#shout it from the rooftops // ic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

batsovergotham · 9 days ago

Text

tangled threads pt 1

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

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: more smut guys i cant be contained, mentions of cheating, shit abt to go down next chapter, jealousy, reader is lowkey an overthinker

w/c: 11.7k

a/n: prepare yourselves mentally for the next chapter. anyways yummy possessive mark smut. also shout out to anons birthday today ily mama<33

Your suit itches a little under your arms.

It’s not a big deal, not really. You’d stitched this one yourself after all, and honestly, it’s the greatest version yet. Sleeker, cleaner, sturdier. No duct tape. No odd wrinkles that make you appear like an amateur. The webbing design is symmetrical this time, and you finally worked out how to line the soles so you wouldn’t fall off every damp rooftop like a young deer on ice.

Progress.

Still, you quiver a bit as you crouch over the alleyway, perched on the edge of a fire escape, head inclined.

It was calm a second ago. Just the normal city street , car horns, distant music, some man yelling at his phone. But then you heard it.

A skirmish.

And then

“Shut up! I said give me the bag!”

Your eyes bolt up wide.

There it is.

It’s the type of stuff you’re supposed to be used to by now. A classic mugging. Textbook crime. You should feel like this is ordinary, that it’s no big deal because this is your work now. Your obligation.

But your stomach still twists, adrenaline coiling like a spring behind your ribs. You’re nervous. You always are.

Still, you move.

You slither up the side of the structure with a practiced elegance you didn’t have a few weeks ago. Natural webs have some attractions. They’re stronger than the synthetic stuff more elastic, too. And your fingers? They just know how to hang on now, like your DNA rebuilt itself into something savage and spider-ey.

You glance down from the rooftop and notice them two guys in jeans and jackets, both jittery, frantic. One of them’s clutching a knife. The other’s snatching a pocketbook out of a woman’s arms middle-aged, short brown hair, immobilized with fright. She’s too stunned to yell. Just wide eyes and shaky hands.

You don't hesitate.

You leap.

The air whistles past your ears as you tumble midair, webbing connecting to a lamppost to slow your descent. You fall precisely between the woman and the assailants, hunched low, one hand on the pavement, head angled up beneath the white glare of your glasses.

They flinch.

You straighten slowly. Try not to sound cocky. But… well, maybe a touch cocky.

“Hi. So. I know muggings are, like, a city staple, but have we considered not scaring innocent people today?”

The person with the knife lunges, predictably. You sidestep and web his arm to the dumpster behind him in one smooth motion. The webbing adheres instantaneously, holding strong.

“Whoa, fast reflexes,” you mutter. “But uh… maybe don’t stab strangers. Ever.”

The second person attempts to run. You link his shoes to the pavement and he eats it hard, sprawling face-first with a muffled moan.

The woman holds her bag tighter. She’s trembling.

You turn to her softly, keeping your voice low. “You okay?”

She nods once, speechless.

You motion toward the opening of the alley. “There’s a police station two blocks over. I can walk you there if you want or I can wire these dudes to a lamp post and call it in.”

She blinks. And then she grins.

“I can make it,” she murmurs. “Thank you. Thank you.”

You grin under the mask. “Anytime.”

She hurries out, heels clicking on the sidewalk as you link the assailants together and lift them up onto the wall like hanging, very puzzled Christmas ornaments.

You're still smiling a little when you leap back up to the roofs. The breeze feels good against your skin. Cold, crisp. You exhale and let yourself breathe.

That’s the problem with evenings like these. You don’t just halt crime.

You recall why you’re doing this in the first place.

You’re not a cop. You’re not a soldier. You’re not a millionaire with gadgets or a flying suit.

You’re just… you.

Some nerd with a brain full of comic books, a heart much too tender for your own good, and a weird radioactive spiderbite that chose to make your life complicated.

But right now, someone’s safe because you showed up. And that’s enough.

You fire a web, swing into the night, and let the city hum beneath your feet.

You’re back on patrol five minutes tops when your phone buzzes against your hip.

Which is odd.

Because, like… no one actually calls you when you’re out here. You’ve been careful, about the mask, about the second persona, about compartmentalizing. The entire double life thing is taxing, yet you make it work. You have to.

Still, your heart skips. Because if it’s someone who knows you, truly knows you, then something could be wrong.

You land on an empty rooftop and fumble to grasp the burner you keep strapped inside your suit, right below your ribcage. The screen lights up.

Blocked number.

Great. Classic. Totally cool.

You hesitate, thumb lingering.

Then sigh. “Fine,” you mumble. “Caution to the wind, I guess.”

You tap the response button.

There’s static, heavy, thick. Then a voice, low and piercing.

“Spider-Woman. Confirm identity.”

You freeze.

Nobody calls you that. Not out loud. Not formally. You didn’t even select the name, it kind of just happened. You made a few public saves, and the news stations did the rest. You still shudder a bit when you hear it, like it belongs to someone else.

“…Who is this?” you question carefully, without hiding your mistrust. “Because if this is a prank, it’s very elaborate and kind of terrifying, and also I have a paper due tomorrow, so-”

“We don’t have time,” the voice snaps. “We’ve been tracking you for a while. You’re registered as an unclassified enhanced. We’ve got graphics, reports, footage. And for now, we don’t care about jurisdiction.”

Your mouth gets dry.

That’s not good.

That’s the antithesis of good.

“…Okay,” you respond warily. “Still waiting on the part where I don’t hang up.”

Another beat. Then the voice changes, less harsh, more strained. Still serious.

“There’s something happening. Midtown. Three blocks south of the Flaxan contact point. We’ve got Guardians on-site. Situation's escalating rapidly. You’re the only augmented we have in range not tied up in a response unit.”

Your brain strains to keep up.

You’ve heard of the Guardians of the Globe. Who hasn’t? They’re legends. Heavy hitters. Real-deal superheroes with powers that make your webs look like party tricks. You’re quite sure if you ever met one, you’d forget how to talk. Or breathe.

And they need backup?

“You’re sure you have the right person?” you ask, voice thin. “Because I’m kind of more of a friendly-neighborhood-falling-off-buses type. If this is, like, end-of-the-world level stuff, I’m not exactly your girl.”

“You’re in the air in thirty seconds or we send in someone else,” the voice says. “We’ve got a possible offworld breach. Hostile. High-speed descent. Debris fields are developing. Civilians still in the area.”

Then quieter, almost like a warning.

“This isn’t about being ready. It’s about showing up.”

Your stomach twists.

You want to say no. You truly do.

Because you’ve battled muggers and bank robbers. You’ve hauled drivers out of automobile crashes and stitched up the occasional robbery victim, but this? This sounds larger. This sounds weird.

This sounds like the type of thing that people die in.

You squeeze the bridge of your nose through your mask. “God, I didn’t even bring snacks.”

The voice doesn’t laugh. You hang up.

And then you’re running.

You swing hard, fast, quicker than usual because suddenly there’s a tightness in your chest that won’t quit. You’re thinking about debris. About civilians. About what the hell “offworld breach” means. You’re thinking about the Guardians. About what type of thing makes them require support.

Your mind swirls through every half-finished scientific headline and tabloid theory you’ve ever skimmed. Alien threat? Another dimensional rip? Viltrumite thing? No, can’t be. You’d know. Right?

You don’t know.

That’s the worst part.

You’re swinging into the unknown, and you’re not ready.

But you’re going anyhow.

Because the woman in the alley’s probably home by now, cuddling her family.

Because someone else might not be.

Because if this is what it means to matter, then maybe you owe it to the city, and to yourself, to try.

You thrust yourself into the sky, pulse thumping, and hope, desperately, that you’re enough.

The first thing that hits you when you go to Midtown is the smell.

It clogs your nose through the filters on your mask, acrid smoke, burnt metal, dust. There’s a peculiar flavor in the air too, electric and biting, like the city’s been scraped raw. The type of stench that tells you something very, very wrong is happening.

You fall on a rooftop hard enough to make your knees ache, lungs burning as you take it all in.

Below you, the city is tearing itself apart.

Chunks of the roadway are caved in. Cars are flipped, on fire, some burning wrecks with doors hanging open. Windows are broken for blocks. Civilians are rushing in every direction, carrying wailing children, holding phones, yelling names. Sirens cry from someplace nearby, but the noises get swallowed in the tumult.

And in the middle of all of it?

Flaxans.

You’d seen them before, on TV, in the news, maybe once or twice in the darker reaches of the internet. But this? Seeing them in person is like getting a hit to the stomach. They’re shorter than you expected, barely five feet tall, but muscular. Thick limbs, squat bodies jammed into luminous green armor that hums with alien electronics. Their moves are military, coordinated, rehearsed, rapid. They march ahead in line, mowing out anything that stands in their path with pulse rifles and wrist-mounted plasma cannons.

And strangely, they appear comfortable here.

Like this is normal.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. Then you fire a web and descend directly into the midst of the combat zone.

You hit the ground in a tumble, spring up swinging, literally, and web a Flaxan’s face to a mailbox before he can aim. Another rounds on you, but you flip over his head, twist his arm back with a webline, and smack him to the pavement. It’s like a dance, only you’re the only one not invited and everyone else brought weapons.

A flurry of yellow and red surges past you.

You turn just in time to witness Rex lob a bright metal bolt toward a clump of Flaxans. It adheres to the earth between them and detonates, sending them flying like crash test dummies. Shrapnel showers down in every direction.

He’s delving into the belt around his hips now, fingers lightning-fast as he retrieves more discs, random stuff, really. You can’t even tell what half of it is until it flashes brilliant orange and shoots into the air in a beautiful arc.

You don’t hesitate.

You leap in.

“Nice throw,” you yell, arriving behind him just as another disc goes off. “That from baseball practice, or just lots of recreational violence?”

Rex turns, eyebrows rising under his visor. “Spider-Woman?”

You web a Flaxan attempting to sneak up behind him and slam it into a wall. “The one and only. Unless someone’s cosplaying extremely hard right now.”

“I thought you were just some social media hoax.”

“Honestly? Same,” you mutter, ducking a plasma shot. “But it turns out I’m very annoying in person.”

He tosses a metal disk that flashes brilliantly and pops like a firecracker in the face of another soldier. “Well damn. Welcome to the big leagues.”

You web-swing over a mound of rubble, land on a Flaxan’s back, and kick him flat. “Didn’t get the welcome basket. Just smoke and aliens.”

Rex flings a handful of incandescent bars at an advancing gang. They disperse, and two get knocked off their feet by the concussive explosion.

