face off on purpose. Maybe they knew he still looked. Maybe you had asked them not to.

And yet, here you were. In the open. In color.

Smiling.

And not at him.

Jisung dropped his phone like it burned. It landed screen-down on the desk in front of him, but the image was already scorched behind his eyes. You, in that cream-colored cardigan he always liked. The same soft one you’d throw over your shoulders when it got cold, even inside. Your laugh, he could hear it in his mind even if he hadn’t heard it in months.

The drawer creaked.

That drawer.

He didn’t mean to open it, but suddenly, it was. His hand moved before his mind could catch up. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. The envelope was still sealed, still clean, untouched despite all the time it had spent hidden beneath ignored things.

He stared at it. Again. For the hundredth time.

You’d written his name on the front in your handwriting, he’d always liked your handwriting. Neat, but a little messy in that cute way. It was the kind of thing you didn’t think people noticed, but Jisung had noticed everything.

He lifted it slowly, as if even that movement required more strength than he had left.

The letter rested in his hands.

And then the picture came back to him again that guy, the way your eyes crinkled at something he said, how natural it looked, like it had always been him and not Jisung. Like Jisung was some ghost from another life you didn’t think about anymore.

A rush of something hot surged in his chest.

Anger. Jealousy. Bitterness.

It was a mistake, picking it up. He knew it was a mistake.

You probably wrote this before you met that guy. Before you moved on. Before you laughed like you had never cried over him. So what was the point now? What was the fucking point?

His grip tightened.

The edge of the envelope bent in his palm.

He was going to rip it.

Tear it into a thousand worthless pieces.

He didn’t need your words. He didn’t need your explanation, or apology, or whatever twisted kind of closure you thought this would give him. If you were so happy now, if you had someone else's shoulder to lean on, someone else to laugh with then he didn’t need to carry your ghost anymore.

The paper creaked as it began to fold beneath the pressure of his fingers.

But something stopped him.

Not guilt. Not even curiosity.

Just a question. Soft, poisonous, and small.

What if it wasn’t what I thought it was?

It came quietly. It always did.

Jisung closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. His fingers didn’t release the envelope, but he didn’t tear it either.

Because something was wrong.

Something about that picture. As much as it hurt to see you with someone else, as much as it made him want to break something, there was a tiny flicker of something off. He didn’t know why it stood out, but it did.

The guy’s arm, he wasn’t touching you. Not possessively. Not the way Jisung used to.

And your smile, while bright… had a weariness to it. Something in your eyes. A tiredness he recognized.

Maybe he was imagining it. Reading into something that wasn’t there.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

The letter pulsed in his hand like it had weight now. Like it always had, and he was only just feeling it.

And for the first time in six months, Jisung wondered, really wondered what you had said in those pages.

And whether not knowing would haunt him more than the truth ever could.

At six months pregnant, the exhaustion was more than physical, it had dug itself into your spirit. You felt heavier than your body should've allowed. Not just with the child growing inside of you, but with the weight of silence. Of unanswered letters. Of unreturned phone calls that were never made. Of dreams you'd once held so tightly that now felt like strangers to you.

You had done everything right, or at least you tried to. You took your vitamins. Went to appointments. Listened to the doctor. Ate better. Slept when you could. Cried only when it was too much to hold back. You were being responsible, measured, careful, everything a mother should be.

But no one told you how lonely it would feel.

How much you’d mourn someone who was still alive.

And lately, even Jia and Lana noticed. They tried to smile extra wide around you, tried to pull you into silly conversations, binge shows with you in bed, paint your nails, cook your favorite meals. But the spark in your eyes, the part of you that lit up when you laughed, had dimmed. The grief was quieter now, but more permanent. More settled. Like it had accepted you as its host.

You weren’t bitter.

You didn’t cry over Jisung every night anymore. You didn’t ache the way you used to. But something had changed. You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy, or the acceptance, or just time doing what it does, softening things while hollowing others out.

It was Jia who brought it up.

“I’ve been thinking,” she’d said carefully, whispering to Lana one afternoon as she watched you doze off mid-conversation.

“That’s never a good sign,” Lana had replied, side-eyeing her from across the room.

“No, seriously,” Jia said, sitting forward. “I think we should bring someone over. Someone who used to make her smile. For real smile.”

Lana’s brows furrowed. “Like… a therapist?”

“No. Chan.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Lana stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Chan? As in, Christopher Bang? High school boyfriend Chan? Australia Chan?”

Jia nodded, lips tight. “She was happy with him, Lan. Like… really happy. He’s back in town. He messaged me a few days ago and asked about her.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“I know that.”

“And emotional.”

“I know, Lana.”

Lana crossed her arms. “And what if this backfires? What if seeing him makes her feel worse?”

“She hasn’t smiled in weeks.”

“She’s tired, Jia. She’s not depressed, she’s just—”

“I know what she is,” Jia had said, her voice breaking slightly. “And I know she’d never say it out loud, but she’s hurting. She feels like she’s being erased. Everyone sees her as a pregnant woman now, not her. Chan always saw her. Maybe she needs that.”

Reluctantly, Lana agreed.

So now here you were.

Sitting in a small cozy café that smelled like fresh lemons and sun-warmed pastries, a glass of lemonade sweating on the table in front of you, your hands resting protectively on your belly without even realizing it. Jia and Lana sat across from you, exchanging nervous glances every few seconds, which you were just about to comment on when—

A tap.

Soft. On your shoulder.

You turned.

And there he was.

Chan.

The boy who used to give you rides on the back of his bike after school. The boy who’d written you poetry in margins of your notebooks. The boy who once told you, so casually, that if he had a time machine, he’d go to the future just to see if you still ended up together.

He looked different, but not in a bad way. Taller, a little more filled out. His jaw was sharper. His hair shorter. But his smile? That was the same. Gentle, warm, slightly crooked on the left like it always had been.

You blinked in disbelief.

“Chan?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He grinned. “Hey, trouble.”

The old nickname made your chest tighten in the most unexpected way. You laughed before you could stop yourself, quiet, but real. The kind of laugh that had started to feel foreign.

Jia and Lana, now grinning like guilty conspirators, stood up quickly. “We’ll be back in a few. Just gonna, uh, go… admire the dessert case,” Jia mumbled, grabbing Lana's arm.

Lana gave Chan a wary look before disappearing with her.

You turned back to him. “It’s… been a long time.”

“Years,” he said. “Too many. You look… amazing.”

You snorted. “I look like a watermelon.”

He chuckled. “A beautiful watermelon, then.”

That made you laugh again, genuine. His eyes lit up, pleased, but not smug. Just soft.

He sat across from you, and for a few seconds, neither of you said anything. Just… took each other in. There was comfort there. The kind that doesn’t go away just because time passes. He didn’t feel like a stranger, even after all this time.

“Tell me everything,” he said finally. “How’ve you been?”

You looked down at your lemonade, then at your belly. “It’s been… hard,” you admitted. “But I’m okay. I’m getting there.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

And that, that was what got you. The way his eyes didn’t immediately flicker to your belly. The way his questions weren’t laced with obligation or curiosity about the pregnancy. He saw you.

Not the bump. Not the situation. Just you.

You smiled again, softer this time. “You still make people feel like the world slows down when you talk to them. You know that?”

Chan looked surprised, almost bashful. “I missed this,” he said. “Us. Talking like this.”

“So did I,” you said quietly.

He asked about your family, about your writing. You asked about Australia, the music scene, the food he missed. It was like dusting off a record you hadn’t played in years but still remembered all the lyrics to.

And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel like just someone carrying someone else’s child.

You felt like you again.

And that… that felt like breathing.

Jia elbowed Lana gently as they both turned back from the dessert counter and peeked toward your table. You were laughing, really laughing. It wasn’t the kind of hollow, polite chuckle you’d forced out over the last several months. This was the kind that made your shoulders shake a little, your eyes squint, the kind that used to come so easily to you.

Jia grinned, whispering under her breath, “See? I told you. Look at her.”

Lana crossed her arms slowly, watching the way Chan leaned forward a little, listening intently to whatever you were saying. You were twirling the straw in your lemonade as you spoke, and he was smiling like it was the best story he’d ever heard.

“Why do you look like that?” Jia asked, brow raised. “You’ve had that same suspicious face on since he got here.”

“I’m not against it,” Lana muttered, still watching. “I’m just… not all in either.”

“Why not?” Jia nudged her again. “She’s finally laughing. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

“I do want her to smile,” Lana admitted. “I just… don’t want her to get hurt again. She’s not just her right now. She’s carrying someone else’s future. It’s not like she can afford to be reckless.”

Jia softened at that. “I don’t think this is reckless. It’s just… a moment. She deserves to feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour.”

Lana sighed, quieting her voice. “You remember her that night after she found out she was pregnant. She shattered. She thought she was going to do this with someone by her side. And even now, she hasn’t let herself be happy, not really. What if she starts hoping again? What if she sees Chan as a fix, as comfort, and then it goes wrong?”

Jia frowned, but her gaze shifted back to you.

You were resting your chin on your hand, eyes locked on Chan, laughing again at something he said. You looked… lighter. Like someone had finally taken a backpack off your shoulders.

“I get it,” Jia said softly. “But sometimes it’s not about what might go wrong. Sometimes people just need to feel something good before they fall apart again.”

Lana didn’t respond. She just nodded slowly, her arms still crossed, but her eyes stayed on you.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of you exited the café together, the late morning sun spilling over the street. The air smelled like strawberries and warm bread, thanks to the farmers market set up just around the corner. You turned your head at the scent, curiosity blinking in your eyes.

“Hey,” Jia said brightly, pretending she hadn’t just orchestrated your emotional healing. “Why don’t we walk the market for a bit? It’s nice out.”

Chan glanced at you, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah? Up for it?”

You nodded. “I could use the walk.”

“Pregnancy-friendly pace,” Lana added quickly, ever the protector.

“Obviously,” Chan said with a small smile.

The four of you wandered into the hum of the market, past flower stands, stalls full of honey jars, baskets of citrus and summer tomatoes. You and Chan naturally fell behind, veering slightly into your own space as Jia and Lana moved ahead.

Chan told you about the time he accidentally joined the wrong university club and ended up on a competitive rowing team for a semester without realizing it. About the hostel he lived in that turned out to be a rebranded former psychiatric facility. About the tiny restaurant he worked at on weekends that had a cat as the official “manager.”

He told you about homesickness. About how certain days would feel longer than others, and how he’d sit at the edge of his bed and think of home and sometimes that meant a place, but more often it meant people.

It meant you.

You told him about how quiet things had become lately. How you’d taken up journaling again, mostly to try and remember who you were. How you sometimes put your hand on your stomach at night and talked to the baby even though you weren’t sure if they could really hear you. How Jia and Lana had kept you grounded when you couldn’t see past your own fog.

But you didn’t talk about Jisung.

You didn’t need to.

Chan didn’t ask about the father. He didn’t need that context to care.

Instead, as you both slowed at a stand selling little handmade toys, he asked something else.

“Have you thought of names yet?”

You looked at him, surprised. “Kind of… Nothing set in stone.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me?”

You hesitated. “Promise not to laugh?”

Chan held up a hand solemnly. “Swear on the ghost cat manager.”

You smiled again. “For a girl… I really like Ari. And for a boy… maybe Leo.”

“Ari,” he repeated softly. “Leo. I like those.”

You looked down at your stomach, then back up at him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because I asked,” he said simply. “And because you’re allowed to tell me. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

That made your eyes sting, unexpectedly. The words were too kind, too easy. You weren’t used to someone offering comfort without strings. Without history. Without expectation.

Just care.

And when he smiled at you again, you believed it.

You felt like someone again. Not a burden. Not a story to explain. Not just a woman waiting for a baby to arrive or a ghost of someone’s past.

Just… you.

And in that moment, under the sun, surrounded by flowers and laughter and warmth, you realized maybe just maybe you could breathe again.

Jisung had forgotten what quiet felt like.

Not the kind of quiet where everything was still, peaceful. No, this was the kind that rang in your ears. A silence so loud it made you clench your jaw without realizing. It had followed him like a shadow since the breakup, lurking in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces between rehearsals, inside his chest when he tried to sleep.

He thought he was finally past it. Past you.

It had been six months. Six months of distraction and denial. Six months of forcing his focus into studio sessions and interviews. Six months of telling himself that he hadn’t needed you in the first place, that wanting something different wasn’t a crime.

But then he saw the photo.

You. Laughing.

Leaning into another man’s shoulder, someone unfamiliar. Someone he couldn’t recognize. The post was from Jia’s account, just a regular scroll moment that hit harder than it should’ve. His thumb hovered over the screen. He’d stopped breathing for a second.

You looked so… okay.

That was what struck him the most.

You looked healed. Soft. Effortlessly content. The man beside you wasn’t even touching you, but it was the way you leaned toward him. The comfort in your posture. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Jisung had stared at the picture until his vision blurred.

He wondered if you were moving on, if you had someone else, if you were that carefree with someone else and that maybe that letter had never been about coming back. Maybe it had been about leaving for good.

The possibility made his stomach twist.

He sat down at his desk. The drawer was already open a crack. Just wide enough to reveal the corner of the envelope.

His hand hovered over it.

Six months.

What if he’d missed something important?

The image of your face flashed in his mind again, the smile that wasn't his anymore. The softness in your eyes that had once only been meant for him.

And then, without warning, that sick feeling rose again, sharp, bitter, ugly. What if it wasn’t something he wanted to read? What if it was about the new guy? Or worse, what if it was closure?

He could barely breathe.

“I’ve always wanted a family.”

It echoed in his head. Quiet, wistful. It had been one of your first deep conversations. You’d looked at him like he was the future you’d been planning for since you were a little girl. And he’d brushed it off with a joke, even though part of him knew, knew you meant every word.

And he hadn’t listened.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

He’d been trying so hard to be okay, to let it go. But now all the pieces were coming together in his head, twisting into something heavy. The sickness you mentioned to your friends online. The way Jia and Lana stopped posting about you. The letter. The vanishing act.

The man in the picture.

And that look on your face.

He thought about what it meant.

What it could mean.

And slowly, like a creeping storm, one horrible, world-shifting thought started to root itself in his chest.

What if the letter wasn’t about getting back together?

What if the letter was about the family he never wanted and you were giving it to someone else now?

He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor.

His heart thundered.

The letter was still unopened. Still waiting. Still sealed.

But it didn’t feel like it was waiting for him anymore.

-

The morning air was crisp, just cold enough to bite at his fingertips as he tucked them deeper into his jacket pockets. Jisung had barely slept the night before. Again. Something about the silence in his apartment felt louder than usual lately. He’d left early, headphones in, cap low over his face, hood up. Just another early morning walk to the company, hoping maybe the movement would shake the insomnia out of his bones.

He was halfway down the street, eyes fixed on the pavement, when he heard it.

A laugh.

But not just any laugh.

Your laugh.

For a split second, he froze mid-step. His heart stuttered. He thought he was imagining it. It was familiar in a way that twisted his insides, light, effortless, like wind chimes in spring. It was the laugh he used to live for. The one he hadn’t heard in six months.

It echoed again, closer this time.

He turned instinctively, almost violently, pulling his headphones out and scanning the street behind him. His pulse shot up as his eyes locked on the source.

And there you were.

Standing just a few meters away. Real. Laughing, radiant, glowing in the soft morning sun and unmistakably, visibly pregnant.

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.

You weren’t alone.

The man beside you, the same one from the picture stood close, one hand resting at the small of your back. He was smiling too, looking at you with the kind of tenderness that made Jisung’s fists clench.

You were leaning toward him, hand protectively on your belly, like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

And it hit Jisung like a truck.

Not only had you moved on… you had started the family he never wanted. With someone else.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Something cracked deep in his chest.

It felt like betrayal. Like acid and broken glass.

You had left him and this was why?

You wanted a family so badly you found someone else who would give it to you?

His vision tunneled. He was walking before he even registered his feet moving.

Rage. That’s all it was now. Rage that clawed at his skin. Rage that you had laughed like that, that laugh for someone else. That this stranger had touched you in a way that had once belonged to him. That you had trusted someone else with that part of you. With your future.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Didn’t care.

All he knew was that he needed answers.

Jisung stopped in front of you, chest heaving, eyes narrowed beneath his cap.

You froze instantly, the color draining from your face the moment you saw him.

The man beside you shifted immediately, subtly protective, arm tightening at your back as he assessed Jisung.

For a second, no one said anything.

You stared at each other.

The tension was unbearable like a rubber band pulled too tight.

You looked tired. Paler. But still you. Still the woman who once laid beside him in bed whispering sweet nothings. Still the woman who broke his heart when she said “you can’t love me if you don’t want my future.”

But now, your eyes weren’t soft. They were sharp. Furious.

The same fury he remembered from your worst fights. The kind that made your voice shake, not from fear, but from pain.

“What the hell do you want?” you said first, voice quiet but hard, defensive.

Jisung’s hands twitched at his sides. “That’s funny. You’re asking me that?”

Your mouth pulled tight. “I have nothing to say to you.”

His voice rose before he could stop it. “No? Nothing at all? Not even a heads-up that you’re carrying his kid now?”

The stranger tensed, but didn’t speak. You shot him a glance, placing a hand gently on his arm to stop him. He backed off slightly, but he didn’t move far.

“It’s none of your business,” you said, teeth gritted.

“I was your business,” Jisung snapped, voice cracking. “You left me—just to turn around and give everything I couldn’t to someone else?”

Your eyes blazed. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He gestured to your stomach. “Looks pretty damn obvious to me.”

You inhaled sharply, chest rising, as if trying to calm the storm inside you.

“I’m not doing this here,” you said coldly.

“Then where?” he hissed. “When were you going to say anything? Or were you just going to play happy family and pretend I never—”

“Stop,” you snapped, voice shaking now.

He faltered. The venom in your voice hit him like a slap.

“Just… stop.” You shook your head. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear and then show up six months later acting like I owe you an explanation.”

“I didn’t disappear—you left—!”

“Because you made it clear you didn’t want what I did!” you shouted now, and people were starting to glance over from across the street.

Your hand was on your stomach again, protective, trembling.

“I begged you to see the future I wanted. And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. So don’t come here now trying to rewrite the story.”

Jisung’s throat tightened. His anger was bleeding into something else, confusion, desperation. Doubt.

You stared him down, eyes full of heartbreak and steel.

“Stay away from me,” you said, voice low and final.

You turned without another word. The man beside you didn’t look at Jisung, just kept a steady hand on your back as he helped you walk away.

Jisung didn’t follow.

He stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, heart hammering in his chest, ears ringing.

You didn’t mention the letter.

You didn’t say anything about the truth he had ignored.

And he still had no idea what he had missed.

All he knew now was this:

You had moved on.

And he… was still standing in the wreckage of what he couldn’t give you.

You hadn’t slept well the night before. Again.

At six months pregnant, your body was exhausted all the time, your back ached, your feet throbbed, and no matter how many pillows you arranged around yourself, you could never get comfortable enough to rest. But today, something felt… okay. Maybe not good, but manageable. The sun was peeking through the curtains when you felt a small flutter inside your belly, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone.

You smiled softly, your hand moving instinctively to rest over the small bump. It had grown noticeably in the last few weeks. Strangers had started to offer you their seat, shopkeepers smiled a little more gently. It felt surreal, this thing you had always wanted, happening now, just not in the way you imagined.

You were still thinking about that when Chan texted you.

Chan: You up for a walk this morning? There’s a little bakery I want to show you. My treat if you let me win the who-pays war today.

You had chuckled at that. His texts were always light, warm, full of memories you hadn’t realized you missed. So you texted back:

Y/n: You’re on. I still say you cheat when you distract me at the register.

You met outside your place, and he greeted you with that big, boyish smile you remembered from high school. He asked how you slept, how you were feeling, how your cravings were, and he didn’t even flinch when you joked about the weird food combinations you’d been eating lately.

The walk was easy. Gentle. The kind of peaceful you hadn’t felt in a long time. Chan was telling you about this ridiculous story from his last few months in Australia, something about a bird, a tourist trap, and his friend almost getting chased by a kangaroo and you were laughing. Not the polite kind of laugh you’d been forcing around others lately, but the real kind that made your cheeks ache.

It felt good. Almost normal.

You reached the bakery and he told you to pick anything you wanted. You eyed the warm pastries behind the glass and finally settled on a croissant and a hot chocolate. He tried to sneakily pay for it while you were busy looking at cookies. You caught him, of course, and the two of you bickered playfully at the counter, your laughter bouncing off the walls of the quiet little shop.

“I swear you’re worse than my grandma,” you teased as you walked out, bag in one hand, and your warm drink in the other.

“Well, she is a lovely woman,” he grinned. “Smart too.”

You rolled your eyes, and just as you were about to say something else—

You heard your name.

That voice.

That damn voice.

Your body went cold.

It felt like the sidewalk shifted beneath your feet.

You turned around slowly, your stomach twisting as you saw him.

Jisung.

It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.

You hadn’t seen him in six months, not since you dropped the letter under his door. Not since you waited days, then weeks, and finally months for a reply that never came.

And yet here he was. Storming toward you, fire in his eyes and tension in every step. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear anything else.

He looked thinner. Harsher. The softness in his face, the one you used to touch so lovingly was replaced with tight lines and something bitter.

Then his eyes dropped to your stomach.

And you saw it.

The flicker of realization.

He said your name again. Sharper this time. Full of something ugly and raw.

The confrontation happened in a blur after that. Words thrown like knives, his accusations loud and cutting. Accusing you of moving on, of starting a family with someone else.

You hadn’t even told him it was his.

You didn’t want to.

Not like this.

Because he didn’t deserve to know, not after months of silence, after choosing to ignore your letter, after making you believe you and your baby weren’t worth a single word.

The worst part? He looked like he hated you. Like your happiness was an offense. Like your child was some betrayal.

And you hated yourself a little for still caring what that look meant.

You didn’t answer most of what he said. You couldn’t. The anger inside you was too heavy, too dangerous to let loose. You told him to stay away from you. To leave you alone.

And you meant it.

When you turned around, Chan’s hand found the small of your back again, steady and warm, and you let yourself lean into it, even if just slightly.

You didn’t look back at Jisung. You didn’t have to.

Because if you did, you knew it would break you.

You walked for what felt like forever. Past the bakery, past the quiet street, into a shaded area just outside the little market. The adrenaline had worn off, and you were suddenly so tired.

Your steps slowed, and Chan noticed immediately.

He gently tugged at your arm to stop. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Your lip trembled.

And for a moment, you tried to lie. To nod. To say you were fine.

But then the tears came.

Without warning.

You dropped your head, unable to hold it in anymore.

Chan didn’t say anything. He just stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you carefully, protectively.

You cried harder than you had in weeks. Into his chest, into the quiet morning air.

All the pain. The heartbreak. The fury. The sadness.

The betrayal of being forgotten.

The fear of being a single mother.

The ache of still loving someone who had let you go.

You clung to Chan like he was the only steady thing in your world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

He rubbed your back gently. Didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to explain.

He just held you. Like you needed.

Like you deserved.

Like Jisung never did.

It took a while for you to calm down after the confrontation. Your tears had stained the front of Chan’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to care, he just kept holding you gently, rubbing slow circles along your back, quietly murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like he was trying to patch over the cracks in your heart one word at a time.

Once your breathing evened out, and your tears slowed into hiccups, Chan finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm and sincere.

“You ready to go home?” he asked, his voice soft, without a trace of pressure.

You nodded, but you were still silent. Raw. Shaken.

He didn’t push you to talk. He didn’t ask what had happened, even though you knew he had his guesses. That restraint, his patience made your throat close up with a fresh wave of emotion.

The walk to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward, not stiff, just comfortable silence. A kind of silence you could sit in without feeling like you had to perform or explain or fix anything. Chan carried your little bakery bag in one hand and kept the other gently on your back, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress near your shoulder blade. Just enough to let you know he was still there. Still with you.

When you reached your building, he held the door open, then helped you up the steps when your ankles threatened to protest. Once you were inside, he toed off his shoes at the entrance like he used to back in high school when he came over to study or hang out, only this time, the setting was so different.

Chan didn’t seem to mind.

He followed you in, still holding the bag of treats.

“I still paid,” he said casually, turning just slightly to glance at you over his shoulder with a teasing smile.

You blinked, caught off guard.

And then… you laughed.

Just a little.

Soft and tired, but real.

You reached out and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re so annoying,” you muttered, your voice still raspy from crying.

“I’ve been told,” he said, beaming now, clearly proud of himself.

You padded over to the couch and eased yourself down, one hand resting instinctively on your belly. Chan followed, setting the bag down on the coffee table. Then, without asking, he sat down beside you, close enough that his warmth pressed into your side, but not close enough to make you feel crowded.

You leaned your head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. There was a dull ache behind your eyes. Your body was tired. Your heart was even more tired.

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You exhaled slowly. “Jisung.”

That was all you needed to say.

He was quiet for a moment. And then, “Thought so.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him.

“Yeah?”

Chan nodded. “The way he looked at you… back there. Like he was about to explode. I don’t know what happened between you two, but... he doesn’t look like someone who’s over you.”

You scoffed. “He’s the one who left.”

Chan frowned but didn’t comment right away. Instead, he leaned forward, grabbing the croissant from the bakery bag and tearing off a piece. “Well,” he said after a beat, “you don’t need someone who can’t see what’s right in front of them. Especially not now.”

You looked down at your stomach.

The guilt crept in again, slowly.

The heaviness of everything. The choice you made. The silence after the letter. The confrontation that left you shattered all over again.

“I didn’t tell him,” you said, your voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Chan looked over.

“About the baby,” you clarified. “I sent him a letter... six months ago. Told him everything. That I didn’t expect anything from him. That if he didn’t want to reach out, I’d leave him alone. He never said anything. Never texted. Never called. Never replied.”

You could see the realization settle in Chan’s expression, how all the pieces clicked into place.

“I thought he made his choice,” you said softly. “So I made mine.”

He didn’t try to justify Jisung’s silence. Didn’t say maybe he didn’t read it. Maybe he didn’t know.

Because that didn’t matter. Not now.

Chan nodded slowly and offered you the other half of the croissant. You took it with a shaky breath, your fingers brushing his.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “You gave him a chance. He chose to ignore it. That’s on him.”

You looked at him. At this person who had been absent from your life for years, only to come back like no time had passed so seamlessly, so naturally. You weren’t in love with him. Not now. But there was still something safe about being with him. Something soft and familiar. Something you hadn’t realized you needed.

And when he smiled at you again, nudging your elbow with his, you let yourself lean into him just a little more.

He made you feel like you weren’t broken.

Like this new version of you, mother-to-be, heartbroken, healing was still worthy of comfort.

Still worthy of being held.

Still worthy of being chosen.

It had been hours since he saw you.

Hours since your laugh pierced through the city noise like a haunting melody he wasn’t supposed to hear anymore.

But it was still echoing.

Jisung had barely made it home, barely remembered how he got there, just that he’d walked, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His heart had been pounding in his ears. Rage, confusion, betrayal, every emotion bleeding into the next until he could barely breathe through the noise.

You were pregnant.

And not just pregnant, you were glowing, smiling, leaning into that guy like he was your anchor. Like you were his. Like the future you once begged Jisung for had already found its way to someone else’s arms.

And all he could think about was how cruel it all felt. How fast it seemed like you had moved on. How wrong it looked for someone else to hold your back like that when that used to be his place.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he stumbled into his apartment. The air was cold, untouched. Work, studio, drinking, studio again. That was his pattern now, suffocating himself with anything that could drown out the silence you left behind.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, your laughter followed him. Your eyes. Your voice when you told him to stay away. The venom in it. The hurt.

He collapsed into the armchair near the window, his coat still on, cap still tugged low over his head like he was still out there hiding. With a groan, he reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. No glass this time. Just desperate gulps from the bottle itself, the burn in his throat not nearly enough to mask the ache behind his ribs.

He barely noticed when his hand moved on its own.

Opened the drawer.

Pulled out the envelope.

The envelope you’d left nearly six months ago.

He stared at it, the way he had a hundred times before, only now it looked like a mockery. Like a ghost of something he didn’t want to admit he’d left unread out of sheer spite. It had his name on it, in your handwriting. Soft, familiar.

For a moment, his hand trembled.

He could read it.

He could finally read it.

But then his mind flashed back to earlier.

The way that guy leaned close when you laughed like it was his favorite sound. The way you looked like everything Jisung had never been enough for.

And then came the anger.

All-consuming. Reckless. Bitter.

His lips curled into something half-snarled, half-exhausted.

“She didn’t even wait,” he muttered, the words slurring slightly. “Just threw us away like it was nothing.”

He didn’t care if it wasn’t true.

He needed it to be true.

Because the alternative? That you had waited. That maybe you'd told him something important in this very letter, that he’d ignored something that mattered, that affected both of you…

No.

He couldn’t think about that.

Couldn’t handle it.

So before his hands could betray him and open the letter, Jisung crushed it in his fist.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.

The sound of ripping paper was louder than it should’ve been in the silence of his apartment.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, until it was nothing but scraps in his lap, your handwriting torn down the middle, illegible, unreadable.

And only when he’d destroyed it completely, only when there was no going back did he feel something crack inside him.

The sound that left his throat was ugly.

Somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

He didn’t even feel like he was crying.

But the tears slipped down anyway, hot and fast, tracking along his cheeks as he tipped back another gulp of whiskey and let his head fall into his hands.

You were gone.

You had moved on.

And now, he had destroyed the only piece of you left that might’ve explained why it all ended the way it did.

And still… he didn’t know the truth.

Still, he was blind to everything except the ache of missing you and the poison of thinking you belonged to someone else now.

He sat like that for a long time.

The ripped letter pieces scattered at his feet like confetti at a funeral, the bottle nearly empty in his hand, and his heart sinking deeper into a guilt he didn’t yet understand.

Because the truth, the real truth was gone now.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[the letter taglist: @kenqki @mbioooo0000 @bearseuming @alisonyus @justjxnniie @chungdol @captainchrisstan @stilesks @banana-bread-thread @linosgrape @chaosandcandies @energyjuice4life @st4rv3lly @hanniebunch @nchhuhi @changbin-wife @felixleftchickennugget @psychobitchsthings @puppymsworld @silly250 @uyyoyyu @beppybeesnuggets ..]

[itzpookiepooh]

Don’t Touch It

You try to pump your own gas

Rafayel is fed up to the tip of his head with you. He feels like he’s teaching you to breathe when he sees you do things you aren’t supposed to be doing. You pull up to the get out. Rafayel tries to pull up something on his phone as he gets out. You thought he was going to get snacks. You should have known better than that. You press your card to the reader, select the grade, untwist the cap, and go to pump, everything was going smoothly until he appeared on the other side of the tank.

He looks you up and down and then looks around. He opens your jacket, stares at you then pushes your front to the car and looks your backside up and down. You were getting irritated with this foolishness. What could he possibly be doing at a gas station of all places?! You swat his hand away shooting an evil glare his way.

“Are you dying?” He asked with wide eyes, his hand on your forehead. “No?” You answer taking his hand off of you.

“Would you like to?” He deadpans. No blinking. No moving just straight up staring at you.

“What is wrong with you?!” You snap foxing your clothes. You let go of the gas pump making him quickly grab onto it. A win is a win.

“I was wondering if we switched roles overnight. I don’t remember you having…other facilities when I went to bed last night.” He gave a fake smile making your eyes widen.

“What are you talking about?” You tilt your head at him making him do the same but sassier.

“You don’t need me anymore?” He accused you making you fumble over your words. “Because it seems like you don’t if you’re out here pumping your own gas!” He snaps staring at you like you committed a crime.

“Rafayel—“ You sigh, defeated when he puts his hand up, not wanting to hear anything else from you. He waved you away to get back in the car.

“I was just trying to help.” You call from the drivers seat but your statement only aggravated him more. “Help someone who needs it!” He shouts back watching the gas tank fill.

“Love you!” You call to him, he glares at you once more. “I love you too.” He snaps before going back to ignoring you.

How dare you insult him like this!

Zayne is the perfect boyfriend, a textbook example. He cooks for you, drives you everywhere, and doesn’t let you so much as open the car door if you don’t have to. So why in the hell did you think it would be a good idea to pump the gas while he went inside to get a snack? Only you know the answer to that. It’s not a good one but it’s an answer.

Zayne nearly dropped his grapes when he saw you by the car pumping gas. He blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing. There was no way the love of his life was pumping gas in his car. He must be dreaming…or having a terrible nightmare.

“What are you doing?” He asks you placing his hand over yours that’s on the pump.

“Pumping gas?” You ask as if it were obvious. He didn’t understand the problem.

Zayne waited a beat in silence, the only sound is the gas pouring in and city life. He pushed you gently out of the way holding onto the pump where your hand once was. You just stared at him in confusion. What was his problem?

“It seems you believe my hands don’t work.” He told you as he watched the tank fill up. You cock your head back in confusion.

“I never said that.” You tell him in disbelief that he put words in your mouth. He glances at you his same expression on his face.

“It must’ve been what you thought if you believed it was okay to pump gas on your own.” His tone the same as it always is. You put your hands on your hips in a huff.

“You were in the store!” You reason but he shakes his head. “For a moment. Now get in the car it seems I have to teach you about what you need to be doing.” He lectures you pointing to the car.

You got in the car but not because he said so.

You thought you were so slick, waiting for him to pull his card out of his wallet while you went to go pump it yourself. Sylus pushes you back into the car causing you to pout. You were only trying to help. You look up at him like a pouty hamster to which he gives you a bored stare. He didn’t need you to lift a finger when you were together much less for something as small as this. Were you raised in a barn? Why would you pump his gas? He’s right there.

“Do you always try to inconvenience others?” He teased leaning against the passenger’s side door. You glared at him going to open the door but it wouldn’t.

“Did you put child’s lock on!” You yell through the window while he snickered.

“Did I? I don’t recall.” He chuckled watching you scramble to the backseat only to find those also have a child’s lock on them. Sylus couldn’t stop laughing at you. You looked like a hamster in a cage.

You weren’t able to exit the car as Sylus ignored you while he pumped the gas. You were so mad when he got back in but it didn’t matter. He told you about yourself on the way.

Please for the love of all things holy, don’t play with him like that. He nearly fell out and died because he saw you pumping his gas. You were lucky he even let you drive, he loves driving you around and only rarely does he let you drive him around. He went to run to the restroom real fast when he came back you were filling up the tank. He popped your hand so fast, his eyes narrowing at you.

“I just saw it needed a top up so I decided to do it.” You whimper rubbing your hand. He shakes his head at you.

“You don’t ever pump my gas, understand?” He lectures you as he crosses his arms. You pout, what was so wrong about pumping gas anyway? He leans closer waiting for you to agree.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m just tryna help.” He sighs feeling bad about scolding you.

“I understand that. It’s about manners, you shouldn’t be pumping gas if I’m sitting in the car. It’s rude.” He explains ruffling your hair making you push him.

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes at him. He ushers you back into the car so he can finish filling the tank. His gesture did warm your heart though. The thought of him not wanting you to do things you don’t have to was heart warming.

He glares at you. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes say a lot. He feels like you’re disrespecting him in a way. He gently pries your hand off the pump even while you protest. You guys were pushing your hips against each other like siblings. Some people looked at you all with a confused look except a singular old woman who thought it was cute your boyfriend wanted to pump your gas.

“Sweetheart your boyfriend is so polite.” The older woman giggles softly. You both freeze and smile at her, Xavier decides to use this to his advantage.

“She’s so stubborn and doesn’t let anyone do things for her.” He smiles sadly at the woman making her gasp. She gives you an eye as her hands fall on her hips.

“You should let him! It’s rare to find someone like this! Take it from me!” She scolds you making your jaw drop. How did he manage to get this random old lady on his side? You tried to protest but she barely let you.

“I understand.” You sigh in defeat, your head hanging low. She huffs before giving you a talk about how you should let people take care of you sometimes.

Xavier was behind the woman with a small smirk. You side eye him trying to ignore him. This was his fault anyway how did he slide from punishment? The woman leaves you two alone allowing you to finally glare at him.

“You did that on purpose.” You tell him. He shrugs finishing with the gas. He turns to you, kissing your nose.

“You shouldn’t have tried to do it on your own. I’m here for a reason.” He teased. You pout getting in the car along with him.

I feel like I started running out of ideas for this one somewhere but it all came together 🙂‍↕️

[moyazaika]

blood in the water.

m! yandere prince x gn! knight reader ♡ mdni 18+

cw — blood, betrayal, obsessive themes, lack of autonomy and unbalanced power dynamics. 2.4k wc.

a/n — well well well

you can barely make him out through the mist.

a heavy and decadent cloud of perfume rolls over the warm waters of the royal banya; makes it difficult to chart your course to where your prince is. you narrow your eyes, glimpse the outline of his frame, solid and familiar, beyond the swirling haze that's descended over the pool's surface.

"moy knyaz," you clear your throat. my prince; the title rolling off your tongue like honey. "i've arrived with the supplies you asked for."

he spares you a glance over his shoulder, the movement causing gentle ripples in the water around him. you think briefly, like a fool, that he will wade to the edge of the pool to meet you where you stand. you lower your head, gaze drawn respectfully low.

"ah, sweet knight." you can hear the smile in his gentle words; that familiar lilt of felicity, all soft at the edges. "there you are; i was almost beginning to worry," he hums. "whatever took you so long?"

"apologies for the delay, my prince." you rest a hand over your heart, imbue as much sincerity as you can in the action. "i will ensure that it does not happen again."

you'd never been in the bathhouse before, so it was difficult not to feel like a stumbling fawn. you'd never had any reason to be in this wing of the palace; seeing as you were the prince's knight, and not one of his personal attendants—and yet, you contemplated quietly, this time he'd called specifically for you.

(the thought of it makes you feel strangely special.)

"very well.” he concedes. “you have brought what i asked for?"

"yes, my prince." you nod, hold out your hands over the edge of the pool. present to him upon your palms, folded neatly and perfumed in his favourite scent, the silver silk he uses during his trips to the bathhouse. you wait, expectantly, for the feel of his fingers swiping the washcloth from your hands—and yet, it never comes.

"dorogaya, you do not intend to keep me waiting any longer, i hope?"

you blink, head still lowered out of respect. "i'm sorry, my prince. i do not quite understand."

"eyes up, sweet knight, and clothes off." he says slowly, enunciating each syllable as one does when speaking to a child; "it seems," he sighs softly, "that i am in need of your ministrations tonight."

never one to go against his words, you raise your head, albeit reluctantly. almost immediately, you meet his tar black eyes. his gaze heavy and stifling, as he observes you lazily over his shoulders. you can't help that your attention drifts down to the prominent corded muscles of his back; the strong, solid shape you only just manage to make out through the soft, dreamlike mist.

he smiles at you so kindly, then, as if he is understanding of your appraisal; the curl of his lips feels dangerously close to an invitation to dip into something far deeper than these waters.

"you are already late," his voice, deceptively gentle for how low it is, brings your attention back to the task at hand, and out of your shameful reveries. you swallow nervously, as he turns back; the air in the banya feels colder, then, when your prince's eyes are no longer trained solely on you. "please, luybov moya. do not make me wait any longer."

my love, my love, my love; how gently he calls for you from the water.

the affections fall from his lips like sweet nectar, and you are so helplessly caught in his tenderness that there are no more questions to be asked, even if they weigh heavy on your mind.

your shirt is the first to go. the intricate buttons of your tunic difficult to undo with shaking fingers. trousers, next. stepping out of the fabric as it falls at your feet. working to loosen the lace of your boots.

tentatively, you dip your toes in the water. it's warmer than it looks. a welcome reprieve, though, from the chill of being undressed. the hair on your skin stands on end when the prince speaks up.

"clothes off," he repeats softly, without sparing you so much as a backwards glance. "i will not repeat myself."

"ah," you look down at the flimsy undergarments you still don; the scrap of decency they provide in maintaining a facade of respect in the presence of the tsar's son. thin fabrics that hide the skin on your back, marred by grotesque scars from previous battles waged and lost and won in the name of your beloved prince. and yet—albeit with trembling hands, you reach for the hem. "understood, moy knyaz."

you let yourself sink into the pool, as it envelopes your bare body whole. it's nice, and warm. welcoming, you think to yourself.

you nervously wring the silk in your hands as the gentle undulations of the water naturally push you closer to the prince; and you're silently grateful for the mist of the heavy perfumes and steam that descends over the banya and nips at (as well as obscures) your scarred skin.

perhaps it is because of this veil that it takes you so long to realise your prince is covered in blood.

you still in your movements—taking in the swirling ink-like clouds of deep red in the cerulean water around him; the spray of dark blood over his jaw, and the muscles of his chest; how it drips, thick like sweet nectar, from his hands—held out towards you.

"moya milaya," he murmurs, watching you through low lashes. his eyes are black like heavy tar. you find yourself stuck—sinking into the quiet darkness before you; "won't you purify me?"

you reach out, closer, press the silk against the inside of his wrist, right above his pulse. you delude yourself into thinking you can feel the steady thrum of life through the touch; but all you're met with is his warm skin, slick with blood. it smears when you wipe it, stains the fine fabric of the washcloth.

"your highness, are you—" your eyes flicker up to meet his, but your hands don't slow in their pace as you scrub him free. concern pulls the edges of your heart and everything threatens to unravel in the absence of an answer. "are you alright? were you hurt? has the physician allowed you to—"

"i am fine, sweet knight. the blood," your prince's lips curl into a knowing smile, "none of it is mine."

"i don't understand, moy knyaz. forgive me for my ignorance, but who did—" you blink, desperately searching his impassive face for an answer. "our enemies? conspirators against the tsardom? an assassination attempt? because i was never made aware of—"

he places his hand over your own. the touch is careful and light, merely a suggestion—

you still immediately.

realise, with dawning horror, that you've scrubbed his skin raw. the blood pools in the water, your insistent, frantic efforts leaving the skin of his forearm all angry and hot and red—markers of blossoming pain. tense muscles, and all. the silk looks as if it has been drenched in ink.

"not of the tsardom," the prince says lightly, 'but enemies still; and i already know you were not informed because i ordered it so."

the threads your heart was hanging on by are pulled too strongly, too soon. everything comes apart. a sense of betrayal, and then a deep-rooted shame, washes over you. you swore you would follow this man to the ends of the world; and yet, he does not even trust you in his darkest hours?

you wish to sink into the water and never resurface from its depths. beg, silently, for the fog to swallow you whole beneath the weight of your prince's gaze.

"apologies," you manage shakily. "i have failed to protect you, my prince. i understand that you find me incapable of serving you for any longer. as your humble knight, i shall—"

"hush."

fingers skimming up your neck, resting at your jaw. the impossibly soft way the prince forces you to meet his eyes, so kind in their own right. so full of mercy.

"bednyazhka," he whispers under his breath. you poor thing. "you worry far too much. it will be the cause of your undoing, one day."

"it is worth it for you, moy knyaz. i would gladly lay down my life for you."

"yes," he murmurs. "of course, that is what you would think. a shame.”

"apologies, i..." you frown. "i do not understand."

he smiles ruefully. "no. of course, you do not." his fingers fall from your face, and you find, shamefully, that you mourn the touch far more than you should. instead, they brush against your knuckles; raw from hours of combat training. he runs his thumb over the broken skin. "seven, sweet knight. this is the number of attempts made on your life in the past week."

you had...

you swallow nervously, coming to terms with the news. the urge to say something overwhelms you (strangely, an inclination to defend yourself) but the words evade you. your throat closes up.

you had no idea.

(find solace, at least, in not needing to wonder about the sorry sort of fates they must have met at the hands of this man before you.)

he swipes the washcloth from you, continues speaking in hushed tones; "our enemies grow restless as we prosper. they want nothing more than to hurt me. previously, i have not had to worry about this, because of you."

"and now?" you whisper.

"and now, luybov moya, my enemies rejoice." he takes your trembling hands in his own, inspects the blood from his skin that now stains yours by carefully turning over each and every finger in his palm. "they have found a way to hurt me." he confesses, "because of you."

the touch is feather light. barely even there.

"do you understand, my sweet knight? you are the reason i prosper, and yet, devastatingly so, the sole cause of my ruination."

the gentle undulations of the water around you has lulled you into a false sense of security. you feel safe in this moment, knowing your prince is in such close proximity. the two of you stand close enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours; breaths in sync, breathing the same perfumed air in—and out.

in—and out.

you almost think you've misheard the prince when he speaks again.

"and this is why i have decided," he says softly, "that you will never pick up a sword again."

his words instantly break the fragile tranquility of the moment like a delicate thread that's been pulled at for far too long—an inevitable snap that still manages to hurt. you shake your head, affronted by the mere thought of such an absurd idea.

perhaps this is some sick jest. surely, he must know? the value of your sword? what it means to you?

you swore an oath to protect the tsar's son. it is an insult to your very being should you fail to uphold this royal promise. you have already let him down enough.

"i can not be of no use to you, moy knyaz."

"that will never be the case." he smiles. "i have many uses for you in mind, moya milaya."

how can he say it so affectionately? my sweetheart falling from his lips as he takes from you the one thing you can never bear to part with.

"but i have always fought!" you protest. frantic, desperate laughter bubbles past your lips. it sounds wrong and forced even to your own ears. he drinks it in, all the same. "i have always wanted to protect you. it is my purpose and duty and—"

who am i without it?

"yes, and i will always cherish you for it, but now, your fight is over."

your prince has always been the most beautiful man in the tsardom to you. out of an unwavering loyalty, you have followed him through the darkest snowstorms and to the most desolate battlefields. you have raised flags in his name and stared down the barrel of your gun to an innocent child for his legacy.

despite it all, he has only ever been your prince; and you, his most trusted knight.

in this moment, though?

the man before you is unrecognisable. he has forgotten who you are.

"the purpose of my life is fighting." you repeat, hoping to remind him of what your sword represents; a plea for him to let you keep it. "it is why i live. it is what i promised to forever do, until the very end of my life—i exist to serve you.”

"and you will." the prince assures you keenly, presents you with a reminder of his own. "there are other ways to serve."

ah—

so this is what you've fallen to.

"you cannot do this," you cling to him. dig your nails into his skin, forgetting the sheen of blood that already lies there; like a thin film. some impossible barrier separating your reason from his actions. "please, my prince. you can't."

please don't turn me into an accessory.

"my sweet knight," he gently pries your hands off of his shoulders, brings your wrist to his lips. he kisses away the blood on your skin as if this display of affection will wash you clean of your shame. "there is nothing you can do to stop me. it has already been done."

it dawns on you laughably late. of course, this is the true reason he called you to the bathhouse; why else would he be waiting for you? what other purpose for your presence—when he's never needed anyone else to purify him?

how foolish of you to think yourself an exception. the silk washcloth floats in the pool's water that gently ripples from all your shaking. it takes effort to hold yourself together and string the words you wish to say into anything even remotely sensible.

yet, you fall short, even then.

"why?" your strength is futile; any attempt to wretch your hand out of his hold fails. his fingers stay wrapped in place, careful not to bruise you with their strong hold—yet completely unyielding to your every effort. "i don't understand."

why would you strip me of who i am? why would you strip me of who i have always been?

tendrils of dark blood swirling in the warm water around you, your prince only smiles adoringly in response. his black eyes are so impossibly shallow as he watches you fall apart before him; and yet you find yourself drowning in them all the same.

"why would you do this to me?"

this is the first time you will hear this answer from the prince, but you already know—

(even whilst he peppers dozens of soft, sighing kisses into your wrist and up your arm, over your shoulder and down, down, under)

—you already know it will not be the last.

"because i love you."

[mrs-kmikaelson]

Your Five Truths

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: You have five simple truths. But when your relationship and your life are put on the line, you start to question what you believe in anymore. Warnings: reader is a bau tech analyst, serious angst, aaron is being mean, big argument, mentions of haley's death, references to foyet arc, home invasion, graphic descriptions of violence Words: 3.5K

Masterlist

a/n: there will be a part 2.

1. Aaron doesn't yell at you. 

If all else was unsure, then this was one of the five things you knew for certain. You weren't sure if he yelled at all. Maybe at work with criminals, but never with you.

This was still true.

Right now, he wasn't yelling at you. He was speaking in an even tone, but you knew him well enough to notice the difference. His voice was as cold as his rigid stance, like ice ran through his veins. His arms were crossed, and so, even if you weren't a criminal—even if you knew you were his fiancé—you sure as hell felt like one.

Standing on the other side of the kitchen island, you were in opposition of each other in every sense of the word.

You took a deep breath before speaking. "Aaron—"

He cut you off before the words could even leave your mouth. "We've had this conversation before. I've already told you how I feel about it."

You repressed the urge to take another breath, knowing he was a profiler. Knowing he could profile the discomfort all over you, regardless. But you picked up a few profiling tricks, too.

You could see the way he was staring at you. Like you were an idiot.

Maybe you agreed on that.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot— 

You took the breath, anyway. "Aaron, I said I'm sorry."

You tried to step closer to him, and he didn't move away. But he didn't usher you into his arms, either.

And despite the fact that Aaron doesn't yell at you, you could tell he really wanted to.

"And I'm saying you shouldn't have to say sorry. We shouldn't be having this conversation because you shouldn't have done it," he scolded.

You took another step closer, rounding the counter like your body was trying to get him to physically understand, to remind him that you were on the same side.

"What was I supposed to do?" Your voice was desparate now, almost like you actually wanted him to answer. "You were working. I had to work. You weren't picking up the phone—"

"That's right," he cut you off again. This time, he stepped closer to you. "I was working. You weren't."

2. You have an equal relationship.

The second truth was what had you tilting your head. You were already flushed from the heat of the argument, but now you could feel yourself getting a little angry.

"What do you mean I wasn't working?" you questioned. "Yes, I was. Garcia said you called everyone in; you said to get there stat."

He was quick. "I meant everyone that was necessary. You aren't."

You could feel the cut immediately, etched deep into your skin. It didn't matter how he said it, frivolous or not—the words were sharp enough to cut you effortlessly.

You aren't necessary.

The words echoed through your head. Words you'd heard before, but never from him. Never from the man who swore to be better than everyone else who ever hurt you.

Yet, no matter how much you'd been hurt in the past, it hurt a thousand times more to come from him.

You waited for him to say something else, waiting for any sign of regret to cross his face.

Nothing did.

There were many times when you wished you had Aaron's poker face, but right now, you didn't have to try. The sadness flooding your body remained internal; the only thing that showed on your face was rage.

Your eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Hotch doubled down, staring you right in the eye. "It means your job is an accessory. Garcia does the same job as you—you aren't needed."

That was a lie so blatant it made you scoff. You were a technical analyst for the BAU, and you'd proven yourself time and time again. Hotch was the one that hired you—he's the one that said he saw something in you.

Apparently not.

"I'm not needed," you echoed, sarcasm lacing your voice. "Right. So when an alert comes out that there is an active hostage situation and a potential terrorist threat, what do you expect me to do? Not come into work?" 

"Yes," he deadpanned. "Not when you're picking up my son."

You ran a hand through your hair, stuck in disbelief. "You can't be serious—"

"When you're picking up my son, what I expect is for you to take him home."

You spoke over him, countering, "I brought him to a place where I knew he'd be out of harm's way. You weren't picking up the phone. I did what I thought was best—"

"You brought him to Jessica—"

"I brought him to his aunt—"

For the first time since the conversation started, Aaron raised his voice just enough for it to stop you dead in your tracks. "You don't get to bring him to his aunt. You are not his mother!"

3. You are not Jack's mother.

You knew that. God, you knew that. You were there to see the carnage in the Hotchner household after Haley's death. The blood that splattered the walls. The boy who was too young to spell the word devastation but still felt it in his bones.

You knew you were not Jack's mother. You lived in a house with her pictures on the wall. Jack was a mirror image of her; he was her son, and you knew that. It was one of the truths you held the most conviction in.

It was the truth.

But you still recoiled, almost like Aaron had slapped you. A part of you thought maybe that would've hurt less.

All the fire you had was extinguished. You didn't have a rebuttal for that. What could you say? It didn't matter if you loved Jack like he was your own—that didn't change the fact that he wasn't.

You avoided Aaron's gaze, choosing to stare at the pattern of his tie instead and trying not to succumb to the sting in your eyes. You liked this tie; it was one of your favourites. You were close enough to him to see all its beautiful details.

But, at the same time, you'd never been further away from him.

Aaron still hadn't said anything, and out of fear that the dam would break if the silence continued, you spoke up. "I—" your voice cracked. "I know I'm not Jack's mother, and I'm not trying to be." You paused. "I was just doing what I thought was best."

You left it there, not knowing if the right words to say the right thing even existed. Saying the right thing was always Aaron's thing, not yours.

But whatever words he was going to say were cut off by the shrill pinging of a cellphone. Two cellphones.

Aaron picked up his first, sighing immediately. You didn't have to guess what it said. "We have another case." The heat in his voice was gone; he sounded like himself.

That didn't mean you felt any less burned.

"Okay, um—" you couldn't stop yourself from sniffling even if you tried. "I'll stay here and watch Jack. You go."

Another sigh left him. "Y/N—"

The sound of your name leaving his mouth almost made you cry, but you persisted, "No, you can go, it's fine." You chuckled if not just to make light of it for yourself. "I'm not needed there, anyway."

"Y/N."

"Aaron." You fingally looked up at him, and you saw it. Remorse swirling in his brown eyes. The same eyes that crinkled at the sides when you said you'd marry him. Somehow, that made it worse, knowing that it was the same person who said both of those things. Who built you up from scratch just to bring you right back to the bottom. 

You repeated yourself, "Go." The team needs you, you wanted to say. The only reason you didn't say it was because he'd already accused you of trying to be his past wife; you didn't need to prove him right.

You could practically hear the churning of his inner turmoil, torn between staying and leaving. It was pointless; you both knew what his decision would be.

When he reached for his go-bag, it was final. And in some ways, he was leaving more than just the house.

As if he could sense that, he turned around. "We'll finish this discussion when I'm back," he said. That was an anchor: telling you something about the present by talking about the future. When I'm back meant that he'd be back. Discussion meant you had something to talk about, a two-sided activity. We meant you were still one unit; you were still a we.

Maybe that's what he meant by it. If you scoured through his words and read between the lines, maybe you'd find the beginnings of an apology—in his own way, at least. But he wasn't sorry, not for what he said. If anything, he was only sorry that he said it.

You wouldn't profile him and ascribe meaning to words that didn't mean anything. We'll finish this discussion when I'm back meant you'd finish the discussion when he was back. 

When you replied, that was what you were replying to. "Okay."

You weren't okay.

This wasn't okay.

Aaron cast one last look at you before he crossed the threshold. You looked away.

And then he was out the door, leaving you in a house that no longer felt like your own.

—

"Y/N, my love, I thought I'd die without you!"

Penelope was on you as soon as you walked into the bat cave, shooting up from her chair and hugging you so tightly that you would've thought you'd been gone for ages. Really, you were only gone for a night.

You told Aaron that you wouldn't be coming in, and you were holding true to that, but you weren't gonna make Garcia work alone if she had to, even if she was perfectly capable of it.

You knew you weren't needed. Hotch was right: this ship could sail just fine without you. But you could help.

You'd just dropped Jack off at school, so now you were here, ready to work until you had to pick him up again.

You forced yourself to laugh at her words, causing her to hit your back. "No, I'm being serious! You're my oxygen—I can't live without you."

At that, you snorted. "Okay, Penelope."

She pulled back, resting her hands on your shoulders. "Seriously, though." She looked deep into your eyes, seeming to be looking for something. "Are... are you okay? I don't even think you've taken a sick day since... since forever."

You smiled at her exaggeration, even if it didn't really reach your eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine, P. I just have to leave early to go get Jack, and um... I'm gonna stay off camera today. And off the phones." You shifted your weight. "Not like it matters or anything, but I just don't really want Hotch knowing I'm here. I just want to stay in the background today, if that's okay?"

Her brows raised, but she quickly affirmed, "Yes, that's okay! Totally okay. We'll keep this 100% incognito."

It was in Garcia's nature to ask questions, so you knew she had them, but she didn't voice a single one.

You talked about work, and new bureau technology, and your next girls night, and everything but what you asked of her.

You'd never been more grateful.

—

It'd been two days since the team left, two days of bouncing back and forth between the office and back home with Jack. The son that wasn't really yours. The son that felt like yours, anyway.

If you were doing as good as you thought you were, then nobody knew you were even there. Garcia was telling the rest of them that you were sick. Your phone had been flooded with get well soon messages from everyone except the one person you really wanted one from.

Aaron hadn't spoken to you since he left. You wished it didn't hurt as badly as it did.

"Okay, Jackers! I think it's time we head to bed."

"What?" You held back a laugh at the incredulity in his voice, knowing that—for an 8 year old—this was a very serious matter. He looked at you with traces of shock, somehow looking everything and nothing like his father at the same time. "But it's only ten o'clock!"

"Ah, and yet it is still past your bed time. Mine, too."

Jack frowned—and there it was. There was that bit of Aaron you were looking for. "You say that, but you're just going to stay up after I go to sleep."

You couldn't suppress the smile on your face any longer. "No, Jack. I promise you I'm so tired, I'll be out as soon as my head hits the pillow." You ruffled his hair, your smile becoming a grin as he groaned. "Now go brush your teeth, little man."

Jack got up from the table, his little feet pitter-pattering across the floor as he made his way to the stairs. It didn't sound much like a pitter-patter anymore now that he was getting older, but he would always be the same little boy to you. So, "pitter-patter" it was.

Until suddenly, you heard a different noise.

Not pitter-patter.

The door.

Your eyes darted to Jack as he stopped in his tracks, then they darted to the door. The knob, turning lightly, gold glinting in the light. The sound of your own heart beating was just as loud as the turning. The person got impatient, the knob turning faster now, like someone was trying to pry it open.

Fuck. Fuck.

Your mind ran a mile a minute. That wasn't Hotch. You weren't expecting anyone, and whoever was at the door certainly wasn't asking for an invite in.

They were trying to force their way in.

Somebody was breaking in to the house.