“You got moves, Webhead.”

You roll your eyes under the mask. “You’re gonna call me that again, aren’t you.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You don't have time to answer. There’s a harsh noise, mechanical, electric. A pulse in the air. It makes your teeth ache.

You both whirl around just in time to witness another portal blast open in the center of the roadway. The borders glow green and sticky, like jelly formed of static. A dozen more Flaxans fall through, landing in tight formation. Their weapons are already pointed.

“Come on!” you groan. “Does this planet look like it has the resources for this??”

Rex chucks a disk like a grenade and blasts out the first line. The following batch doesn’t even flinch.

You lunge forward, webbing two of them to a lamppost, only to get blasted backward by a pulse round. It hits your side, not a clean shot, but enough to knock the wind out of you.

You slam against the bonnet of a Prius, denting it so severely the windshield spiderwebs below you. Your ribs sting.

Rex lands near you with a grunt. “Still with me, Webhead?”

You groan. “Yeah. But I think I messed up this guy’s insurance premium.”

He grins and pulls you up, tossing another glowing disk into a Flaxan’s chest. “You always this mouthy in fights?”

You cough, then web-launch yourself into a wall run. “You always this explosive in team-ups?”

His laugh is wild and short, like it’s simply muscle memory now.

But then you hear it.

A grinding, metallic screech.

You jerk your head toward the sound and freeze.

The school bus from earlier, still teetering on the verge of the hole in the road, is starting to tilt.

The earth underneath it collapses.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You shoot a webline to the back of the bus, push yourself forward, and fall hard on the side of a building across the street. Your arms extend, strain tugging hard through your shoulders, almost enough to dislocate. But you hold. You have to hold.

The bus tilts. Groans.

And finally settles.

The back wheels impact pavement again. You release the web slowly, carefully, and the frame creaks as it levels out.

The hatch in the back breaks open.

Kids pour out. A dozen of them, coughing, eyes wide with horror. One tiny girl, maybe seven, throws her arms around your waist and clings like her life relies on it.

You freeze.

Then softly, one arm still shaking, you embrace her back.

“You’re okay now,” you mumble. “I’ve got you.”

A tremendous thud hits nearby. You turn just in time to see Monster Girl fall in her altered condition, covered in gore, panting hard.

She stares at you, then the kids.

Her voice is gruff, yet real. “Nice save.”

You nod, still breathless. “I had help.”

She snorts. “Hope you’ve got more where that came from.”

Another portal flickers open. You hear more screaming in the distance. The sky’s become a peculiar green in places, the boundaries of the city flashing like a glitch in a video game.

But you’re here.

Rex is still tossing homemade bombs like it’s second nature. Monster Girl is smashing through enemy lines like she was born for it. Dupli-Kate and Bulletproof are assisting evacuate civilians from an overturned ambulance.

And you?

You're bleeding. Sore. Ribs bruised. Every bit of you screaming.

But you’re still standing.

Still swinging.

Still saving lives.

You’re not the strongest. Not the quickest. Not the most powerful person on this block.

But you showed up.

The world narrows.

It’s not the smoke, or the wailing sirens, or even the metallic fragrance of burning debris that surrounds your senses now.

It’s him.

Invincible.

Hovering only a few feet above the ground, suit scuffed, hair a wild jumble around the edges of his mask, chest heaving from the strain of smashing through an alien army and nevertheless, somehow, beaming at you like this is just a pick-up basketball game instead of a war.

"You’re good," he replies, voice raspy with exertion but obviously warm. Genuine.

You blink, briefly disarmed. You’re used to people shrugging you off, underestimating you, some kid in a handmade suit but there's none of that in his voice. No condescending tone, no expression of amazement that you managed to stay up.

It’s simple. Honest.

“You’re not terrible yourself, Hotshot," you fire back, heart thumping foolishly hard under your ribs.

The second the words leave your tongue, you wince inside.

Hotshot? Seriously? What are you, a walking 90s action comic script?

He glides a bit closer, hands slack at his sides, his whole body still crackling with velocity he hasn’t completely burnt off yet.

"Hotshot, huh?" he says, taunting, cocking his head slightly.

You struggle, backpedaling like a defective Roomba. “I meant, you’re fast! Like, you know. A hot... thing. Flying. Through... air."

You trail off, humiliated. You can feel the heat spreading over your cheeks inside the mask.

But he simply laughs, not harshly. It’s smooth and brilliant, somehow cutting clear through the smoke and sirens. It smacks you down in your gut, a vibration you don’t know what to do with.

“Well, I’m not gonna argue,” he adds, mouth twisting into an even larger smile. “I’ll take ‘Hotshot.’ Makes me sound cooler than I am.”

You huff a chuckle without intending to, the stress oozing out of your painful muscles for just a second.

Movement out of the corner of your eye yanks you back to reality.

A group of Flaxans, still armed and regrouping over the ruins, assemble for a charge.

Instinct kicks in.

You don't need a plan. You don’t even need a glimpse.

You and Invincible move in perfect harmony.

You dash low and quickly, webbing the ground in front of the Flaxans to make them slip. He swoops above in a broad arc, striking his fists together in a shockwave that flattens their first row like bowling pins.

You’re almost there by the time the second line regains footing, slingshotting off a lamppost and kicking the leader square in the chest. He goes down with a groan, shattering pavement.

Another Flaxan tries to flank you, Invincible intercepts effortlessly, seizing the soldier by the collar and flinging him through the remnants of a bus stop.

You dart forward, webbing a plasma weapon out of a Flaxan’s hands, catching it midair, and tossing it to Invincible.

He catches it one-handed, turns it, and smashes it over another alien’s head in one seamless move.

Crash.

"Good job, Web-head!"

You sigh loudly as you fall alongside him. "Spider-Woman!"

He grins, the type of grin that’s half apology, half doing it on purpose because it’s hilarious.

You don’t punch him.

You want to.

But you don’t.

Instead, you focus.

There’s a lull, brief but golden, and in it, you hear the crackling of something greater starting up. Another portal. A last wave.

The earth under your feet shudders.

Invincible soars higher, searching the horizon. His expression hardens behind the mask.

"They're bringing in heavy reinforcements," he says. "Bigger tech. Maybe even tanks."

You shoot a web at a cracked traffic light and pull yourself up to perch at his height.

"So what’s the plan, Hotshot?" you tease, but your voice is firmer now, shifting into something more natural, like the two of you have always battled together.

He stares at you, really looks, and flashes that same, unbreakable, reckless smile that must terrify the hell out of every criminal he confronts.

"Plan? Easy," he adds, rolling his shoulders. "We hit 'em harder."

You snort, shaking your head. "Ohhh, you’re one of those. Big punch, no intellect."

He pretends to be hurt. "Hey! I have at least some brain."

"Sure," you quip, firing a webline at a neighboring structure to swing ahead, "Maybe half a brain cell rattling around in there like a marble."

He laughs again, loud, unguarded, real, and it fires something in your chest.

Not simply admiration. Not simply attraction.

Something familiar.

...Weird.

You don’t have time to linger on it.

The last Flaxan gateway opens with a shriek that shakes your teeth.

The roadway virtually implodes as a massive mech suit strides through, Flaxan design, green armor, twin weapons strapped to its shoulders, storming toward the city center like a behemoth out of a nightmare.

Civilians trapped under a smashed taxi yell nearby.

Invincible cracks his knuckles.

You web-swing down and settle alongside him.

He stares at you, grinning crookedly again. “One last dance?”

You beam a grin back behind your mask, pulse pumping.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

And without another word, you launch yourselves together, him a blur of yellow and blue, you a streak of red and black, straight into the heart of the war.

Side by side.

Like you’ve been doing it forever.

The Flaxan’s mech claw snaps around Mark’s neck mid-flight, yanking him down like a broken toy. Metal fingers crush into his throat and collarbone, bruises bursting dark and ugly across his skin. He gasps, head wrenched back so violently his collarbone creaks under the pressure. Blood fills his mouth, hot and metallic, his vision swimming at the edges. The Flaxan squeezes harder, grinding bone and muscle until his skin blooms purple and black.

"Not... today," Mark rasps, his voice shredded. He slams his forehead into the mech’s cockpit, shattering glass, the grip faltering.

He crashes to the ground, coughing, the bruises burning like brands but rage drives him back to his feet, fists clenched, ready to rip the monster apart.

The mech lets out one more, earsplitting cry before it smashes backward, its metal structure crumpling like a soda can under its own weight. Invincible doesn’t hesitate, he leaps forward, shouldering the wreck mid-fall to redirect it away from the crumbling residential block.

The mech smashes into an abandoned construction lot with a gut-punching BOOM, sending a rolling wave of dust and grit into the air.

You hardly have time to respond.

You shoot a web at a damaged crane, hauling yourself up and swinging in a broad arc, your body cutting through the dust cloud in a tight corkscrew spin before you crash softly into the battered pavement.

It’s silent now.

Not peaceful, there’s still the distant screech of sirens, the crackling of burning debris but the worst is passed.

The Flaxan gateways are gone.

The aliens are scattered or unconscious.

You straighten up slowly, every part of you hurting.

Your suit is ripped across your side, your suit torn at the knuckles, and you’re quite sure you twisted your ankle on that last nasty landing.

But you’re alive.

Standing.

Victorious.

And as you peek over your shoulder, you see him.

Invincible.

He drifts down through the settling dust like a shot-out star, boots hitting the cracked pavement with a hard, grounded thud. His suit is charred and shredded in parts, a deep cut flowing sluggishly from his brow, yet he’s grinning anyway wide and dumb and sincere.

His eyes meet yours over the wreckage.

And despite yourself, despite the tiredness tugging at your limbs, you grin back behind your mask.

"You’re good," he says first, a touch raspy but very sincere, dusting soot from his gloves.

You breathe out a nervous breath, adjusting your weight. “You’re not so bad yourself, Hotshot.”

He laughs, a pleasant, youthful sound that cuts through the smoke hanging in the air.

"Hotshot, huh? Might be my new fave."

You cock your head. “Could’ve been worse. I nearly nicknamed you Flyboy.”

He scrunches his nose, appearing to be terrified. "Ugh. I’d have to start wearing a cape if you did."

You snicker, and maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's the bizarre connection you had fighting back-to-back but for a minute, it’s easy.

Like you’re just two foolish kids who stumbled into rescuing the world.

Before any of you can say anything further, heavy shoes crunch on the pavement.

Rex Splode comes walking toward you like he rules the battlefield, brandishing a burned Flaxan weapon between his fingers.

He pauses a few feet away, sizing you both up like he’s stumbled across a scene developing.

“Oh, wow," Rex exclaims, loud enough that you wince. "Look at this. Banter. Flirting. Dramatic tension."

You and Invincible both quickly stiffen.

“What?! No!” you blurt, far too fast.

Invincible grunts, raking a hand through his hair. "Dude, knock it off."

But Rex is already in full performance mode, tossing his arms wide. “I mean, the way you two were syncing up back there? Chef’s kiss. Someone call Hollywood, we found a new power couple.”

You shake your head, horrified. “I have a boyfriend, thank you very much!”

Invincible lifts a hand too, clumsily. "And I have a girlfriend."

You and him both point at each other like you're setting down evidence at a trial.

Rex whistles low, grinning. "Yikes. Star-crossed and everything."

You sigh into your palm, feeling the heat climb up your neck behind your mask. "This is not a thing."

Invincible crosses his arms, fidgeting nervously. "Yeah, Rex. Seriously. Cut it out."

But Rex only smirks, flinging the burnt weapon over his shoulder. “Sure, sure. Totally believable. No chemistry at all. Couldn't even tell you were two seconds away from proposing mid-battle."

You almost choke.

Even Invincible makes a strangled sound like he’s struggling not to die on the spot.

You square your shoulders, pushing yourself to breathe. "For the record, my boyfriend is basically the world's biggest nerd. He thinks jaywalking is too rebellious.”

Mark runs across your mind, messy hair, naively sweet eyes, a voice breaking somewhat when he attempts to flirt.

You feel a silly, overpowering warmth spring in your chest at the thought of him.

Meanwhile, Invincible huffs, attempting to appear nonchalant. "My girlfriend’s way cooler than me. She's, um... smarter. Way smarter."

(He glances sideways at you for a fraction of a second before clearing his throat and focusing hard at a broken light post.)

You catch it, but you brush it off.

It’s just fighting adrenaline.

It doesn’t signify anything.

Probably.

Rex isn’t helping.

He slaps a hand on Invincible’s shoulder and laughs big. “Well, tell your lady thanks for letting you share the battlefield with your love tonight."

Invincible shoves him off softly. "You’re such an idiot."

You can’t help it, you laugh.

The tension breaks, just a bit.

You gaze at Invincible again. He’s smiling too, crooked, exhausted, a touch ashamed.

There’s blood crusting at the corner of his lips, a bruise deepening on his jawline, his whole body drooping with exhaustion, and he still seems like he’s having the time of his life.

You shouldn’t feel so warm inside.

You really, really shouldn’t.

You push your hands onto your hips, attempting to seem nonchalant.

"Anyway. I’m out. I've got a hot date with an ice pack and a thousand regrets."

Invincible chuckles, raking a hand over his shaggy hair.

"Same. Except, like, two thousand regrets."

You shake your head and blast a webline up to a shattered billboard.

You hesitate for just a second, staring back at him.

"See you around, Flyboy."

He grins, lopsided and careless.

"You better."

You jump into the air, soaring high across the rubble of Midtown, heart still thumping hard against your ribs.

You’re smiling too hard behind your mask.

And you don’t realize

neither of you realizes

that when you meet Mark Grayson tonight, when you fumble through a weary, uncomfortable coffee date...

you’ll be seeing the same boy who caught you mid-fall.

Who grinned at you through flames and blood and broken concrete.

The same boy you already, somehow, unconsciously, entirely belong to.

Morning strikes you like a freight train.

You wake up aching in areas you didn't even realize you had muscles, your body fighting the mere act of breathing.

Your ribs ache deep and hot under your skin. Your arms feel like they’re burdened down with lead.

Even your fingers are tight, bruised and painful from slinging webs for hours straight.

You sit up carefully, cringing as a stinging pang slashes through your side.

You look at the bedroom ceiling for a few long seconds, heart heavy, lungs feeling too big in your chest.

The war feels like a dream now.

Like it didn’t happen.

Like it was some foolish dream you thought up between classes and homework.

But the bruises are genuine.

The cuts are genuine.

The way your body trembles when you force yourself to your feet is quite genuine.

You get dressed mechanically, loose pants, a big sweatshirt you can hide yourself in.

You take twice as long as normal doing your hair, covering up the bruises on your face with meticulous makeup on your bruised eye.

Your hands tremble a little when you apply the concealer.

You pretend it’s just tiredness.

By the time you make it to campus, the sun is high and the sidewalks are full.

Students swarm by you in every direction, chatting about schoolwork, weekend plans, gossip.

Nobody looks twice at you.

Good.

You need today to be normal.

You need to visit Mark, and sit with him beneath some stupid tree with coffee and chat about anything but superheroes and cities breaking apart.

You hold your coffee cup like a lifeline, the cardboard warm against your injured fingertips.

Your ankle twinges intensely with every other stride.

You breathe through it.

You’re fine.

You’re halfway at the library when you notice him.

Mark.

He’s standing near the steps, bag thrown over one shoulder, hair as unkempt as ever.

He’s wearing one of his normal awful graphic tees, the Seance Dog one that’s virtually falling apart, and a pair of pants so old they’re more thread than fabric at the knees.

Your heart stumbles the way it usually does when you see him.

You halt your steps, some silly smile already pulling at your mouth without permission.

But then you see her.

Eve.

She’s standing close, too close, from where you are.

They’re laughing at something, heads inclined toward one other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You pause, your feet clinging to the concrete like you just walked into quicksand.

Your fingers clench reflexively around your coffee cup. The cardboard crumples slightly beneath your fingers.

You aren't even aware you're holding your breath.

Eve reaches out, casual, easy, and punches Mark softly on the arm.

He ducks his head, laughing, scratching the back of his neck the way he usually does when he's embarrassed or flustered.

You recognize it.

You know that gesture like you know the back of your own hand.

You bite the inside of your cheek till you taste copper.

You try, really try, to persuade yourself it's nothing.

They’re simply friends.

Mark told you. He said he and Eve were old news. That it never truly went anywhere after Amber broke up with him. That it’s just friendship now.

But standing here, watching them...

It doesn’t feel like just friendship.

It feels like something you’re not supposed to witness.

Eve is attractive in that easy, nonchalant manner that makes your stomach twist.

Sunlight captures the red in her hair, the way it drapes over her shoulders.

She’s beautiful. More elegant. More sure about herself.

And Mark.

Mark's staring at her with that easy, comfortable grin you used to believe was reserved exclusively for you.

Your heart kicks into your ribs, quick and terrified.

You shift your weight, attempting to seem busy, pretending to scroll through your phone.

But your eyes keep sliding back, betraying.

They’re still chatting.

Still smiling.

Still appearing like they fit together flawlessly in a manner that you will never quite measure up to.

You feel sick.

Your coffee has gone cold in your hands, the warmth leaking away without you knowing.

You tell yourself to move.

You tell yourself to stroll over there, to wave, to say hey like a normal human being.

But your feet won’t move.

You’re glued to the place, staring like an idiot from across the quad.

You’re so dumb.

You’re so, so dumb.

You’re Spider-Woman, for God's sake, you battled alongside actual superheroes, you survived an alien invasion, and yet here you are, petrified by a gaze.

You peel your look away finally, your throat tight.

You sink your head lower under your sweatshirt and slink toward the Humanities building, weaving between the masses as swiftly as your aching body would allow.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Your chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with damaged ribs or strained muscles.

You stagger inside the building and slump into the nearest bench, hands quivering around your coffee cup.

You set it down before you crush it completely.

You sit there for a long period, simply breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

You can still see it behind your eyelids, Mark laughing, Eve gazing up at him, the comfortable push of familiarity between them.

You close your eyes tight, hating yourself for how much it hurts.

It’s unreasonable.

It’s insecure.

It’s unjust.

But you can’t turn it off.

Not when you’ve never felt like enough to begin with.

You push the heels of your palms into your eyes, wishing the anguish away.

Later…later you’ll meet up with Mark, like you arranged.

Later you’ll sit across from him with coffee or fries or anything stupid and normal.

And he’ll grin at you, and he'll grab for your hand without thinking, and he'll say something dumb and charming like he usually does.

And you'll remind yourself that you're the one he's dating.

Not Eve.

You.

You'll push yourself to believe it, even if your foolish heart still hurts with uncertainty.

Even if some part of you, small and nasty and terrified, already feels like you're waging a battle you don't know how to win.

You sit there on the bench for a long minute, simply breathing.

In, out.

Trying to shove the dumb, unpleasant emotion back down where it belongs.

Trying to remind yourself that you’re exhausted.

You’re sore.

You’re emotional after all that happened last night.

It’s not Mark’s fault.

He hasn’t even done anything wrong.

And yet, when you hear familiar footsteps sprinting up the steps toward you, your body tenses without thinking.

You glance up and there he is.

Mark.

He’s a bit out of breath, hair a mess like he rushed across campus to make it on time.

His backpack's falling off one shoulder, and there’s a coffee stain on the front of his Seance Dog T-shirt like he spilled it in a haste.

You would normally smile at the sight of him.

You would normally feel that silly, automatic flutter in your chest.

But right now?

It just bends into something heavier.

“Hey!” he exclaims, flashing you his boyish, too-bright smile. “I thought I was gonna be late, but turns out Professor Connors is running behind. We’ve got like, five minutes.”

You nod mutely, straightening up stiffly.

Mark’s grin falters a little, his brow furrowing.

“You okay?” he says, putting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "You look... tired."

You shrug, pushing past him without meeting his eyes. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Which isn’t a lie.

You didn’t sleep.

You spent half an hour reliving the picture of Eve smiling at him over and over until it burnt itself into the backs of your eyelids.

Mark falls into stride with you as you approach into class.

Normally, he’s a touch clingy in that stupidly cute way bumping your shoulder, brushing your hand with his, sneaking small looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

Today, you keep just enough distance between you that he notices.

You see it in the way he hesitates mid-step, like he’s not sure if he should approach closer or not.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer now. “You seem... I dunno. Off.”

You exhale through your nose, hard, holding the strap of your bag until your knuckles hurt.

"I said I’m fine," you mumble, harsher than you want to be.

Mark blinks at you, thrown off.

You don’t typically snap at him.

You don't normally snap at anyone.

He falls silent for a beat, staring forward at the structure.

You both climb the steps in awkward, weighty quiet.

You can feel him stealing looks at you from the corner of his eye.