With that realization, you were moving. "Jack." You caught his attention easily, spotting the fear on his face right away. More than fear. 

Familiarity.

He went through his before. Oh, your Jack. He'd been through this before, and he would know what to do. You did.

Conversations with Aaron flashed through your head, just-in-case scenarios, if then statements. Emergencies.

You knew what to do, too.

You just never thought you'd have to.

You grabbed onto Jack's shoulder, immediately feeling how his body was trembling. "Jack, I need you to listen to me." The knob got louder. You lowered your voice. "I need you to work the case, okay? Like with your dad. Do you understand me?"

His eyes went wide. "Wait, Y/N. What about you—"

"Jack. Do you understand me?" He went quiet, and then he nodded, making you sigh in relief. "Okay, take my phone. Call 911, but don't make a sound." You handed him the phone, and then you let go of him. "I love you." Your throat closed up. "Now go."

Jack ran up the stairs, and you were up automatically, trusting he'd do as you said.

It was like someone else was in your body, telling you what to do. You opened the pantry, looking where you'd never looked and typing numbers into a keypad you'd never touched.

Why do we need a safe in the kitchen? you had laughed at the time.

In case of an emergency, Aaron had said. You thanked his forward thinking.

The only way you knew that you were still there was by the violent shaking of your hands as the cool metal touched your skin. You'd only ever operated a gun once or twice. Did you even remember how to load it?

The door banged, making you jolt. You had to remember now. Come on, Y/N. Load the fucking gun. 

You thrusted the magazine into the well and then pulled back the slide. Another bang. You turned the safety off.

Hold the gun with both hands.

God, Hotch, when will I ever need to do this?

Well, I hope you never have to. But we can never be too safe.

Another bang hit the door, this time more forceful. We can never too safe. Tears flooded your eyes, and you promptly blinked them away.

Then. There was another bang, and this time, the door hit the wall.

You intook a sharp breath, hearing footsteps thump against the floor. You closed your eyes, focusing on the noise. One set of footsteps. 

Aaron's voice echoed throughout your head. Are you sure?

You screwed your eyes shut tighter, straining your ears. Yes. One person. Loud. Heavy. Male.

Okay, that's good. What else do you know?

You knew they spent a long time fiddling with the door knob before busting the door open. That could either mean they lacked physical strength or they were trying to taunt you. The second option. You knew this was a low-risk neighbourhood. You knew your car was out front. This wasn't about money. This was personal. Intentional.

You knew this was an FBI agent's house. You knew—

Wait. You strained your ears more, following the footsteps. They weren't heading for your direction. No. No, no, no, no.

Jack was upstairs.

You couldn't let this man go up there.

4. You love Jack Hotchner unconditionally.

Knowing number four makes you act fast with a determination you'd never felt before. The pantry door swung open as you left the enclosed space, instantly raising the gun in the air like it was weightless. 

You pointed it at your stairwell where a masked man stood, motionless. 

"You better stop right there, you son of a bitch," you threatened, cocking the gun like it was second nature to you.

The man raised his hands into the air slowly. He tilted his head at you as if he was trying to mock you.

And then he smiled.

Before you could even realize what was happening, he was running at you. Your eyes widened, pulling the trigger. You barely got to see if your shot made it before he was tackling you to the ground, knocking the gun out of your hands.

The back of your head hit the ground, making a sickening crack. You gasped for air, and then you were wheezing as the man's hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing tightly.

You looked up into his demented eyes, hearing not the sound of your own voice but Hotch's. Use what you see. Frantically, your eyes flew all over the unsub's body until you saw red staining black, right at his shoulder. 

Without thinking about it, you stuck your finger into the wound, hearing him scream. He was stunned enough that he loosened his grip, giving you the chance to kick him off of you.

You scrambled to your feet, searching for the gun and finding it in the middle of the living room floor. You dove for it right as he got back up, getting to you before you could try shooting again.

His hands wrapped around yours, trying to wrestle the gun from your hands. You held on like your life depended on it because it��did. Your life depended on it— Jack's life depended on it. 

You fired a shot into the ground and then another into the wall as he fought you, knocking a picture frame off the mantle. You couldn't see where the gun was pointing anymore, but then, suddenly, pain radiated throughout your lower abdomen, and you knew it was pointed at you.

You gasped, looking down and seeing blood spreading through the white of your tank top.

You looked back up, seeing the asshole smile at you with his teeth. They were pearly white. So clean for a man so dirty.

You sought to make them red, too.

In a surge of energy, you twisted the gun out of his grasp and didn't think before pointing it at his head and firing.

You watched the bullet penetrate his skull before he fell to the ground. Like a domino, you followed, crumpling against the couch.

The gun slipped out of your hands and they immediately went to your wound, making you hiss in pain. You pressed down on it, feeling blood flow between your fingers like a river. 

Keep swimming. Keep your eyes open.

The fatigue hit you like a train. You blinked, trying to keep your eyes open, but they felt so heavy.

Jack. Jack was upstairs. He called the police.

He was okay.

You heard sirens in the distance. The police were coming.

You could sleep now.

And so, as you remembered your fifth truth, your eyes started to flutter closed.

5. You love Aaron Hotchner. And he loves you.

You let yourself fall into a dreamless sleep, hoping that somehow, on some plane of consciousness, he could hear you say I love you one last time.

You loved Aaron Hotchner. You knew that for certain.

You just hoped he still loved you.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

helloooo

can I request reader being an avenger and pregnant with bucky's baby and he has to deliver his own baby after reader went into early labor during a mission ?

absolutely love your work thanksss

Precious Little Miracle » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Avenger/Husband!Bucky Barnes x Avenger/Wife/Pregnant!Reader

Summary: You go into labor during a mission and Bucky delivers yours and his baby.

Warnings: Fluff, language, dad!Bucky/mom!reader, childbirth, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

A/N #2: Thank you @buck-star for helping me come up with ideas for this🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

Ever since you found out you were pregnant, you wanted to get as much work done as you can before the baby comes. Now, you’re in your eighth month of your pregnancy. You’re surprised that you’re still able to go on mission. Bucky, on the other hand, is a nervous wreck every time you go on a mission in your delicate condition. You swear he ages 10 years every mission you go on. You’re able to get the job done though.

“Doll, please be careful.” Bucky says.

“I am being careful, James.” You say.

You threw one last punch at the target, knocking him out. You stood there for a moment to catch your breath. You put your hands on your pregnant belly like any pregnant woman would do.

“Are you ok, babydoll?” Bucky asks.

“Other than my feet hurting, I feel great.” You say.

“We’re going to the safe house.” He says.

“Babe, I’m fine.” You say.

“Doll, please don’t argue with me.” He pleads softly.

You didn’t want to argue with him so you gave in. Bucky informed the Steve that you two are going back to the safe house. In a way, you’re glad to be going back to the safe house. You just want to relax and get off your feet. When you and Bucky got to the safe house, he opened the door for you like the gentleman he is.

“Always such a gentleman.” You smiled.

“Only for you, doll face.” Bucky playfully winks.

You walked inside the safe house with Bucky following behind you. You kicked off your combat boots and went to the living room to relax.

“Can I ask you a question?” Bucky asks.

“Of course, Buck.” You replied.

“How come you didn’t stop going on mission when we found out you’re pregnant?” He asks.

“I just wanted to get as much work done as I can before the baby comes.” You answered.

“I understand that, doll, but you really need to be careful. I don’t want to lose either of you. I don’t want to experience that.” He says.

“Baby, you’re not-” You gasped when you felt a gush in between your legs.

“Babydoll, what’s wrong?” He asks softly.

You looked down at the floor, quickly realizing that your water broke. Bucky followed your gaze to the floor. His eyes went wide.

“Did your just water break?” Bucky asks.

“Either that or I peed myself.” You say.

You grabbed onto Bucky’s vibranium arm and cried out when you felt a contraction.

“Doll, I’m pretty sure you’re in labor.” He says.

“No.” You shook your head. “It’s early. She’s not due for another few weeks.” You say, your eyes filling with tears.

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, his hand rubbing your back to help keep you calm.

“Everything is going to be ok, doll.” He says softly.

“No it’s not.” You whimpered.

“Babydoll, look at me.” He whispers.

You look up at your husband with teary eyes.

“Everything is going to be fine. You have to try to stay calm and remember your breathing, ok?” He almost whispers.

You nodded. Bucky pecks your lips softly. He then guided you to the couch. You sat down on the couch. So did Bucky. You made sure to remember your breathing like Bucky said.

“Bucky?” You almost whispered.

“Yes, doll? What is it?” Bucky asks softly.

“I’m scared.” You tell him.

“So am I.” He whispers.

You whimpered when you felt another contraction. You squeezed Bucky’s hand. You inhaled and exhaled. You were able to relax when it passed.

“You’re doing great, doll.” Bucky praises softly. “Just keep breathing.” He says softly.

Bucky went to stand up to get his phone to call your doctor to let her know you’re in labor and to inform the team about what’s going on, but you grabbed his arm tightly to prevent him from doing that.

“Please don’t leave me.” You begged.

“I’m not going anywhere, babydoll.” He assures you softly. “I’m just going to get my phone to call your doctor to tell her that you’re in labor and I’m going to inform the team of what’s going on.” He tells you.

You stared at your husband for a few seconds before allowing him to get his phone. Bucky pecked your lips softly before doing so. He called your doctor and informed the team.

“Bucky!” You whimpered when you felt another contraction.

Bucky quickly said goodbye to who he was on the phone with and ran back to the living room.

“I’m here, doll. It’s ok.” Bucky almost whispers.

“No it’s not. Nothing about this is ok. The closest hospital is a couple hours away and I’m scared that I’m going to have our baby in this safe house.” You say, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“It’s going to be ok, babydoll. Wanna know how I know that?” He asks.

You sniffled and nodded.

“You’re the bravest woman I ever met. You never back down from a fight. That’s two things I love about you. That’s also part of the reason why I married you.” He says softly.

“You always know what to say in scary situations.” You say with a smile.

“Isn’t that the reason why you married me?” He asks with a smile.

“Yes.” You replied.

Bucky leans down to kiss you sweetly and passionately. You pulled away when you felt a contraction, but also, something didn’t feel right.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” You say in a shaky voice.

“What do you mean something doesn’t feel right?” Bucky asks.

“I-I-I don’t know. What if something is wrong?” You asked.

“Don’t think like that, doll. Try to stay calm and I’ll call your doctor again.” He says softly.

You nodded. Bucky called your doctor again and told her that you said something doesn’t feel right. You maintained your breathing with he was on the phone. On the inside, Bucky was freaking out. On the outside, he was trying his best to hold it together for you.

“What did she say?” You asked as he hung up the phone.

“She said I have to check you down there.” Bucky says as calmly as possible.

Your eyes went wide and your heart dropped when he said that. Your breathing became uneven too.

“Doll, breathe. Everything is going to be fine.” He says softly.

Bucky helped you get your breathing under control. Then he went to find towels just in case he has to do what your doctor told him to do, which is deliver yours and his daughter since you two are in a safe house that’s almost in the middle of nowhere. He came back to the living room with towels. You knew why he had the towels.

“Do you trust me, babydoll?” Bucky asks.

“You know I do, baby.” You say.

“You know what I have to do, right?” He says.

You nodded and whimpered. It wasn’t a whimper of pain this time. It was a scared whimper.

You took a deep breath before lifting your hips so Bucky could take off your tactical pants and your panties. He sat down on the coffee table and moved your legs apart. His eyes went wide at what he saw.

“What? What’s wrong?” You asked.

“I see her head.” Bucky says.

Your heart dropped. You didn’t realize you were that far along in labor.

“No.” You say out of fear.

“It’s going to be ok. I’m not going to let anything happen to you and our baby girl.” He says softly, putting a comforting hand on your knee.

Bucky leans up and kisses your lips softly.

“I got you and our daughter, ok?” He whispers.

“Ok.” You whispered back.

“Let’s meet our daughter.” He smiles.

You smiled back. You took a couple deep breaths before pushing. It hurt. The only thing getting you through it was your husband showering you in praises. You felt relief wash over you when you heard your daughter crying.

“Is she ok?” You asked, panting.

“She’s perfect.” Bucky almost whispers, not taking his eyes off yours and his precious little miracle.

Bucky wrapped yours and his daughter up in a towel and handed her to you. Both of you smiled down at yours and his little girl.

Not too long after that, you went to the hospital to make sure everything is ok with you and the baby. Everything is fine with both of you. You ended up falling asleep for a while. You then woke up to Bucky talking to yours and his daughter. You smiled at your two favorite people. Bucky looks over at you and smiles.

“Mama’s awake.” Bucky coos at yours and his daughter.

Bucky carefully stood up with yours and his daughter in his arms and walked over to the hospital bed you’re laying in. You moved over just enough for Bucky to sit down next to you. He carefully put her in your arms. As you gazed at your daughter, you couldn’t help but get emotional.

“Hey, what’s wrong, doll?” Bucky asks softly.

“I can’t believe our precious little miracle is here.” You say softly.

“Me neither.” He whispers.

“Our precious little miracle needs a name.” You say.

You and Bucky have brainstormed names for yours and his baby girl, but haven’t agreed on a name both of you like.

“Oh. Umm-” Bucky thought for a moment.

“Do you want to hear the name I came up with?” You asked, looking up at your husband.

“Yes.” He nods.

“Rebecca Stevie Barnes.” You tell him.

Bucky knew he wanted to name yours and his baby after his best friend, no matter if you were having a boy or a girl. He thought it would work either way, which in this case, it does. Also, he didn’t know that you wanted to name yours and his daughter after his sister.

“You- You want to name her after my sister and Steve?” Bucky asks, his eyes tearing up.

“Only if you’re ok with it.” You say.

“I’m more than ok with it. I want nothing more than to name our daughter after my sister and my best friend.” He says.

You smiled and leaned up to kiss your husband passionately.

“I love you so much, doll.” Bucky whispers.

“I love you too, baby.” You whispered back.

“And we love you too, our precious little miracle.” He whispers to yours and his daughter as she grabs onto his finger.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[ivyblossom]

Okay, but...this is a little fishy.

chatGPT can't remember 300K words. It has a memory, but it's for individual details that it learns over time, not 300K words of a story.

I'm not endorsing this or saying it's fine, I'm just addressing misinformation. I'm professionally required to understand chatGPT, so I have kicked its tires and monitor its progress to see what it can and can't do. It might be trying to write new chapters of your fic, but it absolutely doesn't save a copy of your fic.

If someone wanted to do this, they'd have to keep a text file of your fic and re-upload almost constantly. But 300K is way too many words for it to handle, and it certainly wouldn't produce anything close to what you'd write, even with less text to parse.

If someone asked chatGPT to produce a new chapter, it would blithely hallucinate new characters and plot points. It would mistake the dog for the protagonist and tell you about it's "canonical" tragic backstory. It would swap your characters' names and accuse some of them of being aliens or water buffalos. Even if it could accurately keep 300K words of content in its memory, it would forget them within minutes.

It would try to write a good chapter. I'm sure people are asking it to, but dear god chatGPT is awful at writing fiction. Why would anyone want to read a terrible chapter of something they love? There's no accounting for taste, I guess.

I get why you're mad and creeped out, but you don't need to fear chatGPT keeping copies of your fics, at least. It doesn't have that kind of capacity. The reader has your fic stored locally.

Be mindful and cautious, with AI, absolutely. But misinformation isn't ever a friend.

This is the worst timeline. (x)

[twohearts-hs]

Dove & Captain: 3 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 9.2k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

-

1000

Y/N was standing at the board reading it when she sensed someone next to her. There was a deep glare, but she knew it was out of love.

            “You love to stare at me, Dr. Robinavitch,” Y/N said casually. “Are you secretly in love with me or something?” she hummed with a smile as she glanced over.

            Robby let out a light chuckle. “You know where I stand on my feelings,” he replied with a smirk.

            She nodded slowly. “What did I do now that is making you glare at me like I spiked your coffee…which I didn’t, by the way.”

            He chuckled. “You gave our rookie a TED Talk on emotional resilience,” Robby said, straight-faced. “And convinced him that writing letters to corpses is normal coping.”

            Y/N raised a brow, staring at him. “It is very normal to use writing as a therapeutic tool to express, work through and understand your feelings, emotions and trauma,” she replied. “I can quote research.”

            Robby shook his head. “You want to quote psychological research to me before 10 a.m. You’re dangerous. Is this foreplay?” he hummed.

            Y/N chuckled. “Oh, Cowboy, if you want foreplay, I can whip in some astrophysics information in there too.”

            He shook his head. “Sometimes your brain scares, and then I question why you’re a nurse and not some world leader,” he replied. “Why is Jack with you again?”

            Y/N went back to look at the board. “Because I’m great at head,” she replied coldly.

            Robby choked on his sip of coffee, spluttering. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

            She didn’t even flinch, still studying the patient board as if she’d just commented on the weather. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, laughing under his breath. “You cannot say that in here.”

            She turned to him with a perfectly straight face. “Why not? We’re health professionals. It’s all anatomy. If you can deal with rats in the ER, I bet you can deal with my sexual comments.”

            Robby stared at her. “You are unhinged.”

            “Possibly,” she said sweetly. “But you do absolutely love me. I ran your trauma code flawlessly this morning, stabilised several patients before I had my second cup of coffee and gave your rookie a breakdown and a life lesson in under fifteen minutes. It’s a great day and I’m on fire.”

            He nodded. “You got to him, though. I was worried the kid had no game. Dana and I were making bets.”

            “Making bets on the poor children? That’s traumatic for them. Unstable childhood can lead to a lot of mental disorders in the long term,” Y/N replied. “Don’t destroy the future of medicine.”

            He chuckled. “He wants to write a letter to the patient’s family. Said you taught him that.”

            Y/N raised her brow. “Jack taught me that. So, I relayed the information. He wants to give it to the family?” she asked, chuckling while shaking her head.

            “Yup.”

            “I said write it. Not send it. Jesus,” she muttered. “I need to be more specific to the kids.”

            Robby chuckled. “This is what happens when you monologue at them.”

            Y/N shrugged. “Wasn’t monologuing, rather using my psych degree I spent sixty thousand dollars on,” she replied. “Might as well use it for practical use.”

            “This isn’t a first-year psych elective,” Robby replied.

            “May not be a lecture hall, but psych is very relevant in medical practice. In fact, I have taught several psych classes while an undergrad,” Y/N said with a smile.

            Robby chuckled. “Why aren’t you a psych nurse then? Could use both your degrees for practical use.”

            Y/N looked over to him. “I prefer the company of gunshots, motor vehicle accidents and stabbings to stabilising someone who is hallucinating,” she replied coldly. “Wait, we do that too,” she whispered the last part. “I use my psych degree here all the time.” Then she smiled at him, wickedly and smugly.

            “Well, Dr. Freud–“

            “Boy, do not call me that,” Y/N replied. “Do you know a single Freud theory? Because yeah, the main ones are rational, but they get more and more fucked. I would say I am rational and not fucked,” Y/N said. “Now, stop flirting with me and let’s get back to work.” She turned to him and crossed her arms. “You’re very welcome for using therapeutic rapport with your rookie. He will always remember me as the one who listened and responded perfectly.”

            He looked at her, leaning in. “Rumour has it we are sleeping together,” Robby whispered as she stared at him. “Kids are talking. They are putting two and two together after you dropped the whole ‘I’m with an attending’ fact.”

            “Oh, I bet you love it. Always wanted me to see me naked. Let me tell you, it’s great. Never had complaints,” Y/N hummed, winking as she walked away.

            “Jesus, Y/N,” Robby mumbled, shaking his head.

-

Y/N was in the hallway. She leaned against it as she took a breath. She had too many deaths already this morning. The kid with the OD, the older man with his kids who was on his last legs, Mr. Milton, and she had heard of so many more. Normally, she was not affected by this. Normally, she would shrug it off. Normally, she would just deal with it and lets it be another day.

            But right now, her head hit the wall as she stood in the stairway, letting the tears come to her eyes. Pulling her phone out of her pocket for the first time this morning, she turned it on and saw some messages.

            One, Jack. There were a few.

            First one, “Home now. Granny got meds. Let all the dogs out again. Going to bed. Will text when up.”

            Second, an image of the dogs on the bed before he crashed. All four of them on the King size bed. Granny taking most of the bed as she laid on Y/N’s side of the bed. Her snowy face that had seen so much fast asleep. She was deaf in one ear, stubborn, hates fireworks, rides shotgun like she won the car and her bond with Jack…well, that was sacred.

            Next to her was Ranger at the end of the bed. A mutt who they believe was a lab, shepherd or even a cattle dog. He was six. They adopted him, a foster fail. He was from the streets locally. Loyal, obedient, always on patrol. But a sweetheart.

            Delta was on top of Jack, teeth on display, but in a way of happiness. Just over one, but a little shit yet loved. Found starving near a trailhead on her own. Y/N’s college friend, who was in vet med, told her about her, and Jack came home after a shift to see the German Shepherd, husky mix in their house. Always in trouble, but the baby, they call her Hellspawn constantly.

            Then there was Winston, a gift to herself when she graduated. She always imagined owning a dog, and she used the last of her student loans to buy him off a breeder up North. A long-wire-haired dachshund who just hit eight was sleeping against Granny. Best buds. A diva doesn’t like mud, would not walk in anything but shine. Wears bowties on holidays and is the only one that slept in the bed. Sometimes Alaska (Granny) would sneak in if her joints were aching but Jack had a serious “no dogs in bed” policy until they moved in. Therefore, seeing all the dogs in the bed brought a smile to her face.

            Then he followed with another text, “I know you, Dove. Something is up. I know you will tell me soon, but please don’t dwell on this alone. I’m always here. When I wake, thinking of getting those steaks you like. Will grill them tonight, and we can pop a bottle of that fancy wine you bought a while ago. I’m in your corner. Also, I will buy more coffee. The good type and not that shit you like. Saw there was a new documentary released on Netflix. However, I’ll budge and rewatch Bridget Jones’ Diary for like the hundredth time. Or throw on Sex and the City, and I’ll listen to you bitch about how Big isn’t right for Carrie because then you’ll go on about how much he needs to be more like me. I think we are on season three…but you might’ve been watching it without me. Not mad, just disappointed due to your betrayal.”

            Y/N stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keys. A smile graced her features, biting down on her bottom lip as she stared at the phone. He sent these messages around eight-fifteen. He wouldn’t be up around eleven-ish…max twelve-thirty. He’s a man who could run off of three hours of sleep, max five. Rarely sleeps ever, truly.

            God, she loved him.

            She wanted to grab him by the cheeks and kiss his lips and scream, “I’m pregnant!” but she had her whole day ahead. Her eyes welled up again, but this time it wasn’t because of the death, the codes, or the overwhelming morning. It was him. That voice in her life – calm, constant, hers. Somehow, even his texts felt like they had arms, wrapping around her, telling her to just breathe.

            Six years of them together. Basically, nine years of knowing him because she spent her last practicum at the ER. Though no one counts that. However, she officially had been working there for eight years as a nurse. One year of being professional and one year dodging feelings until Robby and Dana locked them in a room and said, “Talk it out”. Y/N stole his heart through therapeutic rapport and active listening. Also, he couldn’t get over her knowledge, critical thinking and quick moves.

            She wiped her face with the sleeve of her under armour for her scrub top. A cheetah print that blended well with the grey the nurses wore. She looked at the photo again, and tears came to her eyes. Their life was so perfect. So fucking perfect.

            Granny with her snowy muzzle and claim over the entire bed, Delta looking like a rabid gremlin despite the grin. Ranger on perimeter duty, even in his sleep and Winston in his curled-up dignity like he’d found the house himself.

            He’s the only one who isn’t fully potty trained…normal Dachshund behaviour. Drives Jack fucking insane.

            Jack always expressed that their dogs were like a personality test. Between the four of them, they’d collected every part of the spectrum. Though Y/N would shut the conversation down by bringing him psychological facts and research would Jack would joke by saying, “Talk dirty to me.” Which would always bring a smile to Y/N’s lips, and she would relate research to him, which he would actively listen to and ask questions.

            Soulmates. Truly were.

            He’d be asleep still. He was a light sleeper, and anything would wake him up. Ex-military, indeed, but also a man of the house. He wanted to be on guard constantly…like Ranger.

            “Captain,” she began to type out. “You’ve made my morning. You don’t know how much I needed this. It’s been a day already. Steak sounds amazing. Please, could you make that mushroom sauce? I’m craving like potatoes as well, you choose. But I need to get some form of vegetables in me…kale? I can send you my warm kale salad with a vinaigrette recipe. Of course, parm and bacon! Ugh, your cooking gives me mind orgasms just thinking about it. Looking forward to it, Captain. Give several kisses to the babies. But…can we talk about another? Serena sent me a link to a Pitbull named Dolly who needs a home. Rescued from a fighting ring, used for breeding. Lovely, friendly and great with kids. She needs a home. Also, kinda down for something new. Can we watch something serious? Kind of feel like either finally watching the new season of Peaky Blinders or finally starting that crime show we keep talking about – can’t remember the name. However, with the way this shift is going, I might have to throw on something funny. Always with love<3. PS. Robby is on my ass. Send help. But he does it with love. He’s annoying.”

            Y/N went back to her phone. Opening another message.

            “Ugh, why do you have to be so smart? Mom did pills when pregnant with both of us, but you turned out to be a genius and I’m the fool? Fucking tests made me an idiot,” she read from her brother, Beckett.

            Y/N was thirty. Beckett was about to turn twenty. He was in university. He was her half-brother, and Jack, who makes way too much money was paying for his tuition and dorm.

            Jack and Y/N never talked about salary. Though, they both kind of know through their bank statements. Jack makes way over 400k – closer to 500k, while Y/N makes just over 100k. According to research, the average salary for a couple in America was 146k. The two of them combined just make around 600k. They bought their house a year ago. Though they could’ve done it with cash, they didn’t. Just a small mortgage. It was due to the two of them being smart, responsible and very them. Some renovations, but not many. Four bedrooms, one made an office for Y/N’s art.

            It was good. Comfortable. Enough.

            Though Y/N stared at the message from her brother, sighing. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just tired and stressed. Uni is hard. SO hard. Don’t overthink, bet you did fabulous. Take a moment to breathe, drink some water, and eat some food. You’ve got this, Beck. Always here, and if you need somewhere to crash, let me know. Jack is making steak tonight. Love you to Mars. Just Mars. Because I do hate how much you don’t clean up after yourself and date terrible woman. Also, I saw a physics equation that hasn’t been calculated on the university forum yesterday, but I doubt you can solve it as you don’t remember my birthday.”

             Beckett’s reply came almost instantly, probably because he was already doom-scrolling after the test on the bus. His quantum physics test was behind him. A man of intelligence like her – physics with a speciality in quantum, while doing a minor in math but debating psychology like his sister.

“OMFG, you’re rude. I always remember your birthday. Maybe not Jack’s but he’s old as fuck. Send me the equation, you bitch. Down for steak. I’ll bus to you unless you want to help the poor, broke college kid ;). Still to Mars, I know all the planets now. Love u to the next universe, whatever it’s called. HAHA didn’t do na astrology major so off the case. Can I crash? Maybe Jack will let me shoot cans in the yard tomorrow. Tell the dogs I say hi, especially Ranger. Kidnap him. I will.”

She smirked. “Fine to everything. Text Jack about can shooting. Ranger can’t go home with you. He needs his raw mix, his stimulation ball, his best friends and the acre to run on. Your dorm room won’t suffice. Have you talked to Mom this week?”

She smiled, then sent another text. “Beck, you and I are intelligent. But don’t compare us. You’re brilliant, so incredibly brilliant in your own messy way. I will let Jack know you’re cashing and eating.” She then screenshotted and sent the equation. Ranger would love to sleep with you tonight. He is mainly a floor boy, sometimes a bed boy, but if Beck is in town, he’s a hot water bottle double. Then she sent the photo that Jack sent of the dogs.

            Closing her phone, she placed it back in her back pocket. She needed a moment to think once again. Therefore, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Her feet were heavy, her heart full but sore, and something about those dogs in bed with Jack just grounded her. Moments like this, she needed to hold onto with the world of chaos outside the stairwell.

            Finally, she pushed off the wall and pulled her badge out, scanning back into the ER. Back to the trenches. Patients needed her. But her mind flickered back to what held her, the backyard at home, the garden, the little ceramic garden statues she bought from a thrift store that Jack despised, but refused to move and the patio light he swore he’d fix three weeks ago.

            And dinner. She was excited for dinner.

            However, she had to survive the shift. This whole twelve-hour shift, which she was a few hours in. For Jack. For herself. For Beckett and for that baby inside her.

            Once back at her station, she checked her patients and was back administering reports. Her fingers were typing furiously on the keyboard, reading glasses on as always. Her notes were detailed, sharp, but a little chaotic because that was beautiful Y/N her special ways – packed with medical precision and a tiny bit of ranting.

            She was writing when someone leaned on the counter in front of her. Nursing a coffee, a female cleared her throat, and Y/N instantly knew who it was. Y/N glanced up to see the woman staring at her.

            “That’s the look of someone who wants something,” Y/N muttered.

            “No, just curious,” she casually said.

            Y/N’s typing paused.

            “Curious about?”

            Robby arrived next, sliding behind Dana with a knowing smile. “Curious about what, Dana?” he hummed, looking over to the older woman.

            “I want to hear what she bet for the ambulance chase. I’m not betting, but I want to hear her logic, calculations and ideas,” Dana told Robby.

            Robby hummed, nodding. “I would love to know,” he agreed, smirking and looking over to the younger nurse.

            Y/N looked up, raising a brow. “Why?’

            The two of them looked at each other before looking at Y/N. “Christ, Ace, I know you, you’ve calculated this. Bet you can count cards,” Robby replied, shrugging.

            Y/N looked at him blankly. “How’d you know?”

            Robby smirked. “Just a vibe,” he hummed.

            Y/N stared at the two of them, raising a brow. “So that’s the rumour,” she muttered before going back to work.

            Robby stared at her. “I heard about Atlantic City.”

            Y/N’s face fell.

            “Subtle remark about Vegas from our favourite ex-military man,” Robby added.

            Y/N stared at him but decided to ignore his comment. “Have you bet?” she asked, sending him a small smile.

            “I have, but I want hear yours,” he replied.

            “Good, don’t want to change your idea,” she muttered, looking back at her computer.

            “So can you?” he asked.

            “Can I what?” she asked, still focused.

            “Count cards?”

            “I think you know,” she whispered.

            “Would rather hear it from you, Ace.”

            Y/N looked up, crossing her arms and raising a brow. “When I was twenty-two, I went to Vegas after my degree before I started here. I spent the three days strategically playing poker and let’s just say, my student loans were paid for afterwards,” she muttered, looking back at her computer.

            Robby stared at her. “What about Atlantic City?” he asked.

            “What about it?”

            “You and Jack went to Atlantic City?” he replied.

            “Um, he tagged along. I was there for a concert with some college friends. Loud noises for him are a big no, so it was me and some friends. This was a few years ago,” she replied, focused.

            “And gambling?”

            She looked up now. “Oh,” she replied, staring for a second before chuckling awkwardly. “We were new in a relationship. Wanted to impress him. So I gambled. Won.”

            They both stared at each other. “Won what?” Dana asked.

            “Enough,” she replied. “I’m charming,” Y/N added, clicking a few buttons for work. “I wear a sexy outfit, flirt with old, rich men and play the fool. No one suspects the pretty, young, sexy girl at the blackjack table to be counting cards.”

            “So, you can count cards?” Robby remarked.

            “Did I deny?” she hummed, staring at him and raising a brow.

            Dana choked on her coffee. “Jesus.”

            “You won?” Robby replied. “Like a lot?”

            She shrugged. “I only bet enough to pay what I need to pay, then get out. No greed. No heat. They watch you like a hawk there, so you need to be smart. Me, well, there’s a key to counting cards. Know when to walk, when to halt, when to fold, let go, fool, you know…” she muttered, going back to her screen. “Leave a little dumbfounded, a little disappointed, a little fooled, but overall, chuffed with what you got.”

            They just stared at her. “Remind me to go gambling wit her,” Dana replied. “I have to pay for my daughter’s trip to Europe for school.

            Y/N looked up. “What are you doing next Friday? We can skip town? Head to our favourite town of gambling and beaches?” Y/n hummed.

            Dana stared at her. “I genuinely don’t know if she’s joking or not,” she mumbled.

            Robby shook his head. “I don’t know either,” he replied as he stared at her. “So, about this ambulance bet…”

            Y/N leaned back in the chair, stretching her arms overhead before she gave them that signature smirk. The one which she outsmarted them.

            “Simple,” she shrugged which they rose their brows. “It’s September. This means it initiation month for every frat in North America. This includes our city’s main university. According to my research, this year the invitation isn’t something subtle or simple, rather they want something more daring, idiotic, and more visible…” She looked at them. “Ambulance. Simple. Plus, free drugs, bonus points.”

            Dana blinked and Robby just stared at her.

            “How do you know this?” Robby asked.

            Y/N shrugged. “I dated a frat guy in undergrad. Didn’t last long but had a thing about chaos and beer pong. I learned how the initiation season works. The whole goal is shock value, and for our local university, an ambulance is definitely shock value. So, I bet frat guys and in our zone. Because I secretly want the trauma to come in so I can shame them for ebing an imbecile.”

            The two of them stared at her. Shocked. Face wide with curiosity.

            “Vegas,” Dana whispered.

            “I was twenty-two, broke, pissed off, and fucking brilliant. I had just finished my undergrad in nursing and psych. I needed to pay off it off…Let’s just my mother isn’t one with a healthy 529 Plan.”

            “She taught you how to count cards?” Robby asked, intrigued.

            Y/N chuckled. “That’s the only thing she taught me. That and how to be a shitty mom. However, it’s just math. It’s called finite mathematics. It’s a bunch of equations about the probability an card can be shown and all,” she hummed, winking. “Thanks, mother for the skill that got me through life.”

            Robby just shook his head. “I have so many questions about that trip.”

            She shrugged. “Not much to tell. I was alone. I went there to see my mom’s sister to help with something. I was bored, ended up at the casino and played my cards right. All classified. Need-to-know basis”

            “Does our military boy know?” Dana asked.

            Y/N chuckled. “Yeah. He learnt when we were at Atlantic City for a concert. He watched me. Then he just leaned over and was like, ‘You better split that pot with me, Dove. You’re buying dinner’ and I knew I would be with him forever.”

            Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “You two are a goddamn Bonnie and Clyde.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Hope not. Rather not be on the run and rather not die. Plus, we didn’t do anything illegal. If a casino finds out you are, you can’t be arrested; rather they ban you from that casino or ask you to leave. So,” she smirked, “I’m not a criminal.” They just stared at her. “We’re soulmates. Jack and I. War wounds, war hero, super hero, etc. And me, just someone with a brain too big to be true.”

            They stared at her.

            “If I win, let’s make this bet into a triple,” she smirked, winking. Then she got up and went to check on her patients.     

-

1100

Y/N was back to sitting at the nurses’ station after checking in with her patients, administering meds, taking orders and being her normal nurse self. Dana was talking to her about her daughters. Princess asked to put the hijack of the ambulance on TV, which Dana allowed, earning a light chuckle from Y/N.

            “Have you thought of names?” Dana asked as she checked her tablet.

            Y/N glanced up. “Names?” she repeated.

            “For fetus,” Dana nudged, looking over to the younger nurse. Y/N stared at her for a moment trying to register if she heard Dana correctly.

            “Dana, I just found out yesterday,” Y/N replied. “I was told I could never get pregnant. No, I don’t have names.” She didn’t mean to be rude, but it seemed like Dana and Robby were more excited about this than Y/N. However, Y/N knew her body and knew not to have her hopes up. However, the way Dana looked over to her, she caved. “I’ve always loved Arlo for a boy or Otis. Charlotte for a girl. I’ve always loved the name Charlotte. So many nicknames like Lottie, Charlie, Harley,” Y/N mumbled.

            Dana nodded. “Charlotte is pretty. Royalty name,” she replied. “Why are your names so British-based?” she chuckled, smirking.

            Y/N shrugged. “I don’t know. I like regal names, but not something basic. Fuck, my boyfriend’s name is Jack…so unoriginal…so American. I need to be creative. I want something different, something new, but not wild or strange.”

            Dana nodded. “Fair.” However, their conversation was soon ended when Santos came up.

            “Got a second?” she asked, glancing between the two of them. She was jittery.

            Y/N raised a brow. “Sure.”

            “It’s never a second, but shoot,” Dana replied, looking at the intern. “Did you two hash it out?” she asked, looking over at Y/N.

            Y/N smiled at the intern. “We’re right. All good. Just miscommunication,” she said, looking at Santos, who glanced at her before going back to Dana.

            “Uh, yeah,” she muttered. “Anyway, I think there was an issue with a vial of lorazepam used on our last patient, and it should be reported to the drug manufacturer.”

            Y/N raised her brow, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back in the chair. “What kind of issue?” she asked, curious.

            Santos glanced to Y/N before going back to Dana. “The cap was really hard to take off, almost like it was super-sealed shut. I’m worried it could be a bigger issue.” The way she glanced at Y/N answered her question but refused to make eye contact, rather looking at the charge nurse instead.

            “Like?” Dana asked, raising a brow.

            “Like maybe the temperature wasn’t properly controlled during transportation and the seal on the vial melted shut, which could mean the medication is compromised.”

            Y/N slowly nodded. “I doubt that. When transporting medications there is a lot of regulations…rules to follow to ensure that the medication stays at the proper temperature. Additionally, it’s not summer, so the outside heat won’t affect it,” she said with a shrug and her brows furrowed.

            Dana glanced at her partner in crime, nodding in agreement with her. “True,” she said. “Are there any other vials affected?”

            “Uh, just this one,” Santos replied, holding up the vial of benzodiazepine.

            The way Dana stared at the intern, unimpressed mostly but bothered that she would bring something up like this when the chance of it happening was slim. “Ok,” she replied, tone short. “Check the manufacturer’s website, see if there’s been a recall of the lot number.” Then she glanced back down to her work.

            “Um, what if this is the first irregular vial?” Santos added.

            “Then hold on to the vial in case there are any other issues,” Dana said, hands on her hips.

            Just then, a loud voice was heard. Langdon, who spotted Jake, Robby’s basically step-son walked into the ER. Y/N turned the chair to see the young boy, swaggering in like he owned the place. A smile came to her face.

“Jake the Snake! It’s 11 A.M. aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Dana asked, jumping into parent mode as Jake hugged Langdon before walking to Dana.

“Mom let me ditch for Pittfest,” Jake replied, hugging Dana.

Y/N got up, walking over to the boy.

“How’s your mama?” Dana asked, engulfing him.

“Oh, she’s restoring some house in Squirrel Hill, so you know, she’s pretty busy.”

Just then, Jake’s eyes landed on Y/N. “Hey, resident genius,” he grinned as she hugged him.

“Hey, troublemaker,” she hummed back, giving him a short but loving hug. “How’s school? Math fucking you still?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Always, but Beck has been great with the tutoring,” Jake replied. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime. I would do it, but you know me, stuck here day and night,” she hummed back, winking.

“Are you looking for Robby?” Langdon asked, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, he’s got our festival passes,” Jake replied.

“Oh, you going together?” Langdon asked.

“We were supposed to, but, you know, I decided to go with a friend,” Jake replied, trying to be casual, but Dana and Y/N noticed the blush on his cheeks and the light smirk.

“Who’s the girl? What’s her name?” Y/N asked, nudging him. “Tell me about her…” she edged on, winking.

Jake, who became flustered, looked between Dana and Y/N. Not embarrassed, but face written with smitten love.

“Leah,” he muttered, voice low, shy but smirking at the same time.

“Ok, ok, ok, ok…don’t hold out on us,” Dana hummed as Langdon started to bug him.

“We need details. Where’d you meet? How long have you been together?” Dana asked, trying to get information.

“We met at junior lifeguards this summer. And we’ve been dating for two months. Yeah, she’s pretty great,” Jake said, smiling like a fool. The three of them stared at the teenager, smirking.

            Young love.

            “That’s sweet. I’m gonna go find Robby, let him know you’re here,” Dana replied.

            “Young love. Remember young love, Dana?” Y/N hummed looking over to the blonde.

            “Boy, do I ever,” Dana hummed, chuckling as she walked away to go find Robby.

            Y/N smirked, patting Jake on the back before walking off as well.

-

Y/N heard her name called and she glanced up from charting to see Robby staring at her. He beckoned her over with his hands.

            “Got a post-tonsillectomy haemorrhage,” Robby replied as she grabbed gloves.

            “Ooo, messy…bloody, my favourite,” she hummed as she came over.

            Robby shook his head, and a chuckle came from him. “Nebulised TXA, quick as you can.”

            Y/N nodded as Whitaker came over, wearing morgue-coloured scrubs. She glanced over and rose a brow. “Downgraded?” she joked, smirking.

            “This was all that was left,” he replied and Y/N chuckled, shaking her head as she grabbed onto the gurney and wheeled into trauma room two. Robby was speaking behind her to Whitaker, asking if he was up to it.

            Once in the room, they got to work, transferring the patient from the gurney to a medical bed in the room. Y/N instantly grabbed the device that administers TXA and told the patient to breathe through it.

            “Take long, slow, deep breaths on that,” Robby said. “The TXA is gonna help your blood clot.”

            “Any medical problems?” Whitaker asked, writing down notes.

            “No, just a ton of strep. That’s why I had the surgery,” the patient said.

            “You take aspirin? Any other medications?” Whitaker continued to ask.

            Y/N was working on getting basic labs and an IV in.

            “Lungs are clear bilaterally, no stridor,” Robby said, stethoscope in hand as he pressed it to the patient’s chest.

            “Ok, sure. Do you feel like throwing up? Any pain your belly?” Whitaker continued to ask as they all worked.

            “No.”

            “Labs?” Robby asked, adjusting a light.

            “Uh, CBC, BMP, maybe coags?” Whitaker muttered.

            “I would add a type and screen, just in case,” Y/N replied, working on the patient.

            “Agreed,” Robby said.

            “Good stats at 98%. BP is 115 over 80,” Y/N announced, glancing over to the monitor.

            “Ok, good,” Robby said. “Four by four on ring forceps. Let’s take a look.” He handed over a pair of forceps to Whitaker.

            “Ok,” Whitaker mumbled. “Head back, open wide for me.”

            They inserted a device, checking for active bleeding, which was negative, however, there was some white and dark brown residue in his mouth where the tonsils used to be.

            “That’s good. That’s a fibrinous clot. That means the TXA is working,” Y/N replied, faster than Robby could respond.

            Robby looked over at Y/N, chuckling and shaking his head. They all knew she was a nurse, but had the knowledge like a doctor.

            “Parents on their way?” Robby asked.

            Y/N handed the patient the device that was administering TXA again. “Keep breathing this in,” she said.

            “They’re in Baltimore for a wedding,” the patient said. “I didn’t want to bother them.”

            “Trust me, they’re your parents, and you’re in the emergency room. It is never a bother. Write their numbers down, and I will call them.” Robby then looked over to Whitaker. “Call Head and Neck. Stay with him until they get here, ok?

            Then he was gone.

            Y/N continued working on the patient with Whitaker.

            However, once the patient was stabilised, Y/N left. Minutes later, Whitaker was screaming, coming out of the trauma room, asking for help. Instantly, she was on her feet, grabbing gloves again and running over.

            “It’s a post-tonsillectomy haemorrhage,” Whitaker said as a team came in. Langdon, the senior resident, jumped in as Y/N went to grab the suction device.

            “Uh, Yankauer and sponge stick,” Langdon called out.

            “He was stable. Then it just opened,” Whitaker stated, panic in his tone.

            “Call the blood bank,” Langdon called out. “Two units, whole blood. Get a second line.”

            Instantly, they all got to work. Quick moves, haste motives, they needed to stabilise this patient. Already, too many people have died today.

            “Head and neck wouldn’t come down to see him,” Whitaker explained.

            “Assholes,” Langdon muttered.

            “Tachy to 120. His sats are down to 90%,” Y/N called out.

            “Ok, get a high-flow nasal cannula, 100 of ketamine. Set up the GlideScope,” Langdon demanded. “Y/N, hold suction!”

            Y/N halted.

            “I’m going try for direct pressure,” Langdon explained, holding forceps and gauze, placing them in the patient’s throat. “If Head and Neck still won’t come down, call Garcia.”

            “You’re good. You’re good,” Whitaker repeated, looking at the patient in the eyes and muttering the silent reassurance.

            Robby came in as they worked. “What happened?”

            Langdon looked up to see his attending. “Bleeder opened up. Ketamine on board to intubate.”

            Robby rushed to the side.

            “Sats holding 97,” Y/N said, looking over to Robby and Langdon.

            “Can you get an airway?” Robby asked, leaning into Langdon.

            “Come on,” Langdon muttered. “Keep pressure on the scab.”

            Y/N continued to work around them, adrenaline kicking in and nothing else mattered that moment. However, the monitor continued to beep rapidly.

            “Nothing but blood,” Langdon muttered, looking over to the screen where the camera was set up for intubation. “Can’t see the cords.”

            “Sats 94,” Y/N called out.

            Just then, Garcia walked in, coming over to the side.

            “Not sure we have room for the tub with the sponge stick,” Langdon explained.

            “If I pull out, there’s going to be even more blood,” Whitaker explained.

            “Doesn’t look like you secured that airway,” Garcia jested.

            “He’s working on it,” Robby fired back.

            “Open a crike tray and prep the neck,” Garcia said.

            Y/N instantly began to gather supplies for a crike.

            “Y/N, hold on, I’m going in blind with a bougie,” Langdon called out. “I might be able to feel the tracheal rings.”

            Y/N halted, holding the supplies in her hand, looking at the scene.

            “And I might have a three-way with Madonna,” Garcia quipped. “Move.”

            “Not happening,” Langdon fired back.

            “Pressure.”

            “Make room for the grown-ups,” Garcia stated, pushing her way in.

            They continued to work, and Robby looked up to Y/N, seeing if she had any ideas. He shook his head, and instantly she froze for a moment, thinking hard. Closing her eyes, her brain fired, trying to retrieve information. Things she read, learnt, etc. Usually, she could recite knowledge in seconds, but something hit her now.

            “Retrograde intubation,” she whispered, and Robby heard her clear.

            Robby nodded. “Yeah, let’s try it.”

            “A what?” Garcia asked, confused.

            “There’s no obstruction. We just can’t see what we’re doing. So, we take a needle, and we cut it in the cricothyroid. We run a guide wire up and out of the mouth, and we slide the ET tube over the wire,” Robby said, grabbing supplies with Y/N. Both are working like a well-oiled machine.

            “Never seen one before.”

            “Sats 90,” Y/N called out. “It’s an alternative and considered rare when it comes to modern medicine,” she explained. “But we need to do it.”

            “No time to play MacGyver with this kid,” Garcia added. “Time to crike.”

            Robby looked over to Garcia. “It’ll be quick,” he hummed with a smile.

            “You got one shot, and then I cut,” Garcia replied, serious.

            Robby looked to Y/N. “Know what to do?” he asked, smirking.

            “Always,” she hummed.

            They got to work. Robby accessing the next with the syringe before looking over to Y/N. “Guide wire.”

            She nodded, handing it to him. She watched him insert it, carefully, but like a professional, as if this was just habit.

            “Let me know if you start to feel it up top,” Robby said, watching carefully his movements.

            Y/N nodded. “Nothing,” she whispered. “More suction,” she said, looking over to Whitaker.

            “I’m trying,” Whitaker muttered.

            “Still can’t find it,” Y/N replied.

            “Why are you letting a nurse help perform such a complicated procedure?” Garcia asked, raising a brow.

            “Because she is the best of the best and knows a lot more than most people,” Robby replied. “If you worked in the ER, you’d know.” He then chuckled. “She has an IQ of 170–“

            “178,” Y/N replied.

            “Indeed and a eidetic memory,” he said.

            “Doesn’t mean she can preform such a complicated procedure,” Garcia fired back.

            Y/N glanced over to the surgical resident. “An MD doesn’t always mean you’re the best at performing medicine,” she snapped. “Sometimes us average folk can preform medicine too.”

            “Average folk? You call yourself an average folk?” Langdon quipped, shaking his head with a smirk. “Now you’re making me feel like shit.”

            “Enough,” Robby barked quickly.

            “Keep going, Robby,” Y/N whispered.

            “Sats down to 89,” Langdon said now, taking Y/N’s spot.

            “This is not working,” Garcia stated.

            “Give us a second,” Y/N replied a little too harshly.

            “Until he arrests?” Garcia continued to bug.

            “Oh my God, I’m gonna lose another patient,” Whitaker mumbled.

            “Shut up, Whitaker. Let’s get on this,” Robby snapped at him lowly.

            “Sats down to 87,” Langdon said now.

            ��Redirect the wire, Robby,” Y/N suggested. “Go at a different angle.”

            “Sats still dropping, 86,” Langdon said, voice a little bit more rushed.

            “Robby, I believe in you,” Y/N whispered. “You’re the cowboy, and it isn’t your first rodeo,” she whispered.

            A few more seconds went by as they tried their best to guide the wire.

            “Sats at 84,” Langdon said now. “We need to bag him.”

            “Christ,” Y/N muttered. “Fucking Christ. Come on.”

            “I’m sanctioning like crazy,” Whitaker said.

            “Good job, Whitaker. What a good boy,” she replied, as she focused what’s on hand. “Sorry, that was a little rude. Treating you like one of my dogs,” she muttered. “Excuse my behaviour.”

            Whitaker looked at her, but she was focused on the task at hand. “Um, it’s fine.”

            Garcia was having enough. “Ok, we’re done playing doctor,” she bit. “Lose the wire. I’m criking this kid,” she barked the orders.

            “Y/N, we tried, I’m sorry, but–“

            “Shut the fuck up everyone,” Y/N bellowed. “Just shut the fuck up.”

            Robby looked at her. “Y/N,” he tried. “We got–“

            “Got it!” she hollered. “I got it!” Pulling the wire out through the mouth, smiling.

            “You still don’t have an airway,” Garcia explained, brows furrowing.

            “Y/N, keep the laryngoscope in place so the tube passes easily,” Robby whispered to her. Then looked up to grab more supplies. “Pass the T, the T tube over the wire.”

            “Yup,” she whispered.

            “Hand on to that wire,” Robby stated as he worked alongside her. “Do not let go of that wire.”

            “Affirmative,” she whispered.

            Robby nodded. “I’m going to give you a little slack so you can get past the cords,” Robby said as she continued to work. “Yeah, yeah, feel you at the trachea.”

Y/N nodded, looking at her work for a second, though her hands were in this kid’s mouth. “25 centimetres at the lips,” she said.

“That ought to do it. Pull the wire, bag him,” Robby commanded.

Y/N nodded, following suit, pulling the wire out.

“Balloons up,” Langdon muttered.

Y/N grabbed the bag, bagging the patient.

“Yellow on CO2. That’s good,” Whitaker muttered, smiling.

“That is very good,” Robby replied. He grabbed his stethoscope and checked the breathing pattern of the patient. “Good breath sounds bilaterally.”

“Sats coming up,” Y/N said, looking at the monitor as Langdon took over. “90…92…”

“Guess you’re gonna have to save that scalpel for another day,” Langdon replied, smirking.

“You guys got lucky,” Garcia replied before looking over to Robby. “Though letting a nurse preform a doctor’s duty–“

Y/N looked at her. “I know how to intubate. I was trained in nursing school on how to intubate,” she barked back.

“Not in a complex case like this,” Garcia argued back.

Y/N snickered and shook her head. “What’s the difference between being taught it in nursing school the normal way, compared to an attending doctor teaching you the complex way. Last time I checked, medical students, interns and residents learn from attendings as well. It’s all education. Patient isn’t dead and I saved a slash to his throat,” Y/N replied. “Skills, doll face. Skills,” Y/N smirked as she looked over to the surgeon. “Don’t underestimate nurses.”

It was amazing. She watched as Langdon and Whitaker took over with Jesse the other nurse. She stepped away. Holy shit, she preformed something, and it wasn’t a nurse’s duty. The adrenaline was serious, the flutter in her stomach was there, and a smile so grand, nothing could ruin her mood.

Y/N stepped out of the trauma room, heart still pounding in her chest, gloves and gown stained, hair falling out of the messy bun she had at the base of her neck. She pulled over the gown and gloves, throwing them in a biohazard bin and leaned on the wall next to the doors. She closed her eyes and exhaled like she was trying to release everything she was feeling.

This is why she did what she did. To help. To heal. To save lives. However, she was a doctor at that moment, not a nurse.

Robby followed her out a few seconds later. She didn’t have to look at him, knowing he was standing beside her, hands on his hips, that quiet little grin playing on his lips.

“Not bad,” he muttered.

Y/N smirked, opening her eyes. “Not bad?” she echoed, chuckling. “Yeah, it was grand. Thanks for trusting me.”

He turned slightly, facing her. “Jack taught you that?” he asked.

She looked at him before nodding. “Yeah. One night… a long time ago before we began being us. I think it was within my first or second year being a nurse. We’d had a really complex case, and he performed this. I was curious, questioned him about it and then he sat me down afterwards. Opened a textbook, pulled up videos and then set up a training dummy in an empty room. It’s just Jack being Jack, he taught me,” she replied. Then she shrugged. “Plus, I read about it when I was in nursing school. Well,” she chuckled, “we weren’t taught it. I was just bored one night in the summer before my practicum and decided to do a deep dive into complex medical care for the ER.”

Robby tilted his head as he listened, the corner of his mouth twitching into something half fond, half impressed. “You did a deep dive into emergency airway procedures for fun?”

Y/N smirked. “Hey, I was single, never went out, couldn’t afford a Netflix subscription, so I had to entertain myself somehow. Medical journals are free because I was in university, and YouTube exists for the general public. I always wanted to be in the ER. Needed to rock the boots off you ER cowboys when I eventually came,” she hummed, smirking.

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “You shock me constantly.”

Y/N shrugged. “I’m just abnormal. Quirky. Autistic. Fun.”

Robby’s brows furrowed. “You have ASD?” he asked.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, I actually just got diagnosed like a year or two ago. Level one, but yeah, autistic. Got my brother to get tested as well, and he has it too.” He nodded. Though he wasn’t shocked. “It’s not a secret, Robby,” she added. “I’m not purposely hiding it, if you think…”

Robby just shook his head, more in understanding than anything. “It doesn’t’ surprise me,” he replied eventually. “Just never thought about it,” he mumbled.

Y/N shrugged. “Well, like you say a lot, I keep you on your toes and constantly surprise you.” Then smiled. “Helps my reputation as the terrifying, cut throat, blunt, knowledge nurse who’s incredibly sexy,” she hummed, winking.

“And the one who suggests the med students to write death letters–“

“Hey! I can quote research on that!” she hollered, holding her hands up. “Plus, Jack taught me that. So, it’s not the sparkle that adds to my sparkly personality.”

Robby chuckled. They stood in silence for a beat, both caught in the residue of adrenaline and awe. Robby glanced at her again, that softness back in his gaze – the kind that only ever appeared when he was genuinely proud.

“You know, you were a doctor in there,” he said eventually. She looked up from looking down to her blood-stained sneakers. “Straight up. That wasn’t nursing. That was next-level clinical judgment and technical skill.”

She just nodded before shrugging, trying to play it cool. “I’m just good at learning and doing what I do.”

“No,” he replied. “You were good. Excellent. Terrific.”

She smirked. “Going soft on me, Cowboy? Or just flirting with me?”

He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. He placed his hands in his pockets and began to rock back and forth on his feet. “I’m going to ignore that,” he hummed, though they all knew he enjoyed her comments. “I am going to suggest something which I know you will swat away, but–“

She knew what he was going to say and instantly, she groaned, throwing her head back. “Don’t.”

“I think you should consider going to med school and becoming a doctor,” he finished his idea, looking at her. Y/N just scoffed. “Why didn’t you?”

Y/N looked back at her feet. “Because I couldn’t,” she said honestly.

He rose a brow. “Because?”             “I needed a good paying job, a quick education and something I loved,” she replied. “Nursing made sense.”

“What do you mean?” he continued to ask.

She met his eyes. “You know me–“

“I don’t know you as much as you think,” he interrupted. “I know what you let me know. I know you have a younger brother, and you’re distant with your mom. I know you love Jack with everything in you, but,” he paused, letting out a breath.

“But?” she asked, confused.

“He wants to marry you, you know?” he said. She raised a brow, confused. “But he’s scared to because he knows that you’re scared of things being too much.”

Y/N let out a loud sigh. “He can marry me. I just don’t want it to be a big deal,” she eventually said. “I also don’t want to,” she sighed, licking her bottom lip. “He lost his last wife. I just don’t want to–“

“I know. But back to what I was saying, why didn’t you go to medical school?”

She stared at him for a beat. She trusted him. Everything about him. She loved him like a brother. “What has Jack told you?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing. Says its not his story,” he replied.

She nodded, smiling. What a good man. “Right,” she muttered, looking back down. “Like said, I need a quick degree so that I could get a job quickly, stable, excellent pay. Then there’s my personal needs that I needed something different everyday and I needed something that challenged me.”

“So, nursing?”

She nodded. “I had a brother to raise,” she said. “I became his legal guardian at nineteen. I took care of him. I’m not from money. My childhood was a mess. Mom’s an addict. My dad…I didn’t know him till I was seventeen. Beck’s dad is gone. We believe he’s in prison. I couldn’t let my brother live that life. Then when I graduated at twenty-two, I worked my ass off to give him the life he deserved. Fuck, I worked my ass off in nursing school to provide for him. I worked at the hospital as a mental health worker. My life hasn’t been easy. Fuck, it’s finally easy now and I deserve that,” she whispered.

Robby stood there, quiet for a long moment, the hallway still around them except for the distant hum of machines and the low murmur of voices. For once, no screams. He stared at her. Then nodded slowly. He knew her. He knew her a lot more than she thought, maybe not fact-wise, but behaviour-wise.