You know he’s worried.

You know he’s confused.

You hate yourself a bit for making him feel that way.

But you can’t help it.

You can’t stop picturing it, him standing there with Eve, smiling, laughing like he belonged next to her in a way he doesn't next to you.

You don’t want to be that person, the jealous girlfriend, the insecure mess.

You trust Mark.

You do.

But that doesn’t stop the anguish gnawing at you from the inside out.

You enter inside the lecture hall together.

You normally sit close, shoulder to shoulder, sharing silly whispered commentary throughout the dull sections.

Today, you place your bag onto the seat by the window, giving yourself an extra chair of space between you without thinking.

Mark waits nervously before sitting next to you, near, but not as close as usual.

Professor Connors starts talking.

Slides click onto the projector.

The normal mind-numbing drone of a lecture fills the air.

And you sit there, looking at the board, not hearing any of it.

You’re too conscious of Mark fidgeting beside you, tapping his pen against his notepad, bouncing his knee, stealing looks at you every few minutes like he’s trying to figure out how he ticked you off and has no clue what he did.

You feel him lean down slightly, voice low and hesitant.

“Did I... do something?”

You shake your head fiercely, gaze fixated on the screen. "No."

"But you’re mad," he adds, not accusing, just perplexed, a little hurt. "I can tell."

"I’m not mad," you lie, voice too flat.

He leans back, appearing a bit more upset now, but keeping it under the surface the way he usually does when he doesn't know how to solve anything.

You cross your arms across your chest, sliding deeper in your seat.

You hate this.

You hate that he’s trying.

You hate that you’re blocking him out.

You hate that you feel so little, so childish, so disposable.

You twist your fingers into the hem of your hoodie, pushing your nails into the cloth.

You’re being unfair.

You know you are.

Mark didn’t do anything wrong.

You’re just exhausted.

You’re just insecure.

You’re just frightened that one day he’s going to discover that someone like Eve fits better beside him than you ever could.

And you won’t even be able to blame him for it.

You look toward the front of the room, willing yourself to focus on anything but the burn behind your eyes.

Beside you, Mark goes still.

Quiet.

Trying to give you room.

Trying not to make it worse.

You sit there, side by side, the slight distance between you feeling like a canyon.

And for the first time since you started dating him, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not as sure of yourself as you thought you were.

Class drags like a big weight behind you.

You keep your eyes forward, your expression neutral, trying not to think about the agony in your chest, or the ache in your ribs, for that matter.

The lecture is just a jumble of slides and half-hearted notes.

Beside you, Mark fidgets incessantly.

He’s never been excellent at sitting still.

His knee jumps beneath the table, his pen taps a rhythm on his notepad still, and every so often, he stares at you.

You ignore him.

Or you attempt to.

You can feel the confusion radiating off him like flames.

He doesn't understand why you’re suddenly cold.

You can literally hear the gears in his mind turning.

Normally, he’d mutter a foolish joke under his breath, just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

Normally, you’d push his arm or steal his pen simply to screw with him back.

Today you don't.

You just sit there, frozen, looking blankly at the blackboard while your chest tightens tighter.

Finally, mercifully, the lecturer dismisses you.

Everyone around you rushes up, grabbing bags, talking.

You stuff your notepad inside your backpack with hard, jerking movements.

You can feel Mark watching you, waiting for you to look at him, but you don’t.

You rush toward the door.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear him jog to catch up.

"Hey-"

His voice breaks a little on the word.

He clears his throat and tries again, maintaining pace with you. "Wait up."

You keep walking, not slowing down.

Mark scuffs his sneakers across the tile, visibly worried. "Um... you doing anything after this?"

You peek at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s staring at you, hopeful, wary, all huge blue eyes and tangled hair, and something terrible and tender twists inside you.

You hate that you still want to fall into him.

You hate that you can't.

You shrug. "Why?"

Mark touches the back of his neck, a classic motion when he's uncomfortable or awkward.

"I dunno. Thought maybe we could, like... hang out or something."

He says it like he’s winging it.

Like he hadn’t been planning it in his thoughts for the previous twenty minutes while you gave him the cold shoulder.

"We could get food," he says hurriedly. "Or, uh, Netflix. Something silly. Whatever. I mean, if you want. No huge issue if you don't. Just-"

He’s spiraling.

Fast.

You halt at the entryway of the main building, fingers clenching on the strap of your bag.

You eventually gaze at him.

He’s got that uncomfortable, serious face you know too well, the one that indicates he has no idea what he did wrong but he wants to repair it regardless.

You should say no.

You should put distance between you.

Give yourself room to breathe.

But the words stick in your throat.

You can’t make yourself shove him away.

You can’t.

"Maybe," you respond quietly.

Mark perks up quickly and his whole face glows. It's so foolish and innocent that it makes your chest feel harder.

"Cool," he adds, going for casual and failing terribly. "Yeah, nice. No pressure."

You nod, tugging your sweater sleeves down over your wounded knuckles.

You step outdoors together.

The sun is too bright; it makes your head hurt.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But he keeps strolling next to you, shoulders slouched, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, stealing looks at you like he’s trying to figure out how upset you are without risking saying anything idiotic and making things worse.

After a minute, he clears his throat again.

"You sure you're okay?" He repeats it lowly, trying not to seem like he’s lingering.

You hesitate.

You could tell him the truth.

You could say. ‘I saw you with her. I saw you smiling. I saw how easy it was.’

But you don't.

You just pull your arms tighter over yourself and whisper, "I'm fine."

Mark studies you for a second longer, like he knows you're lying but doesn’t know how to call you on it without making everything worse.

"Okay," he replies eventually, quietly. "I’ll shut up."

He touches the back of his neck again, gazing at the sidewalk.

You soften a little.

Just a bit.

Because he’s trying so hard.

Because he doesn’t even know what he’s attempting to solve.

You decrease your speed a little so he can catch up.

You don’t take his hand.

But you don’t draw away when your arms brush.

You stroll side by side in silence, awkward, wounded, fatigued.

Not healed.

Not really alright.

But trying.

His dorm is still a disaster.

Not a biohazard-level mess, not yet, but busy enough that you wind yourself carefully stepping over a crumpled sweatshirt and a couple of tossed notebooks on the floor as you go in. The curtains are half-drawn, plunging the room into a pleasant sort of half-shadow, and Mark quickly sinks face-first onto his bed like a dead body.

"You pick," he mumbles into the covers. "Netflix password's saved."

You snort under your breath, laying your bag down and poking his foot with your knee. "Lazy."

"You knew what you signed up for," he mutters back, voice muffled.

You roll your eyes, but a faint smile comes across your face before you can stop it. You walk to his desk, turn on his laptop, and navigate through Netflix until you find something silly and familiar, something you both can half-watch without actually paying attention.

By the time you press "play," Mark’s switched over, rolling onto his side to make way for you without even opening his eyes. Like he simply expects you to be there. Like it’s normal.

And somehow…somehow it is.

You kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed with him, the mattress lowering beneath both your weight. He quickly drags you closer without thinking, flinging one arm around your waist and nestling his face into the crook of your neck.

You go stiff for a second, the heat running up your neck so fast it makes you dizzy, but Mark only sighs, pleased, and squeezes you once before relaxing. His breath is warm on your skin. His body is warm against yours.

You tell yourself not to read into things.

You convince yourself it's simply who he is. That Mark Grayson is the sort of person that hugs people like he means it. The sort of man who laughs at your idiotic jokes, who waits for you after class, who doesn't notice when you gaze at him like he's the whole universe wrapped up in an oversized sweatshirt and a poor Netflix suggestion.

You don't even know you’re crying until Mark stirs against you and pulls back, looking blearily up at you in uncertainty.

"Hey," he replies, voice suddenly crisper, more aware. "What's wrong? Are you…are you crying? Oh my gosh, did I elbow you in the face? I knew I should've moved the laptop-"

You let out a wet laugh, brushing your sleeve across your face. “No, no, you didn’t elbow me, you idiot. I’m OK. I just-" You swallow. "It’s stupid.”

Mark sits up fully now, his hair sticking up in a million different places, looking absolutely wrecked with stress. His hand hangs over your back like he wants to touch you but isn't sure if he should.

"It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry," he adds, so sincerely, so earnestly that your throat tightens again.

You shake your head, producing a feeble grin. "I’m just-" You breathe deeply. "I’m really glad I met you."

Mark stares at you for a second, like he’s attempting to download those words right into his head. Then he grins, tiny, gentle, real, and leans in to place a kiss on your forehead.

"You’re stuck with me now," he says playfully, attempting to make you laugh, but you can hear the reality behind it. The way he means it.

You close your eyes and lean toward him, letting yourself breathe him in.

For a little while, you simply remain like that, tangled together on his bed, the laptop playing some bad comedy nobody’s actually watching, the late afternoon light creeping golden over the room, and for the first time all day, that unpleasant knot between your ribs starts to ease.

Maybe you’re not Eve.

Maybe you’ll never be as confident or as flawless or as easy as she looks.

But you’re you.

And oddly, that’s the person Mark wants next to him right now.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

The world outside disappears, the sounds of campus traffic, the distant sound of someone laughing down the hall, even the quiet hum of the laptop playing some show you’re no longer recognizing. It’s all background static now.

All you can feel is Mark.

The calm, steady rise and fall of his chest on yours.

The weight of his arm, relaxed but protecting, wrapped over your side.

The way his thumb continues pressing little, absentminded circles into your hip through the fabric of your shirt, like he’s grounding himself there.

It’s dumb.

It’s so ridiculous.

But you’re terrified to move.

Scared that if you shift, if you break the fragile enchantment hanging in the air, you’ll lose whatever this is, whatever glittering, delicate thread has weaved itself between the two of you.

God, you love him.

And the notion strikes you, abrupt and raw and terrifying, He could leave you at any second.

He might discover you’re not what he needs. That you're too much or not enough. That he deserves someone simpler to love.

And it would break you.

It would totally break you.

You’re so weary of pretending you’re cool with it.

So tired of smiling through it.

So weary of being too timid to tell him.

The panic rises in your chest, overpowering, and before you can think better of it, before you can convince yourself that you're meant to be sensible, or wise, or at least not a complete disaster-

you lean up and kiss him.

Hard.

It’s clumsy. Desperate. You just manage to angle your face right before your mouth crashes into his, your palm fisting uncomfortably in the front of his sweatshirt like you need anything to grasp onto, something substantial to prevent from falling apart altogether.

Mark freezes.