“You do deserve it,” he said. “Every inch of what you’ve created for yourself, you’ve deserved. But I think you do deserve more.”

Y/N pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek and nodded, exhaling. “I know,” she whispered, looking up to the Gods above as tears came to her eyes. “I’m praying to the science Gods for this baby, Robby,” she whispered. “But I’m letting life take its course,” she looked back at him, smiling. “Don’t push me to go to med school. For one, it doesn’t make sense if this baby does happen,” she whispered. “Two, I would scare Jack away with school me. Assignments, quizzes, labs, exams, etc. I’d be a stressed out like a motherfucker.” Robby chuckled. “Three, I’m thirty. I’m too old for that shit anyway. I’ll be forty when I’m done with school and residency.”

Robby stared at her. “I would hug you, but there are rumours about us,” he whispered. She rolled her eyes. “Come here,” he muttered, grabbing onto her arm and pulling her into a hug. His arms wrapped around her, comforting, warm and strong, holding her close. “You deserve this baby. No matter what,” he whispered into her ear. “But I’m offended if you think thirty is old, let alone forty. Do you know how old I am?”

She smiled, chuckling. “I’m fucking a forty-nine-year-old and I call him my old man,” she whispered, looking up to his eyes. “But you were my old man first before that one came and stole my heart,” Y/N whispered, smiling. “Now you’re just my cowboy.”

Robby exhaled through a smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes – an ache he masked too quickly. Robby loved her. He loved her within weeks of knowing her, but he never pushed himself to pursue that love. Jack stole her in two years, and both would never know the truth.

He pulled back enough to look at her, one hand still resting at her shoulder. Epitome of beauty, but the definition of genius. He stared at her. The way her cheeks had a light blush to them, bright eyes filled with life and hair long but cared for. She was everything he needed, but she was happy with another man. His brother from another mother. His best mate. Old rival. And he was happy that she was happy with him.

“Well,” he said softly, “I was a goner the way you rolled in the ER wearing what was it, turquoise and pink under shirt for your scrubs and told me off on how I was charting.” He chuckled. “What was the word you used?”

“Methodical,” she whispered. “I said you weren’t methodical with your charting.”

“Right,” he nodded. “You didn’t even work here yet. A practicum student. Cocky as hell–”

“Intelligent. Confident. There’s a difference.”

“Say all you want, woman,” he hummed, smirking as she gave him a mock glare. “Jack got to you first, but me, well, I’ll always be proud of you, Ace.”

She smiled, warm and full of depth. “I know,” she whispered. “You’ve always been in my corner and one of my greatest mates.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll always be here,” he replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Whether you’re a nurse, a doctor, or the woman who made me cry with a speech about grief in the supply closet once.’

Y/N looked at him, trying to remember before laughing. “Oh my God, I forgot about that. A long time ago. You were such a wreck.”

“I was going through a breakup!”

She nodded. “I’m good, though. Great therapist, but I prefer blood over tears,” she replied, winking. “Nurse over psychologist.”

“Cheers to that,” he hummed,

Then they stared at one another. “I’m not going to med school,” she whispered, glancing down. “Don’t try to get Jack to convince me…”

He chuckled. “No promises. But if you ever change your mind, I will write you a letter of recommendation so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’ll hold you to that if I do indeed get a midlife crisis,” she teased.

“Already got the dogs and the man. All you need is the convertible and the medical degree.”

She smirked. “I love my Bronco. But degree…mhmm we shall see. But I’m happy with just my vegetable garden and the ability to raise a baby.”

Robby’s face softened again. He wanted to reach out, cup her cheek and rub the tears that were welling under her eyes. She wasn’t a crier, but the hormones… He thought better than to do it. “You’ll be a great mom, Ace.”

“Thank you,” she muttered. “I hope so. Didn’t have the greatest person to look up to, but Jack’s mom…she’s amazing.”

He nodded. “You raised Beckett.”     

She scoffed. “Barely. Well, tried my best. I think he turned out ok.”

“Kid’s doing quantum physics,” Robby said with a raised brow. “He’s basically building the future–“

There conversation got short because Robby got called somewhere. He nodded, hummed his response before looking at her again. “I’m always in your corner,” he whispered.

“Likewise, Old Man,” she replied smirking.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t make me move you to triage,” he replied, smirking.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she barked back as he walked away.

-

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-

Hope you enjoyed. xoxo

Ava <3

[vinnyvamppp]

please give us the viltrumite reader 🥺👉👈

"I’ll Breed You Into Loyalty"

A/N: SO! There have been some drastic changes. You guys know I like to keep things in character, having Mark JUST meet an enemy and fuck them two seconds later didn't sit right. This is "The Uncharted Assignment." Reworked.

Synopsis: Lines blur between battle and bedroom, loyalty and lust, love and war. Mark has to face a question worse than betrayal: What if the only person who understands him is the one destined to destroy him?

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tention, Emotional Whiplash, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Fuckbuddies to???, Post Omni-Man Canon DIvergence, HEAVY Porn w Plot, “If you leave me, I’ll chase you” Energy, Hair Pulling, Accidental Choking, Mark Being Overwhelmed But TRYING, Breeding Kink, Powerplay, Overstim, Biting, Hate Sex, Post-Sex Guilt, Emotional Attachment.

"Why do I hate that I'm into you?"

Mark Grayson x Viltrumite!Fem!Reader

WC: 2.6k

You weren’t born to be seen.

You were bred in silence—on a deep-core training outpost orbiting a red dwarf. The Empire called it Caldera, where the most cunning of your kind were honed like blades—not to fight but to corrupt. No brute force. No grand displays. Just pressure, precision, and patience. You weren’t a soldier. You were a whisper wrapped in steel.

And when Omni-Man disappeared—defected, disgraced—Earth became the Empire’s bleeding wound. They sent you not to destroy it. They sent you to turn it in. More importantly… they sent you to turn him. Mark Grayson, the half-human, half-Viltrumite, who's entirely too stubborn for his own good. You were told he was unstable. Emotional. Susceptible to influence through connection.

You didn’t expect him to be… kind, funny, or infuriating. You didn’t expect to like him. That was mistake number one.

You arrived after Bulletproof disappeared—filed as MIA after a solo recon gone wrong in interdimensional space. There was nobody. No footage. Just static and red.

You weren’t directly responsible. Not… really. The Empire made sure someone else pulled that trigger. Your hands were clean. Clean enough for Cecil to greenlight your placement on the Guardians of the Globe. They needed strength, speed, control—and you delivered. No questions asked. You did everything right. Controlled your accent. Monitored your energy output. Let your victories look hard-won.

And Mark liked you. Too fast. Too easily. You trained together. Patrolled together. Laughed, sometimes. He teased you for never taking your coffee with sugar. You called him a "softhearted liability." He would walk you to your quarters after sparring in a sparking silence. Somewhere between the jabs and near-death experiences, it started to feel… easy. ... Comfortable. That was mistake number two.

The storm had rolled in fast. Static buzzed over the Guardian comms, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the crack of bone under your knuckles. You slammed the alien’s face into the rooftop again—cratered it. His blood was dark purple, sticky on your palm. "Stop!" Mark’s voice cut through the rain. You didn’t, no, not until the alien stopped twitching.

You stood, chest heaving. Blood. Rain. Guilt—hushed beneath something sharper, colder. He landed behind you with a wet slap of boots on concrete. "He was already down," he said. "He wasn’t moving."

"He was still breathing," you replied, voice flat. "That doesn’t mean you kill him!" You turned. His eyes—wide, hurt, angry—searched your face like he didn’t recognize it. Maybe he didn’t. You didn’t even know if you did. "He would’ve killed you," you said.

"You don’t know that." You stepped closer, now inches from him. "I do." There was something in your tone—something too sure and cold. His jaw clenched. “That’s not how we do things.” You don't respond. You can't. You’re staring down at the crater you left behind—purple blood pooling in the cracks—and for a moment, you feel the leash slipping. The one you’ve held tight since arrival. The one that tells you to pretend to be human… almost for his sake.

We. The word hung in the air, heavier than the storm.

You held his gaze, and let a bit of the mask crack. “Maybe I’m not like the rest of you.” Something was menacing in your delivery. Or even the way a faint smirk fought the edges of your lips as you basked in his confused and furious expression. And then you left him, soaked in the rain and conflicted. That was mistake number three. This was getting tiring. Time to pivot your strategy.

Guardians Headquarters, it was late. You’re in the med bay. Minimal wounds, just some surface bruising. You don’t bother dressing them, you don’t need to. But routine is good, it keeps your hands busy while your thoughts spiral.

He slams the door open. “What the hell was that tonight?” You don’t flinch. He’s pacing already, wet hair matted to his forehead. Eyes red, not from crying, but from rage. His voice cracks just enough to sting. “You don’t just kill people, no matter what you’ve been through.”

“I saved your life.”

“You executed someone on a rooftop!”

Silence...

He’s panting like he just finished a sprint. You watch him. Carefully. Like you were trained to. Like he’s a variable—something dangerous. “Why?” he finally asks, voice lower now. “Why do you do things like that?”

You let out a breath, slow, measured, despite the circumstances. This is the moment. The file called for phased exposure. Let the truth out slowly. But you’re too tired to lie right now. Too tired to lie to yourself like you wouldn’t slaughter everyone here given their retaliation. Just... rip off the band-aid. So you look him in the eyes. “Because I’m not human, Mark.” He stiffens.

“...What?”

“I’m a Viltrumite.”

The room seems to suck in on itself. The weight of respective heritages is palpable. Comms static hums in the background like a heartbeat, its sound causing your ears to ring. He doesn’t speak but rather stares. “They sent me here after your father left,” you say. “To finish what he couldn’t. Not by force. By logic, persuasion, and connection. Through you.” Your eyes scrutinized his very being, anticipating an outburst… one that never came.

“You used me?” His voice is quiet now, almost too quiet. You nod. “At first.” He turns away from you like looking at you physically hurts him. “Why tell me now?”

“Because I think you’re smart enough to understand the truth. Earth is tearing itself apart. You feel it too. You’ve always felt it.”

“You sound just like him.”

“He was right about the outcome,” you snap. “Not the method. We can do better. You and I—we could shape something that lasts. Together.” He whirls around, gaze narrowing. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t even know who you are right now!”

“Then give me a child.” Silence. Heavy. Like gravity has doubled in the room. “What the hell did you just say?” You step toward him, slowly. Not with threat, but promise. “If you won’t take your place, give me someone who will. I’ll raise them the way you should’ve been raised. Strong. Focused. Loyal to the cause.”

You don’t mean it. Not entirely, anyway. But it’s the only way you know how to force a decision. To make him feel something besides hate. And then—like you asked for it—he grabs your arm. “You don’t get to manipulate me like that.”

“Then stop me.”

And he kisses you. It’s angry, teeth clashing, utterly control-less, and chaotic. The kind of kiss that means nothing and everything. The kind you’ll regret later but crave more of anyway. And when he pulls away, breath ragged, you’re both trembling for different reasons.

“You don’t want to be like him,” you whisper. “Then stop pushing me,” he fires back. The silence that follows isn’t peace. It’s war in slow motion.

“You were my friend,” he says now, voice hoarse. “You acted like you were my friend.”

“It wasn’t an act.”

“Then what was it?” His voice breaks again. “What were you doing? Setting me up? Studying me?”

“Understanding you,” you say quietly. “Trying to see if you were salvageable.” He flinches. Your expression doesn’t change. That hurts more. “I hate this,” he says. “Then walk away.” He looks at you, and everything in his face says he wants to. That he should. That he knows what happens if he doesn’t. His voice cracks. “I hate that you still make sense to me,” he says. “Even after everything.”

“You hate that I remind you of what you are.”

“No,” he says, stepping in. “I hate that part of me wants to believe you. That part of me still—"

“Still what?”

“Still wants you.”

There it is. The words he swore he’d never say. The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed. “Say it again,” you whisper. He’s shaking his head. “Say it.” His brows knit upwards. “I want you,” he says, too quickly. Too honest. “And I hate that I do. I hate you for doing this to me.” You step forward. "Then punish me."

That stuns him, and he stares at you, breathing growing shallow. “You think this is a game?”

“I think you want to know what it’s like to stop pretending. Just once.” He grabs your wrist and you let him, but he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t twist—just holds it, trembling. “I could never trust you again.”

“I don’t want your trust.”

“Then what do you want?” You lean in—lips a breath away from his, eyes sharp and conflicted. “Take a wild guess, Grayson.”

And then he kisses you again. Not violently this time. Not to punish. But like he’s drowning in everything he’s tried to suppress—grief, lust, confusion, the hollow ache of missing something that never really belonged to him in the first place. He spent months undoing his father's ruin, just for his efforts to unravel like silk.

Your mouth opens beneath his, heat pouring between you like fire through the fractured glass. His grip on your wrist tightens— again, just enough to tell you he’s trying to keep control. But he's failing and fast.

You push him. He stumbles back, and hits the wall with a grunt, but doesn’t fall. His eyes burn as you follow, shoulders squared, every inch of you predatory. “You always this easy to provoke?” you whisper. “I told you to stop talking,” he mutters and grabs your face like he’s trying to shut you up with his mouth again.

You let him. His hands caging you in, every action like a curse.

He kisses like he fights—too emotional. Too much heart. You bite his lip, hard enough to taste copper, and he groans into your mouth. That same sound you’ve heard in battle. That same frustration. That same need. He couldn’t stop even if he tried, his emotions sharp like a blade that pierced him with every kiss. 

Your hand slides to the back of his costume, unzipping it as it drips down his torso. Dragging your nails down the curve of his ribs, he gasps. You feel his body flinch, but not in fear. In anticipation. “You want to hate me?” you whisper against his throat. “Then earn it.” He growls. Actually growls. “You don’t get to control everything.”

“Try and stop me.” And suddenly you’re moving again—he’s lifting you like you weigh nothing, slamming your back against the wall. You grin, teeth bared. “There’s the Viltrumite,” you murmur. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

He drops you—not gently—onto the nearby cot, climbing over you, breathing hard, eyes wild. You wrap your legs around his hips without hesitation. The friction is instant, and delicious as he desperately bucks into your clothed sex.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he yanks your suit down to your waist, exposing your skin to air and heat and the sting of too much touch at once. His fingers immediately paw at exposed flesh and the swell of your breasts. You strip him fast, palms dragging down over his chest, and his stomach, until he gasps when you grip him.

He’s hard already. Of course, he is. Your fingers slither down his pelvis, tantalizing, almost. Digits firmly wrapping around his cock— palm warm enough to make him twitch.

His tip is flushed, deeper in color, and sensitive enough that he contracts when you apply just a little pressure. He's long. Uncut. There's something intimate about it. The way his foreskin shifts when you stroke him— tight, smooth, responsive— makes it easy to tease, and even easier to control as his abs trembled from the sensation. You open your mouth to speak, and he silences you. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

His gaze lowers to where your moist, velvety cunt beckoned him. A sanctuary of pure, unadulterated bliss. Its arousal nearly glistening enough to see his reflection. And once he finally gets a taste, rubbing the head against your labia… He’s in shambles as he hurriedly presses into you.

You cry out—not in pain, not even surprise—It's because he’s thick. It stretches you open with a slow, delicious ache, the kind that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with a low, desperate moan.

You feel every vein, every pulse of heat. When he thrusts, it’s like being filled to your limit AND then some. Perfectly overwhelming. The fact that you’re both half-feral and half-clinging to each other like this was inevitable. His hips rear back— lips pursed together as shaky breaths were all he could muster through restraint. Dragging through gummy, creamy walls—

He thrusts hard. Deep. Controlled, at first. But it doesn’t last, never does. You meet him thrust for thrust, dragging your nails down his back, pulling him in harder. You bite his shoulder, and he whimpers— teeth gritted— sweat sliding down his temple.

He pummels harder, faster, fingers curling tighter in your hair. When he pulls, your head tips back, exposing your throat—and he bites you there. You gasp, ridges clenching around him, and that nearly ends him. “God, you’re insane,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. 

“So are you. You just wear it better.” Your hand drifts between you, finding the right rhythm amongst your clit— clamping in tandem with the tight circles. Then your tongue comes to caress the shell of his ear before nipping it. He gasps again—shudders, actually—and you smirk. “Sensitive?” you tease, pumping slowly just to watch his face twist. “You’re not gonna win this.”

“I already have.” You roll your hips just right and he chokes on a curse—his body stuttering. You squeeze him tighter, feel the way his breath hitched. He’s close.

You whisper, “Come on then, Mark. Show me how much you hate me.” And he sure does. His hands locked around your wrists, yanking them above your head as his hips thrust savagely into yours, but you still bucked up against him, and ground your teeth against a moan. Every movement was a battle. His strength against your will, your cunning against his need.

With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, hand in your hair, mouth crushed against your neck. He shakes as he spills inside you, his breath ragged, his moan caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief. But you’re still not done.

You flip him—actually, flip him—and he barely catches himself as you straddle his hips and sink back down. He grabs your thighs, trying to slow you, but you ride him with practiced ease. Raw. Overstimulated. And borderline masochistic. He stutters, trying to formulate a sentence. “You—”

“Me,” you finish for him. “You want me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

His head falls back onto the mattress, jaw slackening with groans that border on pain and pleasure. A salacious squelch echoes between you— his cock already creamy from cum and slick, coating your sex in his scent. The way his shape drags along your walls in just the right way to make your toes curl, hips roll, and back arch. Every grind, every stroke that presses deep and nudges that spot inside you that sends sparks flying.

"You like testing me, huh? Keep pushing, and I’ll show you what happens when I stop holding back." He groans, trying to save face. His muscles began aching to match your momentum. Hips pistoning upwards with the slightest swivel, tip threatening to kiss your cervix and then some.

His thrusts stutter, and his dick and balls throbbing as if about to spill again at any moment. Your fingers dig into his rippling abdomen. Shared growls and his barely coherent mumbles fill the gap of silence. "Give me your worst; I’ll give it back double." You grit as he attempts to regain control, maintaining what little is left of his dignity.

In one sharp buck of his hips, he throws you off rhythm. You gasp, hand slipping off him. He grabs your waist, flips you again, and slams you down onto the mattress, his face inches from yours. He grinds deep, hips rolling with vicious intent, pushing deeper than before—almost too much—but never enough. A crack splintered the wall as the cot rocked, metal bending and crumbling debris falling on deaf ears.

Your noses brush and your eyes lock. His breathing's ragged. He kisses you softly—just once—before his hips slam into you again, knocking the breath from your lungs. He grinds against your ass before slamming back into you, hands gripping your hips, your waist, and your throat again when you try to rise up. “Stay down,” he hisses. “Let me feel you.”

"Is this the part where I beg you not to stop?" You’d never say it out loud, but it’s the best you’ve ever had. And he doesn’t even know it. You can't tell if this is the best or worst decision you've made in your life. "You’re so good at pretending you don’t care. Let’s see how long that lasts." He mumbles.

"Tell yourself you're in control. It won’t save you. Every time you touch me, you forget who the real threat is."

Every thrust dragged a strangled moan from his kiss-bitten lips. You pushed back against him, chasing his hips with every drag— daring him to lose control before you did. He was frantic. His conflicted gaze fixed upon you as his thrusts grew ragged. There was no rhythm; it was his senses being overwhelmed by pleasure.

You two moved harmoniously, but hatred colored every kiss, bite, and thrust, chasing the definitions your relationship had. It was wanting. It was revenge. It was need. It was loving. It was a simmering war. And it terrified him.

Your orgasm hits harder than you expect. It's fast and vision-blurring, your whole body clenching around him, your back bowing, a broken moan ripping from your throat as you ride it out. Your cunt contracts shivers rippling down your spine with each pulse. You scream for him. For everything he makes you feel. For everything you can’t stop craving.

“Mark—oh—fuck—Mark—”

He’s not far behind. You feel him losing rhythm, losing control, and his grip is tight. His warm lips trailed down your nape, your spine, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach. His thrusts weren’t trying to dominate you anymore; they were begging you to stay. To change your mind.

“Can I—” he asks, unable to control it the first time. "Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Please."

“Inside,” you whisper. “I want to feel it again.”

He chokes on your name as he erupts into you—deep, rasped, utterly broken. His final sigh was reminiscent of a cry, his body locking up on him. Beaded sweat from his forehead dampening your back, as he loses his fucking mind. The padded surface beneath you dips as his toes curl into the mattress.

He watches, stunned. Almost disappointed in himself as cum sloppily drizzles from your cunt. He collapses on top of you; muscled bodies coated in a sheen that mixes with his, both of you panting in silence.

And this happens. Again. And again. And again.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs.

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it.”

“Then stop coming back.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand finds yours in the sheets. He squeezes once. Then let's go.

The worst part wasn’t the way he touched you, like he hated you. It was the way he touched you, like he loved you anyway.

He would pretend this world and you aren't breaking him. And you would forever be curious as to why he won't let it. Sooner or later, fate would come and ruin what could’ve been. His heart had danced with yours, and even then, anger filled it. So why… why does he still lie beside you? Why does it feel as though no battle has been won?

God, you’re insufferable.

A/N: There are some aspects similar to the old draft. (It sounded so formal LMFAO, the way I wrote when just starting was…. Hm.) anyway, hope the five people who requested this, enjoyed.

[milla-frenchy]

Friend zone

3k4 | Tim Rockford x fem reader | ao3 | Masterlist

Summary: an event leads your best friend to reveal a secret he's been keeping from you for years, and you finally find what you've been searching for Warnings: 18+ mdni. best friends to lovers, soft!Tim, a few pussy and dick pronouns, praise kink, size kink, Tim can lift reader, intimacy, closeness, feelings, fingering, oral (m/f), piv, creampie. No age specified

a/n: This is probably one of my softest fics, but I guess I needed it this week? this is written for @guiltyasdave and @sizzlingcloudmentality ‘s "writing through the seasons" challenge (masterlist) I got Tim/fall with the prompt "Come on, a few kisses won't ruin our friendship" and a beautiful mood board you can see at the end of the fic ❤️ thank you so much for this challenge 🙏❤️ thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing me and for helping me when I was stuck with this fic 😘🫶 If you wanna read another “Timmy” fic, go check Tiny Timy @604to647 and The Rockford Portfolio I love these two 🥰🥰 dividers @/saradika-graphics 🙏

Tim was the epitome of reliability. Responsible, mature, always the designated driver for your group of friends when you were spending a night at a bar, always ready to hold your hair when you were throwing up from too much alcohol, always there for you when you were crying in his arms after another random asshole broke your heart.

A pure green flag.

You… you were a bee, fluttering from flower to flower, drawn to the carnivorous ones. The bigger red flags the men were, the faster you flew towards them. Never learning from your mistakes, chasing something they couldn’t inherently offer you, you dried your tears on Tim’s shoulder, while he would slowly stroke the back of your neck, holding you against him, telling you they didn't deserve you. 

Then you went back to pollinating.

So when he called you that night, his voice slightly wavering and tinged with alcohol, you rushed over to his place. It wasn't like him to drink too much.

You used the key he had given you long ago to open his apartment, just like he had the key to yours, and went straight to his bedroom.

He was lying on his bed, a glass and a half empty bottle of whiskey sat on his nightstand. You put your jacket on a chair in the corner, settled down next to him and leaned against the headboard. You told him softly to rest his head on your stomach and brushed his curls. He mumbled a string of words and you listened to each one of them, even if you didn’t understand what he was saying, until he stopped talking and sighed. 

“I’m gonna get you some water, ok?” 

You held the glass while he drank, then undressed him, taking off his shoes, the suit jacket, the shirt, his pants and socks, so that he would be more comfortable sleeping.

You stayed with him all night, checking on him a few times. 

When he woke up, you were making breakfast wearing one of his t-shirts, since you had left your apartment in a hurry the evening before, forgetting to grab some of your stuff.

You handed him a cup of coffee and sipped from  your own mug, looking at him as he sat down on the kitchen’s stool and placed his cup on the counter. He had put on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair was disheveled.

“You’re ok?” you asked.

“Yeah…” He took a sip of coffee and put the mug down, his gaze lost in the brown liquid.

It wasn’t like him, but you didn't want to rush him, and you knew he'd talk when he was ready.

“I made scrambled eggs and toast, you want some?”

He nodded and you both ate in silence. 

“See? I can do better than burnt toast sometimes. Despite your doubts, which are very hurtful by the way."

You wanted to lighten his mood, lift the weight off his shoulders, whatever the cause. He smiled, and it eased your heart a little. It was a start.

“Thank you for the breakfast, sweetheart. Didn’t have to.”

“ ‘course I did. You need to evaporate all that alcohol…” you told him, raising your eyebrows. Playing the role that had been his so far. Maybe a little harsher than him.

“I know what you’re doing,” he smiled.

“Oh really? And what am I doing, Detective?”

“Playing my usual part. You like it?”

It made you chuckle, until you realized how much you'd been relying on him all these years. The stress you must have put him under. 

“You’re gonna have to tell me what happened, you know. Otherwise, I'll still be here at noon, and I'm not promising anything for lunch with my cooking skills.”

You expected him to laugh, but he frowned and withdrew, his shoulders hunching inward. 

“Shit, Timmy, what’s going on, you’re scaring me,” you said as you got up from your stool and placed your hand on his shoulder.

You called him Timmy in two situations. When you were drunk, or when things were really serious. It always made him laugh, using that ridiculous nickname in difficult moments. He knew that calling him like that had always been a way for you to calm down, and when he looked up at you with his sad brown puppy eyes your heart melted.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry you, sweetheart.”

“It’s ok, it’s ok, just… Maybe I can help if you tell me what happened?”

He sighed, and you waited, preoccupied. You’d never seen him like this in all your years of friendship. He finally gave in and said, “I was on a mission last night. It… went bad.”

“What? How bad?”

“A bullet flew an inch by my head.” His gaze was set on his plate and you squeezed his shoulder harder.

“Oh my god, Tim!”

“My partner shot the guy…probably saved me.” He paused, then added “when I got back here I started to drink. To ease up the adrenaline, maybe. But… that’s not what I needed.”

You were in shock. Of course you knew his job was dangerous, but it had never been that bad. Imagining that the bullet could have hit him made you tremble, as the fear of losing Tim gripped your mind. You tried to push the thought away.

“What did you need, then?”

He cleared his throat, obviously thinking about choosing his words carefully.

“People say when death is close, you see your whole life flash before your eyes. But I didn’t see it. I saw…”

He stopped, and you had no idea what he had in mind. You grabbed both of his shoulders to turn him towards you, to make him face you.

“What did you see, Tim?”

He looked up at you, hesitant, and you nodded encouragingly.

“I saw you. I was terrified that I would never see you again.”

You frowned, wondering why you had been in his thoughts like that, at that moment. 

And then it hit you. 

Your eyes widened as he lowered his, unsure if you would release his shoulders or hold on tight to them.

“Tim…”

“It’s ok. It’s ok. You don’t have to say anything. I know that you don’t see me like this.”

He glanced at you again, trying to smile, trying to comfort you, as if you were the one who needed it. But he failed, his smile vanishing before it reached his lips and it tore your heart in two. You wondered how long he'd been seeing you like… this. How could have you been so blind? You thought of all the times he comforted you because of other men and it made you feel sick.

“Get up, Tim, please,” you asked. 

You hugged him once he was standing, wrapping your arms around his broad frame to soothe him. He was tense at first, as if petrified by the closeness, hesitant to hold you, until you felt his muscles relax slightly and he placed his hands on your back. You tilted your face up towards him and your lips gravitated to each other.

You don't know who initiated the crush of your lips, his hands on your hips, yours around his neck. You just knew it felt like a desperate need. Maybe for Tim it was a response to the shock of what had happened the day before, and years of yearning. Maybe for you it was the acknowledgement of needing him differently.

You dragged him towards the couch while you were still kissing and collapsed on it, pressing him against you.

It's strange how kissing your best friend feels so familiar yet so bizarre. Like you're in the most comfortable place in the world, but you had to brave the "no entry" sign to get there.

It was what you were feeling, kissing Tim. The skin under your fingers, the scent in your nostrils, you knew them perfectly well. But you didn't know them like this, dedicated to you at that moment, turned toward you. Intimate. 

He ran his nose down your cheek and nuzzled your neck, and you were already moaning, your body tingling. Was it possible that the sensation you'd been chasing for years was actually waiting for you right at your fingertips?

“I don't wanna lose you, by doing this. You’re the one I care about most in the world, always have been,” he said suddenly.

“Come on, a few kisses won't ruin our friendship.”

You didn't know if it was a lie you were telling yourself, didn't know what the consequences would be. Your brain was foggy, full of desire and need. You didn't want to slow down, push him away, end that unexpected moment that your whole body was craving.

His hand wrapped around your neck as he peppered kisses to the other side, just below your earlobe. Eyes closed, hands running through his hair, thighs pressed together trying to ease the tension that was already burning your core, your breathing hitched.

“Tim,” you whined, your tone needy, just as your hands roaming his body.

“Yeah,” he said, before crushing his lips on yours again, then dragging his beard and moustache along your skin down to your collarbone. His hand slipped under your shirt and cupped your breast as if it were one of the most delicate things in the world. 

“You smell like me”, he groaned. He grabbed your tit harder, unable to suppress a grunt.

“Shit,” you said, clasping the hem of your top to pull it off. His eyes landed on your breasts and he bent down to take one in his mouth and suck on it. You always thought that that zone was not sensitive for you, almost annoyed when some of your dates would focus on them, and you were realizing how wrong you were. It’s just that no one had been able to do it like you needed until then, to the point that you wondered if you were going to come just like that. 

Feeling how responsive your body was, Tim groaned from the depth of his chest and buried his face between your breasts before licking the other tit.

“Give me your hand,” you croaked, your voice hoarser than it had ever been. You pulled your panties to the side and pressed his fingers against your heat. Feeling your arousal made him growl. “Jesus, you're soaked, baby,” he breathed, hastily pushing two thick, warm digits into your cunt, deeper than any man before him, making you pant.

You curled your fingers around his wrist, setting the pace you needed. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re droolin’ for me. How does it feel?” he asked, his voice soft like velvet, before taking your nipple back in his mouth.

“Good. Fucking good, Tim. Oh my god!”

Instinctively knowing what you needed, his thumb rested against your clit then rubbed it, his fingers still pushing into you.

“Fuck you’re so wet… You're gonna come for me, baby? Just by me sucking on your tits and fingering you?”

You nodded vigorously, biting your lips, knowing it was only a matter of minutes or even seconds before it would happen.

“Good girl,” he smirked, licking at your breasts again, your eyes rolling at the back of your skull at his praise.

You mewled when you came, squeezing his wrist, pussy clenching on his fingers.

“Yeah, that's it baby, come for me,” he said, straightening up, eyes fixed on yours. “I got you, you're so goddamn pretty, all spread for me.”

His praise made you clench one more time on his digits.

“Oh, so you like it when I talk to you like that,” he said, eyes full of desire and lust.

You were a needy mess, your eyes silently assenting for you, and he kissed you, his big hands holding your face. You felt like home and your heart was about to explode, while you were still moaning in his mouth.

“I dreamed of this,” he murmured between kisses. “Dreamed of seeing you collapse in my arms, hearing you whimper and moan for me. And it’s even better than what I had imagined.” 

“Tim, please…” you whined against his soft lips.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

Your foreheads rested against each other, your breathing slowly calming while his only increased.

“Everything. I want everything,” you said, gaze locked with his. “I need all of you.” 

He nodded, in his own Tim way. As someone who wants to offer everything he has to give, someone who means it.

He stood up and took off his shirt, while you were looking at him. Not the way you used to look at him when you went to the beach and walked side by side toward the ocean in your swim suits. Or when he helped you to renovate your home and ended up shirtless because of the heat.

Your eyes sparkled as if you were seeing him and his body for the first time. Broad, strong, reassuring. Your eyes roamed from his broad shoulders to his bulging biceps, and finally reached his happy trail peeking out from his sweatpants that he was wearing low on his hips.

He reached out his hand towards you to help you get up and you faced each other.

“Take me to your bedroom,” you murmured.

He grabbed your thighs to lift you up, and you held onto him, pressing your lips against his, searching his tongue with yours, as he led you to his bed where he gently set you down.

The outline of his hard cock traced a curve across his sweats, so you grabbed the waistband and slid them down, his thick cock springing free up against his stomach.

“Shit, Tim…”

He brushed your cheek with his thumb.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart, you know that?”

“Are you kidding me? She’s gorgeous… your cock’s gorgeous.”

He stroked your cheek again, gently, and murmured a soft "okay."

You'd kissed, sucked, and fucked several men. Some of them were quickly forgotten, some weren’t. But when you circled Tim’s shaft with your slightly trembling fingers, then licked and sucked him, it felt different. It probably transpired in the intimacy and softness you displayed. As if you wanted the love (deep, but friendly until that day. And so indefinable right now) you felt for him to shine through the care you put into it. 

A mixture of tenderness and need.

His hand froze at the back of your head several times, grunts falling from his mouth when you sucked his tip, licked his shaft, or took one of his balls in your mouth, worshiping every inch of his delicate skin. Your hand ran up his thigh to his ass. You listened to his “oh fuck, baby,” his “shit, sweetheart,” his “you’re doing so good.” Praised by his words and sounds, you could have done it for hours, but his panting increased, until he mumbled, “baby… I’m afraid to come if you keep going.”

You pulled back, wiping the saliva that had dripped down your chin with the back of your hand, your gaze slowly moving up from his stomach and his chest to his eyes. You couldn’t keep your gaze from him.

“You’re so beautiful, Tim,” you said. You’d always known he was, of course, but your eyes saw so much more now.

Your words made that 6’ tall and strong man blush. “Oh come one, sweetheart. You’re the only beautiful one here, and I don't wanna hear otherwise."

“Awww, bossy,” you replied with a smirk until the urge of having more of him became unbearable. “Take off your clothes, Tim.”

“Who’s bossy now?” he started to chuckle, but quickly stopped when his cock twitched against his lower abdomen. He took off his clothes that had fallen to his ankles, kneeled at the foot of the bed and slid your panties down.

“So many times, I thought about how you’d taste. Imagining your fingers lost in my hair. You moaning for me.”

He placed his hand on your stomach, urging you to lie down, legs spread on either side of his torso, and his nose ran a line from your clit to your folds, before giving way to his tongue, warm and curious. His hands grabbed your thighs and he placed them on his shoulders, feasting on you as if you were a fruit in the heat of summer. Your hands found their natural place in his hair, just as he'd predicted. Your moans mingled with his, his tongue lapping at your pussy so perfectly, so intimately, repeatedly. It didn't take long for you to come in his mouth, his name escaping your lips, and when your shaking stopped, he pulled you towards him, setting you down on the carpeted floor of his room. 

“You came so quickly for me, baby. You’re perfect,” he said and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his lips and tongue. Time froze for a moment, until he pulled back a little and settled between your thighs, his dark, lust-filled gaze fixed on you, beard and moustache glistening with your arousal, his hard cock swinging between your bodies.

“Kiss me again, Tim, please,” you murmured, and his soft lips brushed yours, teasing at first, but soon they were against yours, kissing you like no one had ever done before. Tenderly, so different from the fire that was burning your core.

Your hand traveled from the back of his neck, down to his shaft, nestling his tip at your entrance, and he pulled away just enough to look at you as he matched your thrust and pushed into you. Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment at the sensation of his cock spreading you open, and your heart exploded like Fourth of July fireworks.

His hand on your cheek which he caressed with his thumb, it was almost too much, to feel him inside you, on you, against you.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his gaze lowered to you, set on you, he seemed wrecked and so were you probably.

“I know, Tim. Oh god, I know,” you whined. Your hands gripped his hips, pulling him deeper into you, if that was possible.

“I wanted this, baby. Needed this for so long. To feel you around me, and it’s… so good,” he said, panting, kissing your neck before returning to your lips, his hands running over your body. Yours were on his shoulders, holding him tight, as if you were afraid of letting him go, of losing him. 

His shaft brushed against that perfect spot and you felt another climax build, squeezing him between your folds, clinging onto him with your whole body.

Tim wrapped his hand around your neck, the back of it rubbing against the sheet with each of his hip thrusts.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna… gonna make me come.”

“Come with me, Tim. Please, I’m so close, and I wanna feel you come at the same time. Please….”

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he managed to say, licking at your neck, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You dug your fingers into the skin of his biceps as you came and you felt his cock twitch, his cum covering your walls, making you nibble at his freckled shoulder.

You stayed as one for several minutes, you caressing his shoulders, him kissing your temples, until he pulled away slowly and grabbed the sheet to cover your bodies then held you against the warmth of his chest. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, brushing your arm with his fingers, giving you another set of goosebumps. 

“Yeah… Yeah,” you answered, trying to process what happened, understand your feelings. Trying to contain the worry that was about to smother your heart, whispering in your ear that things would go back to the way they were before. 

And you didn’t want to.

“You sure?” he insisted, feeling you weren't really ok, reading you like an open book as always. You raised your face to his, chewing on your lower lip.

“You know you can tell me everything, right? No matter what, sweetheart.”

“I want you to hold me in your arms and tell me you won’t let me go,” you admitted, offering him the candor you’d always shown each other. “I want you to tell me that you want this to happen again.”

“Oh, baby…” He opened his arms and you cuddled against him, as he held you tight. “I won’t let you go, and I want this to happen again. I want you as my everything. Best friend and… mine.”

“Yours?”

“Mine. Anything else is impossible now.”

You nodded.

“Yours, Tim.”

Tim masterlist

Thank you for reading 🙏

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[sudsnribbons]

my plus one | j.m

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

MDNI

wordcount: 3,905

summary: your no good boyfriend breaks up with you, right before your dads big promotion dinner, that you need a date to. of course. lucky for you, joel miller was quick to offer. anything for his buddie's little girl..right?

warnings: big hefty age gap (reader is 19 & in her first year of college, joel is early 40s), SMUTT, no outbreak!, use of 'kiddo', dirtyoldman!joel, panty stealing (he a freak), fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), p in v, use of petnames (sweetheart, darlin', ect.), (1) use of y/n, getting caught? lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: this is a long one, buckle up.. hope you enjoy reading, as much as i did writing! <33

two days before you were supposed to come home, for your dads big promotion dinner, bad news struck you.

in the form of a text message.

"this isn't working for me anymore, we're done."

really? that was all the asshole could say?

"what about the dinner tyler?? tf am i supposed to do?"

"you'll figure it out."

fuck him.

whatever, it's not like you cared.

---

despite not having a date, you decided to head back to austin anyways. it was the promotion your dad had waited his whole career for.

the drive was a bit long from your college, but it lined up perfectly with the start of your spring break.

you got home around 7pm, your dad was on the porch having a beer with joel.

joel.

it had only been a few months since the last time you saw him, but god did he look handsome.

the amber glow of the porchlight projected on his hair, laced with silver streaks.

"hey sweetheart, you're early.." your dad muttered out to you, placing his beer on the table between him and joel.

"yeah i just couldn't wait until tomorrow." you smiled warmly at the man, as he embraced you in a hug.

smiling over his shoulder to the man babysitting his miller lite.

ironic.

"good to see you kiddo.." he said, quietly. almost like he didn't trust his voice.

weird.

"good to see you too mr. miller.", you pulled away from your dad, now facing the older man. he nodded, taking another sip of his beer. "how's sarah?" you questioned.

"busy.. y'know how that girl is." he smiled. the corners of his mouth turned up, and wrinkled a bit with his smile lines.

you nodded in understanding. deciding it was getting a little late and you wanted to shower and unpack before you went to bed.

you drug the heavy suitcase up the stairs, its wheels hitting the wood every few steps. turning the knob and opening the door to your bedroom, you sit the suitcase down on your bed and unzip it. grabbing an old hoodie, underwear, and pair of shorts for after your shower.

socked feet patter down the hallway as you make your way to the bathroom, passing your mothers room and noticing her at her vanity.

"hey sweetheart when did you get here?" she asked, as she slid out from the seat. standing up to give you a hug. "maybe like 20 minutes ago?" you said, over her shoulder honestly forgetting.

she nodded and began, "so when is tyler coming in? the dinner is in two days sweetheart." your heart kinda sunk at the mention of his name. "oh uhm-" you didn't know how to tell her. "we broke up." you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and stared at the floor. "oh honey are you okay?" she asked, going in for a hug once again, you declined. "yeah mom i'm alright." she smiled at you, sad for you. "what are you going to do about the dinner?" she asked. "i'm actually not sure, ill figure it out." she nodded her head. "i'm gonna shower, its getting late." she agreed, and you continued to the bathroom.

latching the door behind you, you turned the dial on the shower and let the water heat up. steam covered the mirror and dripped down in condensation. shedding the clothes off from the drive, you stepped under the water and sighed at the feeling of warmth embracing you.

45 minutes later, you stepped out of the shower. skin radiating steam from the heat of the water. you grabbed a white fluffy towel and wrapped it around your body. drying off and getting dressed, you walked down the hallway and to your room. moving the suitcase off the bed, and untucking the comforter from the sheets. sliding your body between the mattress and comforter you plugged in your phone and went to sleep.

--

you woke up around 8am, to the all too familiar smell of breakfast. yawning, you grabbed your phone, slipping it into the front pocket of your hoodie. slowly making your way down the stairs, you lock eyes with-

no.

oh my god no.

joel.

joel miller.

in your kitchen.

all the while you looked like you just rolled out of bed.

well in your defense-

your internal voice was cut off by his gruff one.

"mornin' kiddo." he said nonchalantly taking a bite of bacon. "morning?" you said confused, looking between your parents as you sat down at the table. "honey, i was just telling your father about tyler.." your mom started and you groaned, "mom i don't want to talk about this right now." she shushed you, filling up your glass with orange juice from the pitcher. "no now just listen." she tried again, your father and joel sitting in silence. taking a sip from your glass, you listened. "joel doesn't have a date either.. he so kindly offered to take you!" she said smiling, taking a scoop of eggs from the pan before handing the plate to you and sitting down. you almost choked. "i'm sorry what?" you felt like you could die from embarrassment, this can't be happening. "as a friend of course." joel chimed in, your dad nodded. "he's just helpin' out your old man." your dad smiled towards you. "right." you forced a bite of eggs down. joel silently ate his breakfast as your mom began to speak once more, "now i know you probably don't have a dress yet, so we are going to head into town after breakfast to find you something nice." you nodded, taking another sip of orange juice.

god i wish this was a mimosa.

--

you opted for a simple outfit to shop. needing something easy to change in and out of, all the while beating the texas heat.

you changed into a pair of dark wash denim shorts, and a longhorns tank top. brushing your hair and putting a pair of sunglasses on your head. simple makeup, fearing anything more would melt right off. slipping on your birkenstocks, you walked down the stairs and to your mother who was ready at the door.

--

you went to every boutique your mother could drag you into. dressing you up like a barbie doll. after what felt like 50 dresses you tried on, you pulled back the curtain to show your mother. "this is the one, you look gorgeous sweetheart." you smiled at your mother, and turned to the mirror to admire the dress. it was black, about ankle length that hugged your body perfectly. the top dipped down enough to show a little cleavage, but still classy. you nodded towards your mother and went to get changed.

you bought a pair of black heels to compliment. opting to match, instead of drawing away from the dress.

your mother offered to buy lunch, which you accepted kindly. stopping in at your favorite local spot and ordering a turkey sandwich.

the car pulled into the driveway around 2:30. opening the door to get out. then pulling the dress out, that was wrapped in a white dress bag.

"did you find one honey?" your father asked as you set down the keys on the table. "she did but you have to wait until tomorrow night to see it." she smiled at your father and you walked upstairs to hang the dress up.

--

"you really don't have to do this mr. miller." you typed out to him. as much as you wanted this, you didn't want him to see you like a chore.

"joel." he corrected. "and i offered didn't i?" he replied.

"yeah you did. joel." you smiled and typed back.

your heart pounded as you seen the three dots on the screen, waiting for his reply.

"ill see you at 7 tomorrow night sweetheart."

you hearted his message.

god i hope that wasn't too forward.

unhearting his message, you went down stairs to help prep for dinner.

--

snoozing the first few alarms, you finally got up around 1pm. "shit." you muttered out, not meaning to sleep in so late.

opting for a quick breakfast, lunch. you ate a greek yogurt cup topped with granola and a few strawberries.

you got in the shower around two. you decided to take an everything shower, i mean anything could happen... right?

getting out around 3pm, you blowdried your hair. sitting down at your vanity, you curl and roll your hair, wanting a blowout look.

that took about 30 minutes. you didn't want to to go too crazy with your makeup, but still enough to compliment your dress. you went for a black and dark brown smoky eye look, with thin eyeliner and big lashes.

you got done with your makeup at 5:30. you have an hour and a half before joel arrives.

walking down the hallway, hair still in rollers, in a full face of makeup, tank top and sweatpants from earlier. "you look so pretty sugar." your mother compliments. she was dressed in a navy blue dress, a little looser than yours but overall gorgeous. "thank you momma.." you smiled back at the woman, "so do you." she smiled and your father came out with tie in hand, he never could tie one by himself. "still cant tie it?" you teased the man as he handed the silk to your mother who quickly helped him. "what would i do without you baby?" he questioned your mother, kissing her lips. "you'd be lost." she teased back, "damn right." he looked at her with so much love as he combed his hair. "we are leaving soon." your dad said turning to you. "i thought it started at 7?" you questioned. he nodded, "yes sweetheart but i have to be there early. have to make a good impression." he replied. "joel will be here around 6:30.. you should put your dress on." your mother muttered. "yeah that's what i was gonna ask, i need you to zip me up." the older woman nodded.

you walked down the hallway and into your room. unzipping the bag and pulling out the dress. you slid the dress pooling at your feet, up your body and tucking your arms into the straps. you waddled from your room to your mothers to get her help zipping you up. you thanked her and hurried back to your room to undo the rollers that have been sitting in your hair. "perfect." you smiled, satisfied with how they turned out. taking your shoes from the box, you slid them on. taking a once over of yourself in the mirror. grabbing your clutch and phone, spritzing yourself with perfume before walking down the stairs. as soon as you reached the bottom the doorbell rung.

perfect timing.

your manicured hand wrapped around the silver door knob and twisted, the door opening to reveal a handsome older man. "joel." you muttered.

he was dressed in a tux, you've never seen him so put together. his beautiful eyes went wide, looking you up and down. clearing his throat, "you look beautiful kiddo." you smiled at the man, "thank you.. shall we?" you asked and he nodded, shutting and locking the door behind you.

he opened the passenger door to his truck. god did he have to be a gentleman too?

tucking your legs in, he shut the door behind you, rounding the hood of the car and joining you in the bench seat.

the car ride was silent. stolen glances every once in a while. pulling up to the venue, you sighed to yourself. feeling some relief of the tension in the truck.

he opened your door and helped you out, placing his hand modestly on the small of your back.

you wished he let his hand roam a little lower, just for a moment.

with your arms linked, you entered the ballroom. beautifully decorated for the occasion. your mother was the first to come up to you. "oh my sweet girl you look beautiful." your mother kissed your cheek and turned to joel. "you don't clean up too bad miller." she teased the man. "thank ya ma'am." god that southern drawl..

the dinner lasted about 2 hours, your feet killing you. damn those heels.

your mother and father held back a bit, soaking up the congratulations from his new role in the company.

"you ready to head home sweetheart? gettin' late." joel asked, you nodded standing up from the table.

your heels clicked against the pavement as the two of you walked back to his truck. sliding off those cursed heels as soon as the door closed, you relaxed against the seat, taking a deep breath.

joel buckled in and looked over to you, his restraint was tested more and more with each rise and fall of your chest, "got a starin' problem miller." his heart dropped as you muttered out, raising your head to look over at the man starting his truck. "don't know what youre talkin' about kid." he said under his breath, knuckles white gripping on the wheel.

as he pulled out of the parking lot you had decided to test him, "oh but i think i do...mr. miller" you teased. you wanted a reaction, something, anything. "that's enough." he muttered, eyes locked onto the road. you pulled your hair to one side of your neck, leaving your collarbone and dainty necklace on display... the necklace curving right at the dip of your cleavage.

you wanted him to break. lose control. you wanted him. "see i just don't think its enough miller." you pressed the matter further, voice softening with his name on your tongue, "i think theres a reason you offered to take me joel.." you turned towards him in the bench seat.

"just helpin' a friend sweetheart.." he almost whispered out, trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince you. the bench seat gave you more room to.. explore.

sliding your foot over to his lap, tracing up and down his thigh. you could have sworn you seen the start of an outline in his pants. "knock it off.." he tried, not really though. he didn't want you to stop.

you continued tracing his thigh, heel of your foot dipping down to the zipper of his dress pants. his restraint snapped like a cheap rubber band. his thick fingers wrapped around your ankle, "you tryna' get us killed girl?" he questioned, his face illuminated with the red from the stoplight. looking down at his hold on your ankle, and the bulge underneath it.

your breath got heavy, as he looked at you with those dark brown eyes, "joel." you squealed out, like a mouse caught by a cat. your body tensed under his touch. "not so bold now sweetheart.. what happened?" he questioned, toying with you.

his fingers traced your ankle, and up your calf. stopping at the bed of your knee. "please.." you whispered out. "please what darlin'?" he asked. he knew what you wanted, but joel was the kinda man who needed to hear you say it. you shyed a bit, face flushing red. "don't make me say it joel." you begged. he just laughed.

the fucker laughed at you.

pulling over on the side of a back road, he turned to you. "can't give ya what y'want if you don't tell me sweetheart." he traced up your leg, higher this time. feeling your thigh under your dress. "y-you joel." your voice failed you, stuttering from nervousness. "me? well y'got me darlin' what d'ya want me for?" he asked, teasing you again. he wasn't gonna let you off that easily.

unbuckling your seatbelt, you scooted closer to the man. legs in his lap fully now. hardness pressing against the bend of your knee. "need you to touch me miller.." you sighed out breathlessly. "there we go honey.. wasn't that hard was it now?" he smiled satisfied with your answer. you whimpered out frustrated. you needed him to do something.. anything. "what would yer daddy think of you all whiney for me in my truck huh?" he asked, clearly getting off on how squirmy he was making you, "those college boys not do it for ya sweetheart?" you shook your head, "need you joel.." he snickers, "i know yer always needin' somethin' ain't ya?" he questioned rhetorically.

he bunched up your dress, you lifted your hips so he could get it to your waist. "soaked for me darlin'" he laughs, pressing a thick finger to the wet patch on your underwear. you whined and bucked your hips, "joel quit teasin'.." you begged. "ah ah who's in charge here baby?" he asked, "you joel.." he smiled pleased at you a wreck for him already. "atta girl." he hooked his fingers in the elastic waistband of your underwear, sliding them down your legs and past your ankles. he reached over you, opening his glove box, throwing the pair in and shutting it back. "don't need those do ya sweetheart?" he asked and you were quick to shake your head.

dirty old man.

yet here you are absolutely soaked for said 'dirty old man'.

his thick finger traced your slit, teasing you. your hips bucked again searching for friction. joel was quick to correct you, using his hand on your stomach to hold you down. "now you take what i give ya or yer gettin' nothin' t'all" he muttered out with dark eyes. you nodded.

his finger dipped past your folds and into you. "oh god joel." you whined out, still under his hold. "barely touched ya and yer goin' crazy.." he trailed off, "what 'm i gonna do with ya huh?" he questioned, but before you could answer he added another finger. stretching you out deliciously. "c'mon sweetheart if you can't take this you sure as hell ain't gonna be able to take me.." he said cockily, replying to your moans.

his fingers pumped in and out, curling in, like he knew your body better than you did.

sure as hell felt like it.

"close joel.." was all you could manage to get out. that band in your belly wounding tighter and tighter with each thrust of his hand. "c'mon baby girl let go f'me." he said, leaning over you to kiss down your neck.

that was all it took.

those words.

his mouth.

your back arched off the red leather of the old pickup truck he's always driving. chest heaving as you came down from one hell of a high.

a thin layer of sweat covered your body as you leaned your head up to look at the man between your legs. smug as ever he locked gaze with your eyes, taking his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. his eyes rolled back as the sweet tang filled his mouth. "taste like heaven sweetheart.." he wiped the saliva off his fingers and onto his dress pants.

you smiled up at the man, still drunk on the high you just came down from. "you think y'ready for me honey?" he asked as he unbuckled his belt, throwing it down to the floorboard. you nodded, wanting nothing more than to feel him. for real this time.

"words baby.." he teased, "yes! please god." you whined out, "m'name ain't god.." he joked.

smug son of a bitch.

he pushed down his black slacks, his boxers following suit. his cock sprung out, and your eyes went wide. "you flatter me sweetheart." he chuckles, undoing his tie and discarding it to the floorboard.

"shit." his face dropped when he realized, "i don't have a condom." he looked down at you, still catching your breath. "don't care.. m'clean.." he shook his head, "y'sure bout' this?" he questioned. "can't come back from this sugar.." he tried again but you didn't care.

you wanted this. wanted him.

"fuck me already miller." you managed to get out, and he just laughed. "ain't nothin' but trouble.." he sighed out, pushing the head of his cock between your folds. you gasped out as he began to slide into you.

"f-fuck joel.." you cried out, slumping against the door of his truck, "you can take it baby i'm right here.. trust me." you swallowed hard at his words, burying himself into you, fully to the hilt. he gave you a minute to adjust. "you can move.." you whimpered and he took the green light to slowly pull out almost all the way, before plunging right back in.

"s'dirty for wantin' this trouble.." he used that nickname again. your back arched with every thrust. "wantin' yer old man's best friend like this.." he rubbed it in more, like salt in a wound.

you did feel guilty..

but more so, of the effect his words were having on you.

his dirty words went straight to your core, winding that band tighter and tighter..

"joel.." you whined, all this becoming too much.. you couldn't last much longer. "i know baby i know.." he teased.. picking up the pace a bit. your eyes started to roll back in your head, and you were clenching harder and harder.. he leaned down, taking your neck in his hold and pulling you to him. pressing his lips to yours.

he grunted through the kiss, your moans mixing in. pulling back from the kiss he picked up the pace once more, "c'mon trouble give me one more.." he asked, and you obeyed. almost as quickly as he asked, you delivered. back arching off the red leather again. white heat over taking your body. thighs shaking as you came down. and joel? he was fucking you through it. his body shuttered and you knew he couldn't last much longer.

"m'on the pill.." you muttered out, and that was all joel needed to hear. with a few more thrusts he buried into one last time, releasing inside. filling you up.

sweat covered the both of you as he pulled out. the mixture of both his and your release pooling between your thighs. he reached in his floor, trying to find something to clean you up with.

settling on his tie, he bunched the fabric and cleaned you up, throwing the soiled tie in the back seat. you tried to catch your breath, pulling your dress back down to your ankles and buckling up like nothing happened. joel got situated and buckled turning over the truck as you slipped your black heels back on.

you did not miss those. you thought as you picked up your phone from the floor. heart dropping when you looked at the time. 11:57pm "shit." you muttered, dozens of missed calls from your parents you were too.. busy to hear. "joel i need to get home..now." you showed him your phone and he pulled out of the back road and onto the main one.

you finally got home at 12:20am..

saying your goodbyes to joel with a promise of this happening again. smelling like sex, with your hair and dress a mess, you fished out your key from the small clutch your brought with you. you locked the door behind you, slipping off your shoes and taking them in one hand. thinking you're out of the woods, you start to tiptoe up the stairs. when you are halfway to your room, the hallway light flicks on and you hear your mother, "y/n?"

fuck.

[piastriprincess]

soak  my  scrapes  and  sleep  tight ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  established  relationship  ,  oscar  is  the  sweetest  boy  in  the  entire  world tw  blood  (pretty  minimal  but  wanted  to  warn  yall) word  count  1.9k author’s  note  requested  by  @princesspiastri007  aka  my  username  twin  !  i  loved , loved , loved  writing  this  request  .  also ... imagine  my  surprise  when  i  found  out  plasters  were  bandaids  .  i’m  sorry  i’m  a  stupid  american  !!  anyway  i was planning on making this a drabble but it  got  away  from  me  a  lil  because  there  is  something  sooooooo  boyfriend  coded  about  oscar  ,  i’m  obsessed  .  i  need  to  wife  him  up  .  i  hope  you  like  this  ,  as  always  please  come  tell  me  what  you  think  or  send  me  a  request  !  title  is  from  acolyte  by  slaughter  beach  ,  dog  .

23:  princess  plasters  and  iodine .

It’s Oscar’s week off before he has to fly to Miami, and you were planning on a relaxing few days. You’d circled the dates on your calendar weeks ago in thick red Sharpie: no races, no briefings, no media. Just the two of you, together. You’ve packed a bag for the whole weekend, so you don’t have to leave your boyfriend’s company for a single second. 

Your grand plan lasts approximately thirty-seven minutes. You’re just settling in at Oscar’s when your sister calls you in a panic: her job is sending her on a last-minute site visit, and could you please watch Lucy for the weekend? You say yes, of course — how could you not? You love your niece, a precocious, rambunctious little four-year-old, and you love being the cool aunt. You’re sad to lose your weekend with Oscar, but you’re sure he’ll understand. 

“Bad news.” You’re already half-apologizing, forehead scrunched as you hang up the phone and walk back into Oscar’s living room. He’s lying on the couch, engrossed in a Sally Rooney book he stole off your bookshelf a few months ago. “I have to postpone our weekend. My sister needs me to watch Lucy.” 

He dog-ears his page, setting the book carefully on the coffee table and looking up at you with that soft smile he reserves just for you. “Sounds fun. I’m excited to meet her,” he says nonchalantly, and your breath catches in your throat.

You’re not sure what you expected Oscar to say. Certainly not that he’d give up his first weekend off in a month to help you babysit a kid he’s never met. But if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s not the first time he’s stepped into the hurricane that is your life like it’s second nature — quiet, calm, already carrying half the weight without you even asking. He grounds you. It’s one of the things you like best about him. 