For a single, painful heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss you back.

You nearly flinch, almost draw away, terrified at yourself, heat blooming up your neck so quickly it burns

But then he makes a sound.

A quiet, broken, shocked sound down in his throat.

And then he’s kissing you back.

It’s not polished.

It’s not gentle.

It’s hungry.

Mark turns, rolling fully onto his side, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, pushing you more into him like he can’t take the notion of even an inch of gap between you. His mouth is hot and a touch feverish against yours, and you can feel the strain he’s been carrying, the perplexity, the doubt, the hope, pouring out into every weak breath he exhales into your skin.

You gasp against his mouth as his other hand finds your waist, dragging you closer, and the sound seems to destroy him, he sighs, deep in his chest, and kisses you harder, like he’s scared if he lets off for even a second you’ll vanish.

Your heart is beating so fiercely it feels like it could break your ribs wide.

You feel alive in a way you didn’t even aware you weren’t before. Like the world has sharpened into something brutally vivid, every nerve-ending lighted up, every inch of your skin throbbing with how hard you want more.

When you eventually draw back, it’s only because you have to because you’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon, foreheads crushed together, hands still clutching to each other like the ground may drop out beneath you if you let go.

Mark’s eyes are blown wide, his pupils black and blurry, his cheeks heated. His lips are red and a bit puffy. He looks destroyed.

He looks fantastic.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice low and rough. “You’re-you’re just full of surprises today, huh?”

You want to laugh, or joke, or say something funny, but all you can do is gaze at him, chest heaving, your hands still knotted in the front of his sweatshirt. You feel stripped bare. Exposed.

You attempt to talk, but it comes out tiny, hoarse “I’m sorry-”

Mark’s visage dissolves, softens, and he shakes his head instantly.

“No.” He crushes his forehead more firmly to yours. His hand brushes across your cheek, trembling just slightly. “No. Don’t apologize.”

You blink hard, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again but this time it’s different. Not fear. Not jealousy.

Relief.

Hope.

Something terrifyingly near to bliss.

Mark draws back just enough to actually look at you, his thumb stroking across your eye where a tear slid loose. His voice is so soothing it nearly breaks you. “I didn’t even know what I did wrong,” he mutters against your lips, voice shaking with relief and leftover fear. His hands roam your back like he’s reassuring himself you’re real. “I just… thought you hated me or something. Thought you were done.” Your throat tightens so tightly it aches. You attempt to grin, and it wobbles all over the place.

“You’re…you’re quite awful at subtlety, y’know," you say, your voice barely holding steady.

He grins, crooked and lovely, like he understands precisely how much he’s destroying you with it.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re bad at it too.”

And then he kisses you again, softer this time, slower, like he’s enjoying it, like he’s remembering the way you taste, the way you breathe against his mouth.

And you let him.

God, you let him.

You sink into him, let yourself drown a little, because you finally can.

For once, you don’t have to pretend you’re OK.

For once, you’re exactly where you want to be.

Right here.

With him.

Mark kisses you like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists.

It starts soft, a brush of his mouth against yours, tender and a little shaky, like he’s still not totally sure you’re real, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

Because you kiss him back.

You kiss him back with everything you've been holding in, every second of pining and doubt and hope and fear you've tried to swallow down for months. You kiss him like you're afraid he might disappear if you don't.

Mark responds like he’s been starving for it.

The hand cradling your jaw slides down, finding the side of your neck, his thumb brushing the line of your throat where your pulse is hammering wildly. His other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the sudden press of his body makes your breath catch.

You don't even remember tilting back, but somehow you end up half-lying across his bed, tangled together, the world narrowing down to the slow drag of his mouth against yours and the heat coiling low in your belly.

You feel clumsy.

Overwhelmed.

Alive in a way you didn’t even realize you weren’t before.

When he parts your lips with his tongue, you let him, and the soft, involuntary noise that slips out of you seems to light something up inside him, something a little reckless, a little raw.

Mark shifts over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head on the mattress, and you grab the hem of his hoodie without thinking, clinging to him, pulling him closer.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, flushed, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, and for a second you just stare at each other, hearts pounding so loud you’re half-convinced he can hear yours through your ribs.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice hoarse, serious.

You nod, dizzy, breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, just-”

You swallow, and your voice wobbles. “You’re really close.”

Mark grins crookedly, something soft and helpless in the way he looks at you.

"That’s kinda the idea," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you again, slower this time, savoring it.

The heat between you builds with every touch. It’s not frantic, not like the movies make it seem but it’s constant. A steady, aching pull. A need that feels so much bigger than just your bodies.

His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, skimming along your waist, tracing the curve of your hip, ghosting up your side under the fabric of your shirt but never pushing too far, never crossing a line without some kind of silent permission. Like he’s letting you set the pace. Like he’s terrified of hurting you, even by accident.

And it just wrecks you.

The way he touches you like you’re precious.

You fist your hands in the front of his hoodie again, pulling him closer, and he follows your lead without hesitation, pressing against you, the firm heat of him impossible to ignore now. You can feel the hardness straining against his jeans where he slots between your thighs, and the realization sends a molten jolt through you so strong you almost whimper.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at you again, searching your face, his own flushed and almost wrecked with want.

“We can stop,” he says, his voice low, rough. “If you want. Just say the word.”

God.

You’ve never wanted anything less.

“I don’t wanna stop,” you gasp, fingers clutching him tighter. “Just…” You blink rapidly, breath hitching. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore. And it hurt more than it should’ve.”

Mark lets out a short, shaky laugh, not mocking, just unbelievably fond. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheekbone, then the corner of your mouth, slow and patient and sweet.

“Neither do I,” he breathes against your mouth, his voice rough but honest. “I’m just… trying. Trying to be good enough for you. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob of relief, and he kisses you again, really kisses you, deep and slow, like he’s trying to tell you with his mouth that you don’t have to be perfect. That you’re enough.

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie again and tug, clumsily. He breaks the kiss to help you, grinning a little as he yanks it off and tosses it somewhere behind him.

Your heart trips at the sight of him, broad-shouldered, solid, every muscle in him straining under light golden, sweat-slicked skin. He’s not some giant, he’s real, tangible, all lean strength and quiet power.

Everything you know, everything you’ve missed. Everything.

Mark leans back down, and this time, when his hands slip under your shirt, you arch into him instead of flinching. His palms are warm against your ribs, exploring slowly, reverently.

You kiss him harder, and he groans against your mouth, grinding his hips against yours in a way that makes you gasp, your fingers scrambling at his shoulders for something to hold onto.

It's messy. It's uncoordinated. You’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon and half-laughing into each other’s mouths whenever your teeth accidentally bump.

And it’s perfect.

Because it’s real.

It’s honest.

It’s you and him, no games, no pretending, just raw, aching want.

Mark kisses a trail down your throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your jaw, and you shiver, your hands sliding up into his hair without thinking. He groans when you tug gently, pressing closer, and you realize with a dizzy, giddy kind of wonder that you’re driving him just as crazy as he’s driving you.

You don’t know who breaks first.

Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the soft, broken little gasp you let out when Mark shifts his hips against yours again, grinding slow and helpless, like he can't stand being apart from you even for a second. Maybe it's him, maybe it’s the way your hands find their way up under his muscles, tracing the warm, solid lines of him, feeling him shudder against your palms.

It doesn't matter.

Because the next thing you know, Mark is pulling back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, his hair a mess, his breathing ragged, and there’s something wild and pleading in his eyes.

"Bedroom," he mumbles against your mouth. "Please."

It sends a bolt of heat straight through you, grounding and electrifying all at once.

You nod before you can think twice, and he stands up, gathering you into his arms without missing a beat.

You let out a surprised little yelp, clutching at his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"Mark!" you hiss, half-laughing, half-mortified as he stumbles a little, nearly knocking over a pile of laundry in his rush to the door.

He’s laughing too, low and breathless and giddy, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn't even pretend to put you down. His hands are firm under your thighs, holding you steady against him like he doesn't want to risk losing even an inch of contact.

"William’s gone," he says, a little smug, like it’s the greatest victory of his life. "He’s at Rick’s for the weekend, remember?"

You barely remember your own name right now, let alone William’s plans.

All you can focus on is the way Mark is carrying you like you're something precious. Like you're something he’s earned.

He kicks the door open with his foot and fumbles inside the darkened dorm bedroom, still carrying you, still kissing you in little stolen gasps and nips whenever he can reach your mouth.

He finally manages to get you to the bed, half-dropping, half-tumbling you onto the mattress, and you both collapse into a heap, laughing, breathless, tangled together.

The mattress springs squeal under your combined weight, the familiar scent of Mark's cheap laundry detergent and body wash surrounding you like a second skin.

And for a second, you just look at each other.

Really look.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink. His dark hair sticks up wildly. His chest rises and falls fast, like he’s been running.

He’s beautiful in a messy, real way that makes your throat ache.

You reach up, your hand trembling a little, and brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking, his eyes fluttering half-shut, like it's the best thing anyone’s ever done for him.

You love him.

The thought knocks the air right out of your lungs.

But before you can spiral too far, Mark’s kissing you again, softer this time, slower, more deliberate.

He pulls back just an inch, his voice low, rough.

"You sure?"

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

But then you catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and you make yourself say it, voice a little shaky but certain

"I’m sure."

Relief floods across his face so raw and visible you almost cry again.

Mark kisses you like he’s thanking you. Like he’s worshiping you.

His hands slip under your shirt, tracing your ribs, your waist, the curve of your back, reverent, slow, giving you a hundred chances to change your mind that you’re never going to take. He sits up just enough to tug your shirt over your head, and you arch into him, trying not to shake.

He’s so careful with you.

It undoes you.

When your shirt’s gone, Mark sits back on his knees for a second, just staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s trying to burn the sight of you into his memory.

You flush, biting your lip, self-conscious but before you can squirm or cover yourself, he reaches out, slow and steady, and drags his fingers down your arm, your side, your hip, like he’s memorizing you by touch.

"You’re beautiful," he says, like it’s a fact, like it’s inevitable, like it was always true and you were just the last one to figure it out.

You want to say something, something smart, something funny, something to fill the aching, awful tenderness spilling out of you but all you can do is pull him back down into another kiss.

It gets messier after that.

Hungrier.

Mark’s mouth moves to your throat, then down to your collarbone, then lower still, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers scrabbling at his hair, his back, his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto.

His hands roam your body like he’s discovering it for the first time, reverent, careful, greedy all at once and you can feel how badly he’s trembling, how hard he’s holding back.