You perch carefully on the couch next to him, running your fingers through his hair. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. “Osc, she’s four. She’s a ball of energy, and this is supposed to be your weekend off. I don’t wanna ruin it,” you reply reluctantly.  He’s shaking his head before you even finish talking, looking up at you with those big brown eyes, gaze steady and sure. “Baby. What would ruin my weekend is not getting to spend it with you.” Something unfurls in your chest at that, soft and tender. He presses up on his elbows, already getting to his feet and pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Now come on. Get your bag, I’ll drive.”

—

An hour later, Oscar pulls into your sister’s driveway, slinging both of your weekend bags over his shoulder like they’re feather-light and taking your hand in his as you walk up to her front stoop. She must have seen you coming (to be fair, his cherry-red McLaren isn’t exactly subtle), because she’s already halfway out the door. You barely have time for her to give you a frantic thank you and tell Oscar it’s lovely to see him again. A quick kiss on the cheek and just like that, she’s disappearing into the Uber that’s been idling by the curb, the driver peeling away to the airport like he’s P1 on the starting grid. 

“Last chance to back out,” you say wryly to Oscar. 

He gives your hand a little squeeze, palm warm and comforting in yours, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders ease. “I’m staying right here.”

You open the door to a blur of light-up sneakers and Lucy throwing her arms around your legs in an enthusiastic hug. She looks the same as always: hair pulled into messy pigtails, tiara headband set just slightly askew, sparkly nail polish on her tiny fingers, and her ratty old unicorn blankie tucked under her arm. She’s beaming at you so hard her cheeks stretch, but the smile fades when she sees Oscar. 

“Who’s that?” she demands, hands on her hips. 

You smile at her, crouching so you’re on her level. “Lucy, this is Oscar. Can you say hi?”

She ignores you completely. “Are you her boyfriend?” she asks, wide, suspicious eyes trained directly on his face.

Oscar’s neck flushes, the way it always does when he’s nervous. He wants her to like him, you realize, and your heart does an unfamiliar little swoop in your chest. He clears his throat. “I am, Your Highness,” he replies, smiling softly at her. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Lucy purses her lips slightly, like she’s sizing him up. Oscar’s eyes flick to you worriedly, and if you didn’t know any better you’d swear he was holding his breath. Then she smiles at him. “You too. Do you want to have a tea party with me?”

“It would be my honor,” he nods seriously at her. She grabs his hand - his fingers, really, since his hand is too big for her to hold onto - and pulls him into the living room, leaving you behind with the bags in the entryway.

Thirty seconds of Oscar, and it’s like you don’t even exist to Lucy anymore. You’d be upset, if it wasn’t so understandable. After all, you fell in love with Oscar the moment you met him too. 

—

You swear it only takes you a minute to put your bags upstairs in the guest room, but when you get back you’re in for an absolute sight. Your boyfriend is sitting next to the Ikea stuffed bear you bought Lucy for her birthday last year, legs criss-crossed neatly beneath him. The silvery tiara he’s wearing glints under the overhead lights, his face peeking out from atop a fluffy pink-feather boa. He’s holding a plastic teacup in his hand delicately, listening to Lucy’s narration of her fairytale kingdom’s dynamics with the kind of focus you’ve seen him use for team briefings. Your chest feels tight suddenly as you watch him from the doorway, a strange, sweet ache blooming underneath your skin. 

“Hi, baby,” he smiles at you when he sees you, those honey-brown eyes crinkling at the edges. Oh, you’re a goner. You move towards him on instinct, dropping gracefully to your knees beside him. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him, and you slot into his side like you were made to be there. You let yourself enjoy the quiet warmth of his body, solid and strong beside you as Lucy chatters away about stuffed animal etiquette in the late afternoon light. Suddenly, it’s like you can see it — the echo of future quiet afternoons, grocery lists on the fridge, a life built of small, perfect moments with him. You wonder, just for a moment, if he feels it too. 

“Wait!” Lucy brings you back to the present as she interrupts herself, her tiny brows knitting together. “You can’t come to the tea party without a tiara. Princesses have to have tiaras.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” you reply, playing along, though your cheeks are still flushed. “How silly of me. I’ll go get one.” 

You’re about to stand when Oscar’s fingers curl around your wrist gently. “I got it,” he says softly, his thumb rubbing gently over your knuckles before all five feet, ten inches of him extend to full height. He moves just a little too fast, you try to stop him just a little too late, and when he stands up he smacks his head hard into the sloping ceiling. You wince at the dull crack, the way the tiara shatters into shiny plastic shards, one cutting a jagged gash into his pale skin. 

“Ow,” Oscar says mildly, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

Lucy gawks at him, openmouthed. “Oh no, Princess Oscar!”

—

“It’s really not that bad,” Oscar says, and you know he’s trying to reassure you, to soothe the way your pulse is stuttering erratically beneath your skin. As always, he’s the picture of calm, sitting patiently on the closed toilet lid while you rummage through the first aid kit your sister keeps under the bathroom sink. The wad of toilet paper you made him hold to the cut is starting to stain crimson-red. 

“You can’t even see it,” you reply, your fingers closing around the bottle of iodine as you emerge from the cabinet triumphantly. “It's awful. Zak’s going to fine me for scratching up his driver.”

“You’ve done worse before,” he smirks cheesily at you, eyes half-lidded, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat as you swat at his arm playfully. His legs are too long for the small room; you have to crawl over them to get to a spot where you can clean him up. You place a hand on his thigh as you move, to stabilize yourself, and he goes pink up to his ears. Now there’s your Oscar, you think to yourself as you pour the iodine onto a cotton pad. 

“This might sting a bit,” you warn him. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he insists, right before hissing through his teeth when you dab at the cut. 

You stick your tongue out at him. “Be brave, Princess Oscar.” 

He laughs outright at that, and his eyelashes flutter against your wrist. A warm twist curls low in your stomach at the contact. “Right,” you say, pulling the box of bandages from behind your back. They’re princess-themed, of course. Fitting. “Aurora or Ariel?”

“Ariel,” he responds instantly, and you raise your eyebrows at him. “What?” he shrugs, smiling at you. “I know the princesses, I have sisters.”

You peel the wrapper open carefully and smooth the bandage across his cut, gentle and precise. He’s quiet for a moment, watching you, the way your fingers ghost over his skin, the way you care for him like it’s an instinct. 

“You know, if this is what the future looks like, I think I’d be really happy,” Oscar says absentmindedly, and your heart stutters in your chest.

His eyes widen at the same time yours do, and he presses his lips together like he didn’t quite mean to say it out loud. Like it was a thought he was holding close to his heart until he knew you’d be ready to hear it.

You stare at him, your lips parted. His cheeks are slightly pink from the confession, and you’re so close you can see the honey brown of his irises. It’d be so easy to kiss him right now, and you’re not in the habit of denying yourself simple pleasures. So you dip your mouth to his, fingers curling loosely at the nape of his neck.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, one hand rising instinctively to rest at your waist. The kiss is unhurried, familiar, but there’s something new about it. It feels like a promise, so meaningful that it makes your breath catch in your chest. It’s a moment before you both come up for air, but when you pull back he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize everything about the moment. 

“Yeah,” you smile at him, easy and unhurried. “I could get used to this.”

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ angst

[ jason bought you, your favorite flowers for the first time ]

long story — [8.2k words count]

second person writing

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

phase one ; blooming [dating]

you loved carnations.

jason learned that on your third date. It was a small, throwaway moment—something you said while sipping a lukewarm latte in a dingy coffee shop tucked away from gotham’s chaos. you’d been talking about nothing in particular, just bantering like usual, your legs tucked under you in the booth as the sky darkened outside.

“they’re not fancy,” you said, absently stirring cream into your coffee, “but they’re strong. they last longer than most flowers, you know? and they come in so many colors.”

jason raised an eyebrow. “you really into flowers?”

You shrugged. “they’re just… comforting. It’s like a reminder that something can be soft and still survive.”

he didn’t answer. just stared at you for a moment like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet—like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

you weren’t like the people in his world. you didn’t carry trauma like a weapon. you didn’t flinch at loud sounds or look over your shoulder in paranoia. you had a softness to you that he hadn’t expected in gotham. and he didn’t know what to do with it.

when he walked you home that night, you paused at a flower stall outside your building. rain was drizzling, the kind that clung to your lashes and curled your hair, and you stopped to look at a small bouquet of pale pink carnations.

“they’re my favorite,” you said, smiling. “someday I’m gonna fill my whole apartment with them.”

jason rolled his eyes. “flowers are a waste of money. they die in a week.”

you blinked. just a second. just enough for him to notice. “well,” you said, voice light, “some things are worth it, even if they don’t last.” he didn’t understand what you meant. not then. not yet.

you started seeing each other more often—slow at first. you were cautious with your heart, and jason was dangerous with his. but he started staying the night. started showing up at your place with bruises and bullet grazes and that haunted look in his eyes. you never asked where he’d been. you only asked if he was hungry. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.

he never did. not about the big stuff. but you’d find him in your kitchen at 2 a.m., heating up leftover pasta, or sitting on your couch with your cat in his lap like he belonged there. and he did.

he didn’t say “I love you,” not for months. but he watched over you like he did. he’d show up outside your job with a scowl and coffee if you had a rough day. he knew the fastest route from your place to every hospital in the city. he installed cameras at your front door and never told you. — you noticed. you just didn’t say anything.

carnations bloomed on your windowsill. a new one every week. you bought them yourself—white-blush and lavender. you kept waiting, hoping maybe jason would walk in one day with a bunch in his hands. not because you needed them, but because you wanted to know he’d remembered.

he didn’t.

one night, curled up with him under a ratty old blanket, you brought it up gently. “I used to get flowers when I was little,” you said. “my dad would bring me carnations on my birthday. I think that’s why I still love them so much.”

jason looked at you from where he lay on your chest, his brow furrowed. “didn’t know your dad was around.”

“he’s not.. not anymore.” silence settled between you.

“I used to think… if someone brought me carnations, it meant they really saw me,” you admitted. “not the ‘I’m fine’ version. the real me.”

jason didn’t say anything. — you didn’t push.

the first time you told him you loved him, he froze.

It had been a good day. one of the rare ones—no crime scenes, no emergency calls, no red hood business dragging him into gotham’s underbelly. you’d spent the afternoon in the park, lying in the grass, his head on your stomach as you read a book aloud.

that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back, you whispered, “I love you.” — jason’s whole body tensed.

you felt it. every muscle. then he pulled back. looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “you don’t have to say it back,” you murmured.

he didn’t. but he kissed you like he meant it. held you all night like he was terrified you’d disappear. you told yourself it was enough.

phase two ; budding [fiancé]

It wasn’t a proposal. not really.

It was three in the morning, and jason was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while you brushed your teeth, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his hair a mess from the pillow. you wore one of his old shirts, threadbare from a hundred washes. he wore the quiet panic of someone who had never believed they’d live long enough to consider a future.

“hey,” he said, voice low. you glanced at him in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

you froze mid-brush. he didn’t flinch or try to recover it with a joke. he just watched you—blue eyes soft and serious, hands clasped between his knees. you spit into the sink and turned to face him.

“Is this the part where you propose with a ring made out of dental floss?” a breath of laughter left his nose, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“I’m serious,” he said. you stepped closer, cupped his jaw with a wet hand. “then ask me like you mean it.”

jason paused. his eyes searched yours, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “(y/n) (m/n) (l/n), will you marry me.”

and you—heart pounding, love swelling in your chest like it would break your ribs—smiled. “yes,” you said. “of course I will.”

he pulled you into his arms, buried his face in your stomach, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe like it was safe.

the ring came later.

It wasn’t new—wasn’t even something he’d gone out to buy. one night, you found him sitting in the closet, the small wooden box in his hand. It had belonged to catherine todd—passed down, like love that tries to survive the storm.

“she kept it hidden,” jason said quietly, running a thumb over the aged velvet. “I think she always meant to give it to me… if I ever found someone.”

you sank down beside him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder. “she’d be glad you did.”

he gave it to you that night, no speeches or ceremony. just slid it onto your finger while you sat together on the floor of the hallway, bathed in moonlight from the window. as jason kissed the ring on your finger.

It fit perfectly.

planning the wedding wasn’t easy. you didn’t want much. jason didn’t want attention. but it was yours—intimate, quiet, full of stolen glances and laughter that didn’t belong in a city like gotham.

dick cried during the vows — roy forgot the rings.

alfred gave you a smile that nearly brought you to tears.

jason kept his hand in yours like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. you didn’t walk down the aisle with roses or lilies or orchids.

you held a bouquet of white carnations, tied with a silver ribbon. jason saw them, saw the way your fingers curled around the stems, and something flickered in his expression. he didn’t say anything. but you caught the way he looked at them—like they were a language he hadn’t learned yet.

life settled into something that almost resembled normal. at least, your version of it.

your mornings were soft. you’d wake first, kiss the scar on jason’s temple, whisper something into his sleep-dazed hair. he never told you what it meant to wake up to that. but he held you tighter every day.

sometimes he cooked breakfast—burned eggs and all. sometimes you did. the coffee was always too strong, but neither of you minded. the routine mattered more than the taste. — your nights were more complicated. jason still went out. still fought gotham’s darkness with red and black. but he came home now. always came home.

and he talked more.

he told you about things he’d buried—things no one else knew. his mother. the pit. the dreams he still had where the coffin never opened. the pain of coming back to a world that had moved on without him.

you never asked for those stories. you only listened, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him with silence and steady breaths. — one night, after a particularly rough patrol, he came home soaked in rain and blood. you helped him out of the kevlar, your hands gentle, your voice quiet.

he sat at the kitchen table while you cleaned a deep gash along his ribs. “I thought I was gonna die tonight,” he muttered.

you paused, heart in your throat. jason looked up at you. “and the weirdest part? I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared you’d be alone.” you pressed gauze to the wound, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “you’re not dying, jason.”

“someday I will,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “and you’ll have to go on without me.”

“then you better keep surviving,” you said, voice firm. “because I’m not planning on loving anyone else.”

he pulled you into his lap, held you there like he was trying to fuse your heartbeat with his.

you kept carnations in the apartment. a vase in the kitchen. one on the nightstand. always fresh. always soft. jason never brought them home. but he started noticing them—more than before.

he’d run his fingers along the petals absently while sipping his coffee. tuck a fallen one behind your ear with a fond little smile. you caught him once, standing in front of a grocery store flower display, just staring at them. — but he walked past.

you didn’t mention it.

you never asked for them anymore. not because you didn’t want them. but because you wanted him to want to bring them. — some small part of you still hoped.

one afternoon, you were lying together on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. he was reading something—an old paperback with cracked pages—and you were watching the sunlight paint gold across the hardwood floor.

“do you think we’ll ever leave gotham?” you asked suddenly.

jason looked up. “you want to?”

“I don’t know. sometimes.” you shrugged. “sometimes I imagine a house with a garden. somewhere quiet. I’d grow carnations.”

he smiled, brushing your ankle with his thumb. “you and your damn flowers.”

you chuckled. “they’d be all over the place. kitchen, bedroom, porch. even in the bathroom.”

jason leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee. “If you want a garden, I’ll build you one.”

you reached for his hand. “I don’t need a garden. just you.”

but still, in the back of your mind, you pictured it—soft soil and early mornings, dew on petals, and jason beside you, older, whole. — you didn’t know it would stay a dream.

phase three ; blooming [marriage]

married life with jason was unexpectedly sweet.

you never imagined the red hood would be the type to make tea in the mornings or memorize your grocery list, but he did. he kept your mugs on the lowest shelf so you didn’t have to stretch. he learned how to braid your hair, poorly but determinedly, just so you’d smile.

your new apartment was bigger, higher up—safer. there was a little balcony with just enough space for a few flower boxes, and you filled them with carnations in every shade. jason helped you plant them, dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand why you loved them so much.

“you said they’re strong, right?” he asked one evening, watering them carefully.

you looked up from your book. “yeah.”

he watched a pale yellow bloom tremble in the breeze. “they remind me of you.”

you didn’t cry. but your throat ached as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. you were happy. really, genuinely happy.

jason had been changing—slowly but surely, like stone shaped by water.

he didn’t punch walls anymore. he let himself laugh more, sleep more. he still fought, still bled for gotham, but he came home more often than not. he started going to therapy, though he never told anyone but you. he even made peace with bruce—if only in small pieces, quiet dinners, and fewer arguments.

“I think I’m finally starting to feel human again,” he told you once, curled in bed with you at dawn. “you made me human.”

you kissed his chest, hand over his heart. “you were always human, jason. you just forgot for a while.”

you talked about kids more openly now.

“we could adopt,” you said once, the thought half-formed in your mind as you watched him fix the hinge on a closet door. “someday. maybe.”

jason looked up, surprised—but not alarmed. “yeah. maybe. I’d want them to be safe first. you to be safe.”

“we’re close,” you said. “gotham won’t be forever.”

he stood, brushed the dust off his hands. “no. just a little longer. then we’ll go.”

you imagined a place with less noise. a porch. a yard. real mornings without sirens. carnations blooming around the edges of a little house.

jason kissed you that night like he could already see it too.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

the last morning was warm.

you watered the flowers on the balcony while jason made eggs and toast, humming some rock song under his breath. the windows were open. the world felt light for once.

you had plans to meet barbara for lunch, to run errands, maybe grab groceries. jason had patrol later that evening but promised to be back before midnight. you kissed him at the door like it was any other day. — he kissed you twice.

“text me when you get there,” he said. — “I always do.”

you smiled, leaned back against the doorframe, watching him disappear down the hallway with a peace in your chest you hadn’t felt in years. you didn’t know it was the last time.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ivy’s old sector.

the lab had been quiet for months—dormant, some said, shut down after the last run-in with her plant toxins. but something pinged on the surveillance net—unusual bio-activity—and you, being who you were, decided to check it out.

It was just a recon mission. you were careful. you always were.

you never saw the vines until it was too late.

jason got the call from babs, her voice tight and scared.

“something’s happened,” she said. “(y/n)… we lost her signal near Ivy’s old territory.” he didn’t hear the rest.

he was on his bike in seconds, tearing through Gotham like the city itself had betrayed him. he didn’t stop at lights. didn’t slow for anything.

he found the lab half-collapsed, tendrils of greenery coiling through the wreckage like veins.

he screamed your name.

he dug through debris with bare hands, shoving aside branches that moved like they were alive. the air was thick with the scent of earth and blood.

then he saw you. — your body was tangled in vines, arms limp, head turned slightly to the side. you looked peaceful.

but you were too still.

and around you—blooming like a cruel, beautiful grave—were carnations. each one having a meaning.

white — purity, innocence, remembrance

pink — gratitude, admiration, undying love

purple — unpredictably, capriciousness, free spirit

all curling around the vines like some terrible mockery of love.

jason dropped to his knees. — “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no—please..please.. (y/n).. no no.. please…”

he tore at the vines with shaking hands, not caring that they cut into his skin. he gathered you into his arms, blood staining your shirt where the toxins had entered.

you weren’t breathing.

“come on,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re strong. you’re stronger than this. you said—you said they were strong.”

he rocked with you in his arms, howling into the air like something feral. screaming like his heart had been physically ripped out of him. sobbing into your shirt, the same one he had watched you put on this morning asking if you looked good. and of course you did, jason was always mesmerizing by you. and right now he was spiraling into a new unknown feeling.

bruce was the first to arrive. then dick. then tim.

they found jason cradling you, his jacket wrapped around your body even though you were already cold.

he didn’t look up when bruce knelt beside him. “she’s cold.. i put my jacket...and she’s still cold.. i couldn’t save her,” jason whispered. “I wasn’t there. I promised I’d be there.”

“I know,” bruce said softly, eyes glassy. his daughter-in-law peacefully covered in blood and carnations. he never truly got to tell you how much he appreciated the way you helped jason grow into the man he had become— you taught jason everything he couldn’t. jason slowly became emotionally mature, your marriage teaching him how to love and be  patient everyday.

dick stood nearby, hands over his mouth, unable to speak— the way he watched his younger brother holding his lifeless wife in his arms. tim just stared, stunned— not being able to believe the scene in front of him, as the wind tugged at the scattered petals around you.

“look at them,” jason murmured, brushing a blood-streaked carnation with his thumb. “she loved these. I never… I never brought her any. n..not once.”

jason looked up at bruce with hollow eyes. “I was going to. this week. I swear. I saw some at the store. I almost bought them.” — looking back down at you, squeezing you hard. trying to look for any sign of life left in you.

bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “she knew.”

jason shook his head. “I should’ve told her more. I should’ve done everything more.”

Dick finally stepped forward, kneeling across from his brother. “you did love her, jay. you loved her more than anyone. she knew. she felt it.”

jason’s face crumpled. “she died alone, dick. In pain. In fear.”

“no,” bruce said gently. “she died trying to help people. that’s who she was. that’s why you loved her.”

jason buried his face in your hair, silent now, his grief no longer words—just broken, shaking breath. staying like that, planting himself on the ground sobbing into you. tracing your body trying to remember every detail about you, like you always did for him. “i love you (y/n).. i love you.. please.. god we were going to leave.. we should’ve... i can’t.. (y/n) please baby, wake up… what am i supposed to do.. sweetheart please.. pleaseplease.. you’re so strong.. my beautiful wife.. we were gonna adopt.. you would’ve been a p..phenomenal mother..my sunshine.. please babygirl.. i can’t do this without you.. im so sorry.. im sorry..god please” jason holding your hand, rubbing his moms ring — the ring he vowed to love and protect you forever.

they had to pull him away eventually. jason fighting each one of them, not ready to let go of his wife. “please.. stop.. please.. a few more minutes.. please.. i can’t..please..i need her” he sounded defeated. bruce helping him up while he still clung to you. carrying both of you out of the building. struggling, not because of holding you two — but struggling not to sob along with his sons.

phase four ; wilting [death]

the funeral was three days after they pulled your body from the vines.

gotham had turned grey that week. the sky hung heavy, like even the clouds mourned you. the streets were quieter. the city somehow knew it had lost something bright.

they dressed you in soft fabric. nothing flashy. just something gentle and familiar. jason picked the dress. he remembered how it looked on you the first time you danced in the living room, barefoot and laughing.

you had flowers around you. carnations. barbara brought them. white, pink, red—your favorites. jason couldn’t stop staring at them.

he hadn’t cried since that night. now, at the funeral, he was quiet, but this time it was different. empty.

a shell wearing his face — everyone was there.

dick stood beside him, barely breathing. tim sat stiffly, not blinking. bruce kept a hand on jason’s back, grounding him, like he was afraid he’d float away.

barbara gave a speech. so did roy. even alfred, voice trembling, spoke a few words about love and grace and the way your laughter changed the manor the few times you visited.

jason didn’t hear any of it — he just looked at you.

laid out in the casket like sleep had taken you mid-sentence. lips soft. lashes resting against your cheeks. skin too pale, but peaceful. like you were waiting for him to say something.

the carnations framed your face like a crown.

and jason— he hated them.

not because they were ugly. not because they were yours. but because they were there, blooming, when you weren’t breathing. —because you always asked for them, and he never brought them.

and now they were here. too late.

someone touched his shoulder after the service. maybe dick. maybe bruce. maybe god himself—jason didn’t look.

“she loved you,” the voice said. “she never doubted you.”

but jason didn’t believe it.

not when he’d failed you in the most final way possible.

the grave was at the edge of the cemetery, under a weeping willow. the headstone was simple. your name. your birth and death dates. and a small engraving at the bottom:

“still the light in the dark.” he visited the next day. and the day after that. and the next. — he came without flowers. he didn’t know how to carry them.

weeks passed.

the apartment stayed quiet. your shoes still by the door. your toothbrush still in the cup. your pillow still untouched. the only thing touched were parts of your clothing. lingering perfume you’d sprayed on your shirts — jason needed the items to help him sleep. craving any ounce of you he could find. clinging onto the fabric imagining it was you. your body laying on top of his, cupping his face and kissing him endlessly. whispering about the good life they had. it broke jason. everything reminded him of you. it was killing him in a way he couldn’t grieve properly.

he didn’t move anything.

he didn’t patrol much anymore. bruce didn’t force it. dick stopped asking. jason barely responded to texts. calls went unanswered. roy left voicemails. barbara stopped by once and found him curled on the living room floor, clutching one of your sweaters, rocking slowly.

“it still smells like her,” he whispered. barbara didn’t say anything. just sat beside him and cried quietly.

he didn’t dream of you. not really.

just flashes. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. the sound of your laugh in the kitchen. the scent of carnations on your skin. the feel of your hand in his—soft and warm and alive. soft words leaving your lips — “i love you jay, i love you, i love you” you said like a prayer to him. your sweet voice haunting him in a way he hoped he’d never forget. wanted these cruel dreams, just to listen to you until his brain slowly fades it away.

then he’d wake up. and the cold would remind him. you weren’t coming back.

one night, he sat in front of the flower shop you used to visit. they had carnations in the window. he stared at them for an hour. then he walked inside. — the woman behind the counter gave him a curious look. “need help?”

he cleared his throat. “just… just the carnations.”

“any color?”

he looked down. his hands were shaking.

“all of them.”

he brought them to your grave the next morning. the sun hadn’t risen yet. the cemetery was still wrapped in mist, cold and soft. the carnations trembled in his grip. red, white, pink, purple, yellow, orange, lavender— tied with a pale ribbon. the kind you would’ve picked.

he knelt beside your headstone, laid the flowers gently across the grass. “you deserved these,” he whispered. his voice cracked. “i should’ve brought them sooner.”

he brushed his fingers across your name, eyes stinging.

“i thought they were pointless. i thought flowers died too easily.” his breath hitched. “but they were never about that, were they? they were about love. about life. about choosing something beautiful even when everything else was dark.”

he laughed, bitter and broken. “you knew that. you were that.”

the wind shifted, gentle and cold, like a simple answer.

“i miss you,” he said. “god, i miss you so much it fucking hurts.” he pressed his forehead against the stone. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

days blurred. he kept bringing flowers.

sometimes he talked to you. sometimes he just sat. sometimes he cried. he never stayed dry-eyed for long.

he stopped going to the apartment eventually. moved back into one of the safehouses. colder. emptier. more fitting.

he stopped shaving. stopped eating well. he looked thinner, paler, his eyes sunken like the weight of grief was dragging his soul down with it. — no one could reach him.

not dick, not bruce, not even alfred.

roy visited once. found jason standing in the rain at your grave, drenched and shaking. “you need to come inside,” roy said.

“she’s alone,” jason whispered. tears and rain mixing together, not knowing which was which.

“she’s not,” roy said. “you carry her everywhere.”

jason shook his head. “it’s not enough.”

roy didn’t know what to say. because maybe jason was right. and roy didn’t leave his side. they both sat in the rain. his best friend holding him and rubbing his shoulder in a ‘i’ve got you’ way. sitting in silence while jason continued to cry.

jason would be walking down the street, trying his best to clear his mind when he would see a little girl walking with her dad holding hands while the girl had a carnation, a small reminder. the ghost of you she saw in that little girl. — crushing him. these flowers were now everywhere he went. he couldn’t get away from them. it was a sign just like roy said — that you were everywhere.

jason never moved on. he didn’t date. didn’t laugh like he used to. he existed. he survived. that was it.

every year on your anniversary, he brought nine carnations. three white, three red, three pink. one for every phase of your life together—dating, engaged, married.

every year, he whispered the same thing. “you were the best thing that ever happened to me, i love you eternally sweetheart. i miss you.. every.. every fucking day.. it’s so difficult.. you were my favorite person…god i hate this city.. i gutturally hate ivy for taking you away from me…i miss you..so much.. please know that… i love you (y/n) todd”

and one night, sitting by your grave, his back against the cold stone, he looked at the flowers and finally said it aloud: “i think… i think i was a carnation too.”

his voice was hoarse. the wind tugged at his coat. “strong. stubborn. quiet. always trying to survive. but…” he blinked slowly. “i needed care. i needed you. you were the one who watered me. gave me sunlight. made sure i didn’t wither.”

he closed his eyes. “you kept me alive.. and now—” he didn’t finish. he didn’t need to. because the silence answered for him.

the carnations on your grave never wilted for long. he always replaced them — always brought fresh ones — always sat with you. — in every lifetime, you had been his light. his warmth. his reason.

he was just a flower with cracked petals. and you— you were the hands that kept him blooming. and without you, he wilted. and never truly grew again. stuck in the endless cycle of grief. still having dreams of you, bright and beautiful. a cruel reminder of what he can’t have anymore. “i use to be scared that if i went you’d be alone.. now.. i..”

jason was alone. he shut everyone out. he knew it wouldn’t be what you wanted. jason was afraid of actually accepting your death, grieving properly and moving on. you were the most impactful person in his life, and couldn’t imagine moving on from you. he was only alive for you, knowing you had dreams and passion about life, it was taken from so you abruptly that jason wanted to find comfort in your activities. his routine meshing with your old one. “i built a flower bed.. right outside that coffee shop where we had our first couple date.. i know you’d love it. a couple kids painted it for me.. it’s stunning, just like you baby…” jason said kissing the headstone, placing a bouquet of carnations down.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love jason 🫂 i should write something sweet next time, or would ya’ll like more angst? — have a good day / night xx !!!

i hope this was an okay read!! i could’ve gone more in depth at some parts, but i kept training off :p !!!! mwaahh byyee <3

[muletia]

✧˖° 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

mer!optimus x human reader

summary: optimus waited for his mate for a very long time. but just when he was starting to lose hope, you decide to save him from loneliness. after so many years you finally heard his song. his mate. you.

word count: 5200

optimus is barely in this chapter btw. but don't worry, he will get more desperate later ^^

oh, and I couldn't resist throwing two polish easter eggs somewhere in the middle hehe

The first thing you hear upon waking is the rhythmic murmur of waves gently striking the shore. The soft sound soothes the initial flickers of disorientation, cooing deceitfully so your body doesn’t sound the alarm just yet. Unfortunately, you fall right into the trap.