It makes your heart clench.

It’s not perfect.

It’s messy, clumsy, and breathless.

It’s hands fumbling with buttons, knees bumping into the mattress awkwardly, both of you half-laughing, half-moan.

But it’s real.

And when he finally slides his hand low, cupping you through your pants, you can’t help the desperate little sound that punches out of you, wrecked, needy, shameless.

Mark groans against your throat, his voice rough and low.

"God, you sound so good."

You whimper, hips canting up helplessly into his touch, and he curses softly under his breath, like he’s losing the last shreds of his self-control.

"Need you," he mutters, frantic. "Need you so bad, baby."

You rake your hands down his chest, feeling him shudder under your touch, and he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"Tell me if you wanna stop," he says again, voice breaking a little. "Please."

You cup his face in both hands, pulling him down into a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

"I don’t want to stop," you whisper against his lips. "I want you. Please, Mark."

His thumb traces up your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra and that’s when he freezes.

The room feels suddenly too still. His fingers ghost over your cheekbone.

You blink, confused, and then, fuck.

The makeup. The damn sweat had smudged it enough that the bruise was showing, an ugly smear of purple and yellow blooming beneath your eye like some kind of poisonous flower.

Mark pulls back a little, his brows knitting together, worry carved into every line of his face. "What-?" he starts, voice low, almost afraid to finish the question. "Who did that to you?"

You jerk back, instinct lashing out before you could think. "It’s nothing," you snap, too quickly, too defensively. The words slapped the air between you. You scramble back off the bed, arms crossed tight over your chest, heart hammering like a bird in a trap.

Mark holds his hands up, palms open, like you’re some skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. "Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not- I just…are you okay?"

"I said it’s nothing," you bite out. You can hear your voice crack, and hate it. Hating how exposed you feel. How soft and messy and wrong it all is now.

You can’t tell him. Can’t tell how you’d gotten it during the Flaxan invasion, fighting side by side with Invincible, half the city in flames around you. Can’t tell him that you were just some girl in a homemade suit, stitched together with shaky hands and stubborn hope, swinging into a war zone like you actually belonged there. That you’d thrown yourself into the fight with no real training, just reckless bravery and a desperate, aching need to make it right. To prove to yourself you could be something more than scared, more than helpless.

You swallow hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

Mark doesn’t push. He just stays where he is, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at you like he wants to gather you up and shield you from the whole goddamn world. And that, that almost breaks you more than anything.

Because you don’t know he was the same. You don’t know that under that rumpled mop of hair and the nerdy smile, Mark Grayson carries bruises a thousand times worse, stitched into his skin from fights against monsters and gods and nightmares with teeth. That he had secrets pressed into his bones so heavy it was a wonder he could stand up straight.

He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic you’d seen a hundred times. "If you ever wanna talk about it," he said, voice low, "you can. You don't have to pretend around me."

You don’t know whether you want to scream at him or throw yourself into his arms. Maybe both. Your heart twists painfully. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

"I’m fine," you lie, voice barely a whisper.

Mark doesn’t believe you. You can see it all over his face. But he doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make you say more than you can handle. Instead, he just nods slowly and says, "Okay."

And somehow that okay messes you up you more than a thousand questions would have.

You don’t even bother putting your shirt back on properly. You just yank it over your head, backwards, half your hair tangled inside the collar. Your fingers fumble with the remainder of your garments, quivering with the type of terror you haven't felt since your first disastrous chemistry presentation in front of the whole class. It’s almost comical, how much simpler it was to be nude in front of Mark than it is to look him in the eye right now.

You can still feel the way his hands hesitated, confused, once he saw it, the way the perspiration on your skin distorted the delicate layer of makeup you’d spent twenty minutes putting on, the bruise below your eye emerging like an ugly secret. And Mark… he noticed. Of course he noticed. He’d been running his mouth all night on how lovely you were. You should’ve known there was no way he wouldn’t notice it once things got hot and close and-God, you’re so foolish.

You wrench the zipper of your jeans up too hard and it jams midway. You have to stop, breathe, and force your fingers to settle down enough to correct it. Mark’s still sitting on the side of the bed, his face all tense and anxious, looking like he’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

"Wait, hey-" he starts to stand, reaching out.

"No, I'm fine," you cut him off far too soon, way too harsh. You throw your bag over your shoulder, nearly knocking over the light on his bedside in your hurry. "I just remembered, I have to…I have to go. Homework. Big exam. You know. School."

Your voice breaks uncomfortably halfway through, and you want to crawl into a hole and die right there. But instead, you push your sneakers on without bothering to knot them and fumble toward the door.

Mark’s standing now, looking like he doesn’t know whether to chase you or stay put. His hair's a tangle, his cheeks still red from earlier, and there’s this look in his eyes that makes your heart lurch sideways. Confusion, primarily. Hurt.

You don't give him a chance to say anything else. You slam the door open and virtually rush down the hall, your footsteps loud and dumb on the poor dorm flooring.

You don't even know you’re sobbing until you step outside and the cold air hurts your moist cheeks.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #invincible angst #invincible x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible smut #reader insert #mark grayson #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut

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baigepueckers · 7 days ago

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Paige Bueckers X Reader

#1 Pick Part Two

The after party was in full swing. Music pulsed through the floor of the rooftop lounge, the city lights of New York glowing behind the crowd of newly drafted stars, friends, family, and media people who were all eager to congratulate the new face of the WNBA.

And Paige?

Well, Paige was glowing.

Still in her tailored suit, Dallas Wings cap slightly tilted back on her curls, she had a drink in one hand and you in the other. If she wasn’t taking shots with Nika and laughing at something KK said, she was sneaking kisses against your jaw or whispering something ridiculously flirty into your ear that made your face burn.

She was loose. Happy. A little drunk.

But it was the best kind of drunk. Touchy Paige drunk.

Her arm was wrapped tight around your waist as you stood near the bar, nodding along to a story Aaliyah Edwards was telling. Paige kept her face close to yours, occasionally leaning down to kiss your shoulder or run her hand along your back like she just needed to be touching you at all times.

“Babe,” she slurred a little, blinking up at you as she handed you a glass of champagne. “You realize you’re the hottest girl in this whole damn room, right?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Paige…”

“I’m serious!” she said, loud enough for Nika to shout “Facts!” from across the table. Paige just smirked and pulled you even closer, chest pressed to your back. “You’re mine. Everyone should know that.”

And they did.

They definitely did.

Paige was never one to do things halfway and when it came to you, she didn’t hide a single ounce of what she felt.

You were chatting with a couple of her college teammates when Paige got pulled away for a quick press photo. She kissed your cheek dramatically before letting go, promising she’d be right back.

You nodded, smiling as she walked off, her arm slung around KK’s shoulder.

You barely had two minutes of peace before he walked up.

Tall. Too confident. A blazer he probably thought was slick.

“Hey” he said smoothly, eyeing your glass. “Didn’t think I’d see someone like you alone tonight. You here for the draft?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh yeah. Kind of.”

He chuckled. “Let me guess… sister of a player? Maybe cousin?”

Before you could even begin to form a polite brush off, the man stepped in closer. “Or girlfriend? You single? Because I was watching you earlier..”

“She’s mine.”

The voice came from behind you, sharp and low. You turned just as Paige stepped back into view, her jaw clenched and her eyes locked on the man like she was seconds away from wrecking him.

Her arm was instantly around your waist again, tugging you so tightly to her side it almost knocked the breath out of you.

The guy raised his eyebrows. “Hey, relax…”

“Nah,” Paige said, voice like ice now. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t even look at her.”

Her fingers slid possessively around your hip, and she pressed a kiss just below your ear, not even hiding it. “She’s with me. Always has been. Always will be.”

The man scoffed and mumbled something about “crazy girlfriends” before disappearing into the crowd.

You turned toward Paige with wide eyes, heart thumping.

“P…” you started, but her mouth was already on yours…. firm and claiming.

She kissed you like she needed everyone in the room to know.

“I leave you alone for two minutes, and guys are already trying to take what’s mine,” she muttered when she pulled away, her words hot against your lips.

You laughed softly, brushing her hair back. “Jealous much?”

“You have no idea,” she whispered, eyes dark and still very much drunk off a mix of shots and you. “You’re too pretty to be left alone. It should be illegal.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, cheeks flushed. “Okay, possessive Bueckers. Chill.”

She grinned and grabbed your hand, tugging you back toward the group.

“Come take a shot with me, pretty girl. And then I’m dancing with you for the rest of the night. Only me.”

And that’s exactly what she did…spending the rest of the night with one hand on your waist, one eye always watching the room, and both lips constantly finding their way back to yours.

———————————————————————-—

The city was still buzzing when Paige shut the hotel room door behind you.

But inside? It was quiet. Soft.

Just dim lighting, faint hum of traffic outside the window, and the sound of Paige toeing off her sneakers with a dramatic sigh.

“Finally,” she mumbled, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it somewhere near the chair. “I thought we were never gonna leave.”

You chuckled as you slipped out of your own shoes, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You were the one dancing with everyone like it was your wedding reception.”

“I know,” Paige said, grinning as she walked over and stepped between your knees. “But the whole time, all I could think about was getting you up here. Alone.”

Her hands found your waist again, like they’d missed their favorite place. She looked down at you with that lazy, lovesick smirk that made your stomach flutter.

“You were amazing tonight,” you whispered, letting your hands rest on her hips. “I’ve never seen you look happier.”

“I am happy,” she said softly. “Because I’ve got you.”

You felt your heart swell, the sincerity in her voice pulling at something deep in your chest.

“I don’t say it enough,” she continued, her voice quieting as she sank to her knees in front of you. Her hands slid up the back of your thighs. “But I wouldn’t be here without you. All the long nights. All the times I wanted to give up. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”

You swallowed hard, blinking down at her. “Paige…”

She reached for your hand, lifting it to her lips, kissing each knuckle slowly. “You’ve loved me through everything. And I know I get busy. I know I don’t always make enough time to slow down. But this moment? Tonight? This is ours, okay?”

You nodded, overwhelmed. “Always.”

She smiled, and something in her softened. “I meant what I said at the party, too.”

“That I’m yours?”

“That you’re mine,” she repeated firmly. “And if anyone even thinks about looking at you the way I do…”

You laughed, gently brushing her hair back. “You’re still worked up about that guy, huh?”

“I’ll never calm down about you,” Paige said seriously. “You don’t get it. I’m obsessed with you. I see people looking at you, and I feel like I have to fight the whole damn world.”