Your eyelids seem to weigh several tons as you try to lift them, alarmed by the cocktail of not knowing where you are, why you’re here, and how you got here. With great effort and after several attempts, you finally manage to do it, but the blinding white light sabotages your success, forcing you to shut them again.

Each blink seems to shake off a few more kilograms from your eyelids, and eventually you manage to regain some control. Just enough to squint them into a narrow slit, a poor defense against the light, but enough not to go blind within seconds.

The view before you says little. Grains of sand, losing detail with every further centimeter, form a bleached-yellow stripe that stretches all the way to the horizon, the only part of the landscape you recognize. Just above the sand, a luscious blue sky announces fair weather, interrupted only on one side by faint streaks of green. Palm leaves, you conclude, as your brain sluggishly processes the gathered information.

Did we already land on the beach? you wonder, because you really do feel like you're on vacation. The pleasantly warm sand heats your torso, while the ocean mercifully cools your legs up to the knees, whispering with the sound of the waves that you don’t have to do anything anymore. No worries about corporate work. No stress about endless traffic jams right when you’re rushing to the office, or hot water getting turned off on a chilly day, or another cockroach infestation in your kitchen.

Hmm. This is nice. Wrapped in comfort, you close your eyes again, wanting to enjoy your vacation for as long as you can. You wonder why you chose to lie flat on the sand instead of using a beach chair, but you blame it on being tired. You didn’t really miss the chair all that much. The sand was nice, warm. And so clean, almost impossibly so. You wouldn’t mind lying here for your entire vacation. All five days of it.

Probably couldn’t be bothered, you think. It was a long trip, and you don’t have many days to rest. You have to make the most of every second of doing nothing before you’re dragged back into the chaos, chronic stress, and confined spaces. It’s nice here. Wonderful. You just hope someone wakes you in time for the return flight. You wouldn’t want to waste your already-paid tickets, and the plane definitely won’t wait for latecomers.

The plane.

You furrow your brow, not understanding why the mere memory of a flying machine caused a sharp jolt of pain in your head. Perfect. Just what you needed on vacation, a completely unnecessary pounding in your skull, disrupting your lazy lounging on tropical beaches and sipping coconut drinks surrounded by handsome men and beautiful women practically begging for a quick, steamy vacation fling.

But wait… if you were lying on the beach at your resort, why weren’t you hearing the usual mix of foreign languages and broken English? Why aren’t you hearing anything at all besides the waves and your own racing heartbeat?

Something’s not right. Something is ver much not fucking right. You would never venture alone onto an unmarked beach because why would you? Why take the risk and ruin your vacation?

Where are the people? Where’s the laughter of children and the occasional drone of small plane engines?

Where… are you?

With a speed worthy of light, you lift your head, and then your torso, supporting your weight with your arms. Only now do you realize something is pressing into your neck. You’re choking, some unknown object is tightening around your chest more and more with every second, like a constrictor snake robbing you of precious oxygen.

You have to get rid of it. You have to claw it off, throw it away. With clumsy, chaotic movements, your hands fumble around your neck, fighting the strangler, digging in your nails just to make it let go. Just so you can breathe again.

The enemy relents after a few desperate attempts, when you finally decide to pull it over your head, a task far from easy, considering how tightly it clings to your body. You throw the snake with all your might, and it lands in the sand several meters in front of you. At least now you can breathe again, celebrating the return of this rather useful skill with several deep breaths.

But the sense of freedom and relief doesn’t last long. It abandons you once more when you finally dare to look at what was robbing you of air.

And your entire world stops. Your heart ceases to beat, your lungs freeze mid-motion. Every microscopic process down to the atomic level defies the passage of time.

What you threw off was a life jacket.

And suddenly, everything comes back to you, like a high-speed train, knocking all the air out of your lungs.

Looking out the window and seeing the plane’s engine on fire.

Screaming, chaos.

“We ask that you remain calm and put on your life jackets.”

Getting slammed into the hard walls and something sharp grazing the front of your shin.

And then being swallowed by the ocean. How easily you disappeared into its depths, fighting helplessly against gallons and gallons of water until the jacket pulled you up to the surface, where the situation was just as tragic. The burning plane slowly sinking into the sea, bags floating around you.

And bodies. So many bodies.

You tried to swim to one of the floating bags when a stronger wave dragged you underwater again.

The memories come alive all at once. They catch up to you, enveloping you in a storm of sensations. Falling from the plane, crashing into the cold, churning ocean.

Swallowing water. You must have involuntarily gulped down quite a bit. Eventually, even your lungs remember the uninvited guest, now coughing up traces of nonexistent water in a rattling wheeze, still recalling the vile, wrong feeling of salty water washing through the inside of the organ.

Trying to piece the story together, you come to the conclusion that you lost consciousness just below the surface, already preparing to extinguish your lungs that burned from lack of air.

And then you woke up here. The life jacket was kind enough not to let you drown, and the ocean merciful enough to spit you out onto some island, though you don’t feel particularly grateful, not when your odds of survival still hover dangerously close to zero.

You feel like you're about to explode.

“Oh no, no, no. Please,” you sob. “I want to go home.”

You consider curling into a ball and crying the stress away right here, but when a particularly strong wave soaks your already-wet shorts, bringing a new wave of discomfort, you find the last bits of strength in you to crawl further inland, tail tucked between your legs.

Your thoroughly soaked sneakers, one with its shoelace untied, leave marks on the wet sand before sinking into the dry stretch, where you decide to stay for your meltdown. You drop onto your butt, pulling your knees close to your chest, and break into sobs, finally letting go of all the nightmares haunting you.

You have no idea how long it takes for you to pull yourself together. How much time you needed to cry before your mind began analyzing the situation? Half an hour? Five hours? Ah, if only your watch had stayed loyal instead of falling to the bottom of the ocean. And you can forget about your phone, once glued to your pocket.It divorced you the moment the fight for survival began on that plane. That’s exactly how your luck plays out.

“Well, I just had to fucking go on vacation.”

You say aloud, though the only recipient is the endless horizon of the now-calm ocean. You envy its peace, its ability to tame rage. If only it had used that power during your flight, maybe you wouldn’t feel the urge now to charge the largest organism on Earth with your bare fists. Maybe you wouldn’t be throwing handfuls of the cleanest sand you’ve ever seen just a few feet in front of you, your bare feet digging into it, skin still wrinkled like a raisin. Your sneakers and socks are drying nearby, but you bitterly suspect they won’t be fully dry by the time you need to wear them again.

Even the wind dares not show its face, as if sensing your grief, your fury, your despair, and all the other emotions that should never have appear during vacation. The sun doesn’t scorch; it hides shyly behind a few thin clouds, looking for an excuse not to show up today.

Perfect weather. Too perfect not to mock you.

Hey, see how beautiful your vacation could have been? Too bad, you get to rot on a deserted island instead.

You’re barely holding yourself back from screaming, crying, curling up into a ball, and kicking sand with your feet. All at once.

Just the thought of moving makes you want to cry. Actually, any thought does. You tried to get a grip and focus on what matters most, survival, but it’s still too soon to muster any resolve. Or maybe you’re just too weak? Too used to comfort, to the ease of city life, you’re not ready to let it go.

The truth is, you’re scared. No, you’re terrified. Fleeting sparks of reason urge you to release your primal instinct, to return to the wild animal within, struggling to survive in untouched nature.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want to be an animal, not yet, clinging desperately to the remnants of your old life, warding off thoughts like fire against wolves snarling for food, drinkable water, shelter, warmth. Things so trivial and easy to come by before, you never even imagined you’d need to fight for them, with your steady job and uncomfortable apartment, but at least four safe walls.

You lower your head onto your knees and pull them closer. You want to remain modern, not primal, so you chase the wolves away again. This time they retreat into the dark as you close your eyes for a moment, but you know they’ll return. And soon.

Despite your still-swollen eyes and nose clogged from crying, another sob shakes your chest, drawing out a deep, ancient human stress, long forgotten by many.

More precious minutes burn away doing nothing, but even in your hazy state, you notice the shift of the palm shadows on the beach. Your quiet alarm bell. You need to move, you tell yourself. Now.

Just get up. That’s all. That will be your first success.

Desperation flickers to life again as you consciously swallow, your saliva sluggishly dragging down your throat that now feels like sandpaper. Suddenly you realize how badly you need water. When was the last time you had anything in your mouth that wasn’t saltwater?

It’s not enough to make you embrace your current predicament, but it is enough to get your pampered city ass off the ground. Which your long-unused legs do not appreciate. Forced into bending, then suddenly straightened, they refuse to cooperate, stiff and tingling from inactivity. Thankfully, after a few wobbly steps, you regain control of your body, grab your sneakers and socks, and begin walking along the shore, where the waves gently devour the sand, tracing a path and border for your feet to follow.

You’re a long way from being a survival expert, but you try to follow logic. Or at least what’s left of it.

First, you check for injuries. Something you really should’ve done immediately, but upon waking up... well, you were a little preoccupied. You extend your arms, turning them slowly, bracing for the worst, broken or dislocated bones, but feel relief seeing only a few bruises on your forearms and a dull ache in your shoulder, likely from the chaos on the plane. Nothing alarming, nothing to worry about yet.

Your legs seem to be fine, too. Also peppered with bruises of all sizes, but your joints haven’t been swallowed by swelling. The only new feature is a long but shallow wound down your shin, already sealed with a black scab.

Great, you think. You can now focus mainly on finding  water.

You briefly lift your gaze from the shoreline littered with shells and tiny scuttling crabs fleeing from the two-legged intruder, and peer into the island’s thick jungle.

You know you’ll have to go in there eventually. Face nature head-on. Face the wild. You’ve been putting it off for too long. Curling into yourself was just an excuse, a way to nurture the hope that this is all just a cliché nightmare you’ll wake up from any minute now. But deep down, you know it’s not a nightmare, not a dream. It’s something far worse because it’s real.

The wolf of thirst bites at your throat again. You push it away one last time, continuing your slow walk along the shore.

Soon, you tell yourself. Soon you’ll head in there, find water, find something to eat. You start laying out a plan, praying it’ll be as simple in practice as it seems in your mind. Surely, there must be some exotic fruit here, right? The island looked far too big not to grow anything edible.

Ugh. You just want to go home already.

You turn your head toward your new nemesis — the ocean — scanning the waves for familiar shapes of suitcases, bags, or backpacks, proof of civilization, but the ocean senses your hatred and hides its treasures from you. You see nothing. The water has swallowed your hopes.

Your expression drops, sours. You promise yourself that you’ll never set foot on a beach again. Yeah, next vacation, you’re going to the mountains. So many choices. The Alps, maybe the Tatras? You’ve heard the Bieszczady Mountains are beautiful this time of year. Just you, trails stretching for miles, a cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere, and zero sand.

But first, you have to get off this island. If I even make it off, you think bitterly.

You will, you convince yourself. You definitely will.

Someone will start looking for you eventually, someone will notice that an entire plane disappeared in the middle of the ocean. Mhm, just a few days of survival. Once you’ve figured out a source of drinkable water, found some food and a safe place to shelter, you’ll draw huge SOS signs across every beach. Yes, you’ll get out. It won’t be easy, but you will.

Your auto-pep talk fills you with new determination. It’s just a few days. You’ll manage, definitely. By the end of the week, you’ll be asleep in your comfy bed again, you think with enthusiasm. With that boost, you keep walking another dozen meters along the shoreline, scanning for any loot among the waves but quickly give up, as the rhythmic crashing of water only sharpens your thirst.

Drinking water. Now.

You glance toward the green mass of vegetation swallowing most of the island. It makes it hard to gauge the island’s shape or size, but you can tell it’s not small. The beach stretches endlessly like a runway, paralleled by a line of coconut palms heavy with their armored fruit. You make a mental note to return to them later with an exceptionally sharp rock.

You slide on your still-damp socks and sneakers, wincing at the unpleasant wetness enveloping your feet, then take a cautious, tentative step into the wild, into the unknown and the primal, and the green of exotic flora swallows you whole.

At first, navigating the sparse greenery is easy. You just have to occasionally push a leaf aside or duck under a branch. The problems start later, as the vegetation thickens and spiderwebs begin appearing everywhere, always with eight-legged residents at their centers, along with a variety of beetles and ants. The last two don’t make you want to catapult out of your own skin in fear, at least.

Finding your bearings doesn’t come naturally. Large and small leaves blur into one endless shade of green, but now and then you manage to spot a landmark to guide you back. An odd-shaped tree, a big rock. To be extra sure you won’t get lost in this breathing green labyrinth, you find a dry stick and start scratching an X into every third tree, marking the path in both directions.

You’re just about to give up hope of finding anything useful when suddenly the thicket begins to thin, tempting you with open space and pumping new energy into your legs, urging you to speed up. The dryness in your throat is unbearable now. You’ve soothed it a few times by forcing yourself to lick drops of water off leaves, but honestly, you’d rather never do that again.

You know survival on a deserted island means doing weird things. But still, you feel… humiliated, french kissing leaves for a single droplet of water. This is not how you imagined your exclusive vacation.

“It’s no longer vacation, you idiot.” you hiss.

You part a leaf blocking your view and can’t help the smile forming on your face.

“Or maybe... it kind of still is?”

A large lagoon greets you with open arms, framed by a beach of pristinely clean sand. The pool in the middle glistens with dark, but clear water, surprisingly deep for a lagoon.

You let out a quiet, appreciative whistle.

“Wow. It’s beautiful” you say aloud, only to purse your lips into a thin line.

Really? You’re already talking to yourself? Bit early to be going mad.

You scan the length of the lagoon with your eyes, wishing you could be here under completely different circumstances, when your gaze locks onto something... familiar. You squint, slowly moving toward one corner, where sand fades into solid ground, and with each step it becomes clearer. The mass of green you took for ivy and bushes is actually shaped like something man-made.

That “something” turns out to be the crumbling remnants of a stone house. Cracked and neglected, finally caught by the passage of time, merciless even to the strongest of materials.

The house has no roof and is missing one wall, but the remaining three offer tempting shelter from wind and potential rain, should you plan to (which you definitely don’t) stay here more than three days.

The problem is, if you want to get off this island, you’ll need a clear view of the ocean, something the narrow lagoon outlet doesn’t provide. But surely there’s no harm in spending one night here, right? You can already picture a fire in the center of the ruins, the warmth, grilled fish over the flames...

And you’re not sure if you’re successfully gaslighting yourself or if some ancient force is now in charge, but suddenly the cracked walls, floor overgrown with moss and weeds, and a massive branch sneaking in through what might have once been a window seem... cozy.

Honestly, your apartment back in the city wasn’t much better.

That thought convinces you to settle here for at least one night. And when you look toward the corner where a tree has also sought refuge, you spot several large papayas growing near its trunk, and you know: this is your camp. Your lips curl into a smile as you realize the fruits are ripe and hanging low enough to grab. Just a little jump and you are now clutching two plump fruits to your chest. You even kiss one in joy, unable to believe how fucking lucky you are.

You won't die of hunger! And you'll quench your thirst a little while you're at it. Really, it couldn't be better.

But, alas, you’ve just never had good timing.

The sound of water breaking pulls you out of your bliss. Before you even have time to process what’s happening, you press yourself tightly against the cracked wall, right beside a rectangular cutout that probably once served as a door, and you cover your mouth with your hand, forced to hold the large fruits with just one arm, which, practically speaking, is no easy task.

You hear dripping water and loud splashing sounds, the kind you associate with a large body leaving the water, but it’s the volume of those sounds that worries you the most. You have no doubt that whatever just crawled out of the water is big. Huge, even.

A whale? An orca? You try to guess, unconvinced that it's worth risking your life just to satisfy your curiosity. But you instantly disprove every guess with what you already know about those animals.

Still, you want to look. You know it’s stupid and it could end in disaster, but you want to. Just for a moment, for a second. You’ll peek out gently, careful not to make yourself an easy snack or target, and you’ll slip back to your beach silently.

Mhm, you’ll even let that thing have your (when did it start being yours anyway?) little corner, you won’t hold a grudge.

But you have to peek. Just for a second.

Undecided, you gently bite your lip.

You’ll look. But just for a millisecond.

But the very moment you stick out even a millimeter of your head and eye, you know you’re a liar. The millisecond is gone. Then a full second. Then a second more. Then a third. And you can’t move.

He’s beautiful, unearthly. Not belonging to your world, ripped straight from fairytales and legends, teasing your brain just enough that it no longer knows whether what you glimpse from the corner of your eye is even real. Or maybe such a drastic relocation into entirely unfamiliar conditions was enough to start seeing things?

A merman. A real merman.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor, but you shut your mouth just in time before a startled squeak can betray you.

The creature is enormous, roughly the size of an orca, though you know that the tail hidden beneath the lagoon’s surface could easily stretch your estimation by another meter or two. What draws your eye is the exotic palette of colors decorating his smooth skin. Muscular arms sunken into the clean, wheat-colored sand blaze red, though the crimson is interrupted by streaks of grey that trail down his forearms to his neck, where they fan out toward a white underbelly. His head, adorned with a crest rising from the center of his forehead and extending into a long dorsal fin, suddenly bursts into a pastel navy blue that flows down his back to the massive tail — a mishmash of the entire color wheel.

Humanoid. Too humanoid. Toying with your understanding of human beauty’s uniqueness. And yet here it is, just a safe dozen or so meters ahead of you, breathing. If you squinted, he really could pass for a person.

To keep yourself from going insane and to chase off intrusive thoughts, you pinch your forearm. Ouch. You’re real. But that also means he is too, giving you one more reason to go crazy.

Unable to tear your eyes from the siren monster, you decide to examine him more closely. You focus on his face, bizarrely human, yet ancient. Nothing like the stony mugs of instinct-driven animals. You feel like deep thoughts are swirling behind that blue skin, thoughts that also brim in those enormous, azure eyes. The distance between you is small enough that you can even make out the emotions running through him.

He looks sad. Pitiful, even, if you could compare the size and glint in his eyes to a sorrowful puppy, which your brain tries and fails to reconcile with the scarred body, head, and a face bearing the marks of a long life. You know instinctively this creature has years of survival behind him, every second of existence spent fighting for access to basic needs.

Which might also mean he's well-versed in the art of hunting humans, you realize with dread. You can only guess what makes up his diet, but judging by the sharp claws on his long webbed fingers, you suspect he’s not a peaceful herbivore.

Not that you’d risk an interaction with him just to test your theories. No, you'd really like to get back home in one piece.

Great. So now you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. There’s no way you’re getting out of here without catching the siren’s attention. In fact, no matter where you go from here, there's a chance of encountering him again, and you really, really didn’t want to find out if he’s a man-eater.

Or worse — a hungry man-eater.

You glance around, looking for a wide enough gap in the foliage for a silent escape, but you're not even given the chance to take a single step. Your shoes are nailed to the earth by...

Singing.

A siren's song.

Mournful, pleading, and so raw that you hold your breath, afraid of it interrupting his piece.

It reminds you of the whalesong you’ve heard in documentaries, but each chirp, whine, and groan is loaded with sorrow and bitterness, bombarding your heart, even if you don’t understand the lyrics. You don’t need words to grasp the melancholic message, one that cuts through interspecies barriers.

The siren doesn’t stop singing, feeding his hidden audience new verses, each as depressing as the last. Like a newly discovered song, you can’t stop listening. All your senses retreat to make room for sharper hearing. You inhale his song, fill yourself with sad sounds, experiencing his suffering as if it were your own. Even if it’s just a trick to lure a tasty human snack out of hiding.

That slightly tempers your emotional response.

Right. Of course.

Maybe he knows you’re here. Feels you. Smells your tasty human flesh and is trying to coax you into the open like you were some kind of takeout.

You blink a few times, shaking off the last traces of compassion, proud of yourself for seeing through the sad facade of those puppy-blue eyes and the angsty concert. In the blink of an eye, you remember you need to get back to the beach, your only chance of spotting a ship or a plane in the patch of sky not covered by trees, because he already won the fight for the cozy shelter.

You return to searching for an escape route when suddenly, you freeze.

Your entire body blue-screens, and it must have rearranged every organ inside you too, because now you can feel your heartbeat in your ass. Because to your left, right by your head, a giant brown tarantula is slowly crawling along a cracked wall. So close you can see every hair on its abdomen.So close you can hear the soft tippy taps of all eight legs.

Oh, fuck.

“AHHHH!”

Your body reacts faster than common sense can remind you that the real predator, the one that could actually kill you, probably shouldn’t know it has company. You leap right, springing through the remains of a door straight onto the warm sand surrounding the lagoon.

Still clutching two papayas tightly to your chest, you try to stay upright on your wobbling, jelly-like legs, but it’s no use. You drop to your knees, the soft sand cushioning the pain. You know you should be running, right now, immediately. You urge your legs into action, begging silently but desperately for your own body to cooperate, but your rapid, ragged breathing drowns out your pleas.

When you realize that an immediate escape is no longer an option, all you can do is curl into the fetal position, forehead kissing the warm sand.

Hmm. Nice feeling, you think. You wouldn’t mind dying surrounded by the softness of this tropical, clean beach.

You hear nothing but the whistle of air sucked through your lips.

Nothing else.

Nothing...

You freeze.

You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes are now the size of dinner plates.

For a moment, you wonder how the hell you’re still alive. How come you don’t feel claws and teeth ripping through your flesh like a piece of paper? The agonizing pain of muscles tearing and bones shattering while you’re eaten alive, disappearing into the siren’s jaws. Bite by bite, until the last memory of your existence belongs to him.

But nothing like that happens. All your tissues are intact. You are neither bitten, nor scratched, nor swallowed alive.

Why the hell are you still alive?

Out of stupidity or curiosity, though you suspect it's more the former, you decide to make eye contact with the predator.

Slowly, you lift your head, gradually rediscovering his form. Milky white belly, swirls of red and grey skin on his chest, and finally, his head, flanked by small, bristling navy fins.

Still beautiful. Majestic. Enormous.

But as potential prey, can you allow yourself the pleasure of such hidden compliments? You wonder if deer also think like this before being devoured by wolves. Do they finally recognize the predator’s beauty only moments before death?

The humanoid face is turned toward you, expression frozen in comforting, familiar shock. The enormous eyes, adorned with remarkable white pupils, have doubled in size, and his mouth has fallen open, giving you a limited glimpse inside.

Teeth. Sharp teeth, undeniably those of a meat-eater.

For the second time that day, you feel some incomprehensible force rearranging your organs.

A flicker in the blue eye. A twitch in the human-like torso. A subtle lean in your direction pulls your heart from your ass back into place, and with it, apparently, the feeling in your legs, because suddenly, you’re ready to care about your own survival again.

You never believed those myths about time slowing down in the face of mortal danger. You thought that was a tired trope from action movies, overused to the point where you physically rolled your eyes whenever you saw it on screen.

But apparently, it’s very real.

Because there’s no other way to explain how slowly the creature’s expression morphs a few meters in front of you. His brow furrows, jaw opens and closes again and again, chewing, analyzing.

As if wondering what to do with you. If this pitiful, miniature oddity before him was even worth using as a toothpick?

To eat or not to eat? That is the question but you don’t want to know his answer.

Your body gambles on the oldest bet known to humankind.

You go all in on running.

Faster than you've ever moved in your entire life, you bolt toward the green thicket.

You could swear that the pathetic, almost pleading howl behind you and the shifting sound of something slithering across the sand belong to the siren, but you don’t have the courage to turn your head and confirm it.

You disappear behind massive leaves, blindly trying to make your way back to the familiar beach.

And ever after a long while, you can still hear the lamenting wail creeping up behind you.

[holylulusworld]

Bad Hugs

Summary: You didn‘t want a gender reveal party.

Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, awful mother-in-law, remorse, fluff

A/N: This is a scene I wanted to use in Monster-in-law, but it didn’t match the story. It’s a standalone drabble with no connection to the original series. Inspired by a SM post.

A gender reveal party. You never wanted to do one of these. Getting to know the gender of your baby should’ve been between you and your husband.

Winnifred Barnes, your mother-in-law, had a different opinion. And, as always, at one point Bucky gave in. He organized the party and invited your family and friends.

At first, you hated it, but the closer you got to the revelation, the more you got excited to share the best-kept secret with your family and close friends.

People chatted and ate cake, you got lots of gifts, and it was an overly nice and happy day.

“Alright,” Bucky cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. He took your hand in his to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. “It’s time to reveal the gender!”

Everyone clapped their hands as you expectantly looked at Bucky. He held a gender-reveal confetti powder cannon in his hands, looking at you.

“Just tell us,” Steve called from among the guests. “Do not kill us with anticipation, Buck. We all want to know.”

“Okay, okay!” Bucky huffed. He aimed the cannon upwards, twisting the bottom of the rod. Blue. It’s blue, and you could cry because you’re so happy.

You jumped up and down and squealed. Bucky wanted to hug you, but right when you wanted to hug him too, Winnifred shoved you aside to hug him first.

You stood there, frozen to the spot, gasping audibly. It took you a moment to realize that Bucky called your name. He wanted to hug you, and you let him. “Oh, so you do remember me, your pregnant wife.”

Bucky nodded against you, still overly excited after getting to know he was going to have a baby boy.

The room was silent after what Winnifred did, and even more when you turned toward her. For years, you shut your mouth and let her walk all over you, not today.

“Why do you always have to be like this?” You snapped at her, making Steve chuckle. “Why couldn’t you let Bucky and me have this moment?”

“He’s my son, Y/N,” she bit back and dared to look hurt at your question. “I wanted to share his happiness.”

“Oh, are you the one carrying his child?” You put your hands on your swollen belly, stepping toward Winnifred. “Fine, you can celebrate together. I’m out of this.”

Everyone gasped when you grabbed one of the cakes to throw it in Winnifred’s face. “Have the cake and eat it too,” you snarled before storming out of the room.

“Doll, please open the door,” Bucky sighed outside the master bedroom.

You went straight to bed and locked the door. It didn’t matter to you that your family and friends were still at the party. They’d understand you had to leave after the stunt Winnifred pulled.

“Baby doll, please let me in.” He tried again. “I know you are mad at me.”

“You can bet your ass I’m mad,” you growled from inside the room. “You let her steal the show! A show I didn’t want in the first place. You begged me to do this shit only for her to ruin the moment.”

“I know,” Bucky murmured your name and pressed his forehead against the door. “Everyone told me so tonight. I was just stunned when she hugged me.”

“She ruined the moment for us, Buck. It has always been like that,” you sniffled and turned around in your bed. “Since the moment you introduced me to your family, your mother has tried to get all the attention. Even when I broke my arm on Christmas, she faked a terrible migraine, so everyone would care for her.”

“Mom always needed a lot of assurance and attention. I’m sorry she did this today. This was our moment, and she shouldn’t have come in between us. I told her so. Dad told her so. Hell, all of our guests told her so. Sam even threw a second cake at her.”

“I love Sammy,” you sniffled.

“He’s a punk, but yes.” You giggled because Bucky only calls the people he likes punk. “Baby doll, I swear this will never happen again.”

“Yeah, because this was a once-in-a-lifetime moment, Bucky,” you snapped at him. “We can’t redo the gender reveal. She ruined everything once again.”

“I know, baby, I know.” He whispered your name and scratched at the door. “Please let me in.”

“No. You can sleep on the couch tonight. Alpine and I will sleep here alone. This time, you should’ve stepped in, but you didn’t…”

“Baby doll, how are you feeling? Is everything alright? Do you need anything?” For days, Bucky followed you like a kicked puppy. He tried to make things up to you, but you were still hurt.

It was Winnifred’s fault, but you wished, Bucky stepped in this time.

“Do you want me to throw a cake at my mom again?” He asked, watching you pat Alpine, the stray he found before he found you. “I’ll do it.”

“What?” You blinked a few times. “I thought Sam threw a cake at her.”

“Uh—it was teamwork,” he laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to set her straight, and Sam looked at the cake. It was a silent agreement that he hands me the cake, and I throw it in her face.”

You snickered. “This doesn’t mean you are forgiven.”

“It was a blueberry cake,” he sneaked closer to whisper in your ear, “her dress was ruined, and she hates blueberries.”

“I consider forgiving you,” you said and patted Alpine’s head. “But I do not want to be near your mother…like ever. She just proved that there’s no way she’ll respect boundaries. I won’t have it. You can choose. Her or me and your baby.”

“You,” he immediately answered. “And the baby…and Alpine,” Bucky added. “I don’t know if she’ll ever change. If you do not want her around you or our baby, I’ll make sure she stays away…”