“Paige Bueckers, are you drunk and in your feelings right now?” you teased, though your heart ached in the sweetest way.

She grinned up at you, still kneeling like you were some kind of miracle.

“I’m drunk on you,” she said. “And tequila. But mostly you.”

You giggled, leaning forward and kissing her. She tasted like champagne and heat and everything safe.

When she pulled back, she stood and guided you up into her arms, burying her face in the crook of your neck. “I just want to stay right here. No cameras. No noise. Just us.”

You nodded, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “We can stay here forever.”

Paige hummed. “Good. Because the second my rookie season starts, it’s gonna be chaos.”

You reached up and held her face in your hands, searching her eyes. “And I’ll be there. For every game. Every flight. Every high and low. I’m with you, Paige. I always will be.”

She looked at you like you’d just handed her the whole world.

“Marry me,” she blurted, and then immediately groaned and dropped her head into your shoulder. “God, I didn’t mean to say that now…I’m drunk, ignore me, that’s not how I wanted to…”

You laughed so hard you nearly lost your balance.

“Paige!”

She groaned again. “I was gonna do it next month. With a ring. A real speech. Flowers and everything.”

You tilted her chin up, smiling so wide your face hurt.

“Do it next month, Bueckers. I’ll still say yes.”

She beamed, eyes glassy and full of love. “You mean it?”

“Of course,” you whispered. “You’re my number one pick, too.”

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red-in-the-ledger · 30 days ago

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Where’s My Love; Part I.

joaquin torresxreader, angst

You weren’t supposed to be here.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked through the comms, laced with disbelief. His eyes, wide beneath his headgear, locked onto you like he’d seen a ghost.

“What—what are you doing here?”

You didn’t answer.

Your stare was unwavering—empty. Cold. A shadow of who you used to be. That’s when it hit him like a punch to the gut. You weren’t in control.

Your warm, honeyed eyes—the ones that once held nothing but light and love when they looked at him—were hollow now. Glazed over. Stripped of everything that made them yours.

“Y/N! Hey!” he called out, louder this time, as he watched you smash the back window of the black SUV in front of you with a precision that didn’t feel human.

The sound of shattering glass echoed like gunfire.

He barely had time to register it before you reached in, pulled out the silver canister—the one filled with enough adamantium to tip the scales of global power—and tucked it beneath your arm like it was nothing more than a grocery bag.

“Joaquin, you need to do something. Now!” Sam’s voice crackled through the earpiece, urgent and sharp, snapping him out of his daze.

“What—what do I do!?” he asked, but he already knew. He just couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t even let the thought fully settle.

“Stop her.” Sam’s voice softened now, as if he knew the weight of what he was asking. “I know what she means to you. But if she gets away with that canister, the war begins. And a lot of people—millions—are going to die.”

Joaquin’s feet felt like they were bolted to the pavement. His breath caught in his throat. This couldn’t be real. Not you. Not like this.

But then you turned to him.

Still silent. Still watching.

And you ran.

Joaquin didn’t think. He moved, his instincts taking over.

“Target is mobile!” he barked into the comms, already sprinting after you. “I’m going after her!”

His chest ached with every step—not from the running, but from the heartbreak. Because deep down, he wasn’t chasing a threat.

He was chasing the ghost of the woman he loved.

You moved like a shadow, cutting through the dimly lit alleyways with practiced speed. Every twist and turn seemed premeditated, like you knew this city better than he ever could.

And maybe you did now.

Joaquin’s boots pounded the pavement behind you, breath ragged as he tried to close the distance. “Y/N!” he shouted, voice cracking with desperation.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch.

Up ahead, a fire escape ladder dropped from a brick wall. You leapt, scaling it effortlessly, one hand still securing the canister. Joaquin followed, slower, heart hammering with dread.

You were trained, sure. But this wasn’t training.

This was weaponization.

“Sam, I can’t get close to her!” Joaquin gasped, climbing two rungs at a time.

“Buy time. We’ve got backup rerouting to your position.”

“Great. I was hoping to have an audience when I get my ass kicked.”

You reached the rooftop and kept moving, your silhouette framed by the low city lights, wind whipping your hair around like wild strands of warpaint. Joaquin finally hauled himself up after you, stumbling slightly as he landed—but you were already near the ledge.

“Y/N, stop!”

You did. For just a second.

He saw the smallest flicker in your eyes. A hesitation. A crack in the ice.

Joaquin was nervous to move. Scared even the smallest movement would scare you off. His hands were raised, voice gentler now.

“I know you’re still in there,” he gulped. “Whatever they did to you, whatever they’re making you feel right now—it’s not real.”

Your grip tightened on the canister.

“Please,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

The wind howled between you, loud and merciless. Then—your body jerked. A shudder passed through you like a system overload. You staggered back a step.

“Y/N?”

A glitch.

You dropped the canister.

It clanged against the rooftop.

And then—your hands flew to your head as a scream ripped from your throat, raw and agonized, your knees buckling under you. Joaquin’s heart stopped. He dropped to his knees beside you, but kept his distance.

“Hey, I’ve got you. I’m right here, okay?”

More than anything, he wished he could pull you into his arms and erase the world around you.

Your breathing was shallow. Broken. And when your eyes finally met his, something familiar shimmered there—something real.

“J?” You mumbled. Your voice barely above a whisper. But he heard it. Clear as day.

Before he could respond, or even take a breath, a dart embedded in your neck with a hiss.

Your body slumped forward and collapsed into his arms.

“No—no, no, no!” Joaquin cradled you as your body began seizing.

His eyes scanned the shadows around them. A rooftop away, he caught the glimpse of a figure vanishing into the dark.

Whoever did this… they were smart, calculated.

And now?

Now it was personal.

—

Everything was heavy. Your limbs, your head—your heart.

The world came back in fragments. A dull, aching hum beneath your skin. A low beeping somewhere close. The sterile sting of antiseptic in the air. And the soft pull of fabric sheets beneath your fingers.

You were lying down.

Alive.

You blinked against the blurry overhead lights, your throat dry. A groan escaped before you could stop it.

“Y/N?”

The voice was soft, but immediate. Familiar.

You turned your head, slow and sluggish, and there he was—Joaquin. Sitting beside you, still in tactical gear, dried blood on his temple. His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You stared at him. Confused. Dazed.

“What…?” Your voice came out hoarse.

He leaned forward, hands shaking just slightly. “You’re safe. You’re—back.”

Back?

You frowned, trying to piece together the fog in your mind. There were flashes—brief, violent snippets like broken glass.

A black SUV.

A canister.

The rooftop.

“I…” You paused, something inside you flinching. “I - I wasn’t…”

“I know.” He reached for your hand, hesitating just long enough for you to pull away—but you didn’t. You let him take it. His touch was warm, grounding. Real.

But they couldn’t stop the vicious attacks of memories flashing behind your eyes.

Images—sharp and jarring—struck like lightning. The SUV. The glass shattering. The cold weight of the canister in your hands. The scream of civilians. The sound of Joaquin’s voice—begging you to stop, to look at him, to remember.

You flinched.

Your fingers twitched in his grasp, breath catching as another wave surged forward. You saw blood on your hands—someone’s blood. You weren’t sure whose. You didn’t even know if it was real. But it felt real. Too real.

“Hey,” Joaquin said gently, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

You shook your head. “It’s not,” you replied, voice low, cracking. “I can still feel them. In my head.”

He didn’t pull away. Just leaned a little closer, like he could shoulder the weight for you if he tried hard enough.

I’m not letting them get to you again.” His voice was quiet, but deadly sure. “We’re gonna find out who did this. And we’re gonna end it.”

You wished you could believe that was enough.

But the truth was—it wasn’t just manipulation. It was invasion. They’d crawled into your head, rewired your instincts, buried commands under your skin.

And worse?

Part of you followed them. Willingly.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. “I could’ve killed you, Joaquin.”

“But you didn’t,” he said, without hesitation. “You came back.”

You looked down at your hands—calloused, bruised, unfamiliar.

Did I?

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “Do you remember the first time we trained together?”

You blinked, confused by the shift. “What?”

“You disarmed me in under four seconds and laughed in my face.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched. “You tripped over your own foot.”

“Exactly,” he said, a tiny smile playing at his lips. “That’s the Y/N I know. Smart. Fast. A little cocky. A lot terrifying.”

You let out a shaky breath.

He leaned in, his eyes boring into yours. “She’s still in there. I see her.”

“And I’m not letting them get to you again.” His voice was quiet, but deadly sure. “We’re gonna find out who did this. And we’re gonna end it.”

You stared at him. At the pain etched deep behind his eyes. And something inside you cracked—something you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

Before you could answer, the door opened. Sam stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“We need to talk,” he said. “All of us. Now.”

You exhaled slowly and sat up, ignoring the dizziness.

You’d just come back from the edge.

Now it was time to face what waited beyond it.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #the falcon x reader #marvel x reader

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military-newsboys · 29 days ago

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Mav: I'm so happy I want to shout it from the rooftops! Ice: And he has. We've gotten several noise complaints.

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primadomina · 6 months ago

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“TO ME, MY HERALDS,” Galvatron commands, her arms raised in invocation. After a moment of thought she amends, “…And Rodimus.”

There are few ceremonies and rites she enjoys performing, but she has a special place in her twisted little spark for the Riot.

The chalice in front of her steams with darkened life-fuel from her lines, tainted with Unicron’s wretched kiss. It drips still from the bite she inflicted on her inner arm, slowly oozing down her wrist.

“DRINK! Slake your thirst, obliterate your senses! Become chaos, unrestrained and free, and join your Lord— we alight at midnight!”

#shout it from the rooftops // ic #Halloween!!!!

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emmylksblog · 5 months ago

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GAVI BF HEADCANONS!

based on this request

a/n: i think it's accurate to his personality, tried to fit everything i could think of. hope yall like it! 🫶🏻

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is terrible at hiding his emotions. If he’s mad about something, he’ll sulk for exactly five minutes before bursting out with whatever’s on his mind. But if it’s about you, his frustration softens immediately: “I’m not mad at you, okay? I just… I care too much, that’s all.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi gets super competitive with you, even over silly things. Whether it’s who can fold the laundry faster or who wins at Mario Kart, he’ll take it way too seriously. But if you win, he’ll let out a dramatic groan and accuse you of cheating—before pulling you into a playful hug. “Fine, you’re better. But only this time.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi loves spontaneous adventures. If you’re lying around on a lazy Sunday, he’ll suddenly grab your hand and say, “Get dressed—we’re going out.” He doesn’t always have a plan, but somehow, his impulsive nature makes every outing feel exciting, whether it’s a drive to nowhere or ice cream at midnight.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi hates being apart from you. If he has to leave for a game, he’ll call or text you nonstop: “What are you doing? Are you eating? Are you thinking about me?” His teammates tease him, but he doesn’t care. “Shut up, this is important,” he’ll say, grinning at his phone.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is easily flustered by compliments. If you tell him he looks good before a game, he’ll try to act cool, but his cheeks will flush immediately. He’ll mumble a quick “Gracias, guapa,” then pretend to focus on his laces just to hide how much he’s blushing.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi has no chill when it comes to showing affection. If he’s proud of you, he’ll shout it from the rooftops. If he misses you, he’ll tell you ten times in one call. “I don’t care if I’m being annoying—I just love you, okay?”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi’s protective instincts kick in everywhere. If you’re out walking and it starts to rain, he’ll instantly take off his jacket and throw it over your shoulders, muttering something about “not letting you get sick.” He acts like it’s no big deal, but he’ll grumble if you try to give it back.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is obsessed with your laugh. He’ll do anything to hear it—bad impressions, dumb jokes, or even tickling you mercilessly. When you tell him to stop, he’ll grin mischievously: “Not until you admit my jokes are funny!”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi has a short temper, but you’re his exception. If anyone else frustrates him, he’s quick to snap, but with you, he’ll pause, take a breath, and say, “I don’t want to argue with you. Let’s figure this out, yeah?” He’s not perfect, but he’s trying for you.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi always forgets his own stuff but never yours. He’ll leave his keys or wallet behind constantly, but if you’ve mentioned needing something, he’ll somehow remember and surprise you with it. “You said you ran out of this, right?” he’ll ask casually, secretly proud of himself.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi insists on being your biggest fan. Whether it’s something big like a work presentation or something small like making the perfect coffee, he’ll hype you up as if you just won an award: “That’s my girl! I told you you’re amazing.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi loves subtle physical touch. He’ll rest his hand on your knee during long car rides, tug gently at your sleeve if he wants your attention, or intertwine his pinky with yours when no one’s looking. It’s his way of saying, “I’m here. Always.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is a mess when it comes to surprises. He’ll try to plan something cute, like decorating your room or buying you flowers, but he’s so bad at keeping secrets that he’ll end up blurting it out before the surprise happens: “Okay, don’t be mad, but I have something planned… just act surprised, okay?”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi pretends he doesn’t like cheesy romantic movies. But when you make him watch one, he gets way too into it, yelling at the characters or tearing up at emotional scenes. “I’m not crying—it’s just allergies,” he’ll say, avoiding your teasing smirk.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi talks about the future without realizing it. Whether it’s casually mentioning how your kids would “definitely love football” or joking about what kind of house you’d live in, his words always carry that unspoken promise: “I’m not going anywhere.”

#fc barcelona x reader #fcb x reader #footballer x reader #footballer x y/n #pablo gavi x reader #gavi x reader #pablo gavi x you #pablo gavi #hector fort #hector fort x reader #headcanon

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alwaysmicado · 1 year ago

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Sink or swim

12.3k | fwb!Joel Miller x f!reader | pt. 8

WARNINGS: 18+, no outbreak AU, implied age gap, emotional hurt/comfort, flashbacks (toxic relationship, bad mental health), mention of miscarriage & surgery, smut (nothing too graphic), Tommy Miller x f!reader SUMMARY: You reminisce about the late-night conversation that changed your life forever. Joel shares a secret. A/N: Guys, it’s finally here!! This part was hard for me to write, but I’m beyond happy with how it turned out. We learn so much about reader’s past and her relationship with Tommy, and I can’t tell you how excited I am to share it with you. Have fun reading (even though it’s a bit sad) and please let me know what you think! I wanna know all your thoughts!! 🤍 Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics.

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The ocean stretches before you like a vast expanse of liquid silk, its rhythmic waves kissing the shore with a gentle insistence. The sun, now in its descent towards the horizon, casts a warm glow, painting the water and sand in hues of amber and gold.

You’re perched on a weathered bench, sneakers softly tapping against the sand, lost in thought as you watch the waves roll in.

Dressed in yoga shorts and an oversized t-shirt, with an ice cream cone in hand and sunglasses shielding your eyes from the brilliant rays of the setting sun, you blend seamlessly into the serene scene before you.

You appear inconspicuous, just another person soaking up the sun and breathing in the fresh air. No one can see the anguish gnawing at your heart, the tumult in your head, or the pain in your hand that makes you want to scream.

No, no, you look far too calm for that, too composed, too happy.

Besides, what would someone like you possibly have to feel bad about? Seriously. You just love to wallow in your own sadness, don’t you? You haven’t changed at all. You’re still your insecure, annoying, unlovable self. God, even your inner voice is irritating. Do you hear how pathetic you sound? Of course he wouldn’t lov–

Shut up.

You focus on the waves as they dance and sway, their melodic rhythm a soothing balm to the cruel thoughts echoing relentlessly in your mind.

The ocean’s song, a symphony of calming whispers and gentle sighs you’ve loved ever since you were a little girl, envelops you in its embrace, drawing you deeper into a state of quiet reflection. The cool breeze dancing through the air brushes against your sun-kissed skin, carrying with it the salty scent of the ocean and the promise of new beginnings.

With a gentle tilt of your head, you take another lick of the strawberry soft serve you bought at the ice cream stand near the boardwalk, feeling the familiar comfort of the cool creaminess dance across your taste buds. It’s been a few months since you last indulged in this particular treat, sharing it with Joel after a rough day at work.

As the cold sweetness melts on your tongue, bittersweet memories of that afternoon flood back with vivid clarity. You can almost hear Joel’s infectious laughter as you scarfed down the icy treat a little too eagerly, his eyes crinkling with amusement at your inevitable brain freeze. But it wasn’t just the shared laughter and playful banter that made this memory so special.

It was Joel’s genuine interest in hearing about your day, about you, his calming presence grounding you and making you momentarily forget all your troubles. He provided you with a warmth that seeped into your bones, a connection that felt effortless yet profound. Like it could be more.

Reflecting on it now, perhaps that should have been a hint that things were more serious than you wanted to admit right from the beginning. Oh well, dwelling on it is futile now. Because you did finally admit it, didn’t you? And not only that, you basically shouted your feelings from the rooftops last night, laying your soul bare.

Fucking embarrassing.

How are you supposed to come back from that? How are you supposed to ever look into Joel’s eyes again?

There’s a reason why you stopped psychotherapy after a few months, there’s a reason why you don’t have any close friends beside Tommy, there’s a reason why your dating life has consisted of a series of superficial hookups over the past couple of years.

“Fear of intimacy,” your therapist called it. “A response to sustained trauma.”

You walked out of that session and, fueled by defiance, decided to fuck the first guy who caught your eye, just to prove to yourself, and to your therapist, that you were very well capable of intimacy.

Lying in bed that night, lonely and empty, you couldn’t shake the truth of her words. You hated her guts for forcing you to confront your inner demons, but she did have a point in everything she said.

It’s an uncomfortable truth.

There’s nothing in the world you fear more than people knowing what’s going on inside your head, knowing what you feel, knowing your vulnerabilities and weaknesses—knowing the real you.

And last night, that fear came true.

Your innermost thoughts and feelings were on display for Joel to see, leaving you exposed and raw. The memory of your outburst, of his shocked face, weighs heavily on your mind and heart, filling you with a deep sense of shame and regret.

For a moment in that bathroom, you felt yourself transported back to all the times you’d scream at Simon for whatever he did to fuck with your feelings that day, just for him to laugh in your face or call you manipulative when you’d inevitably start crying tears of hurt and frustration.

Does Joel see you differently now, knowing the depths of your insecurities? Will he even want to look you in the eye after witnessing what the real you is like? Have you lost your chance with him, and, did you ever even have one?

You sigh deeply and lick around the top of the ice cream cone to catch the drops threatening to run down, humming at the deliciousness.

You haven’t eaten anything else today, too nauseous from your meds and the knot in the pit of your stomach to find food appetizing. You haven’t slept for more than two consecutive hours, too agitated to find any real peace. You also couldn’t stay home this morning, as your apartment suddenly felt like a cage threatening to suffocate you.

Instead, you’ve spent your day off window shopping, aimlessly wandering from one coffee shop to another, your hands now jittery from too much caffeine on an empty stomach. You’ve ambled down the boardwalk, taking in the sights and sounds surrounding you, before finding yourself drawn to the familiar comfort of the ocean.

From the corner of your eye, you catch the display on your phone lighting up with Joel’s name, the device resting on the bench beside you alongside your bag.

You know you’ll have to take his calls and talk to him like an adult at some point. And you will. But this moment, this moment right here, belongs to you and your thoughts alone.

And to the hermit crab making its way through the sand just a few feet away from you. Your lips curl into a smile as you watch the determined little creature, impressed by its resilience in such an unforgiving world. Maybe you would’ve been happier if you’d been born as a hermit crab. Who knows.

As you swallow the last bit of your cone and lean back, feeling the sun’s gentle warmth on your skin, you can’t help but think of the first time you found yourself on this bench, watching the sunset. It feels like that was an entire lifetime ago, and yet, you vividly remember the overwhelming exhaustion that weighed you down, the sense of loneliness that engulfed you—how utterly lost you felt.

You allow your thoughts to drift, captivated by the soothing cadence of the waves lapping against the shore.

Three years earlier

The sun is down.

Staring into the void, you’re consumed by solitude, the cool breeze coming from the water a thin barrier against the weight pressing on your shoulders. The world seems distant, the murmur of the ocean a mere backdrop to the thoughts swirling in your troubled mind and the beat of your empty heart.

This is it. This is where you were always supposed to be.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, quietly drifting through the corners of your memory. With each passing moment, you meticulously comb through the fragments of the past few months. They offer no solace, only a stark reminder of how you reached this point.

In the stillness of the evening, you find a strange sense of calm, a numbness that dulls the edges of your emotions. Tears refuse to come, leaving only the echo of relief at the resolution of it all.

You open your eyes again, fixating on the endless mirror of the sky before you. The ocean has always held a special place in your heart. The salty tang in the air, the rhythmic melody of the waves, the laughter of birds mingling with the gentle lull of the breeze—everything.

You dig your naked toes into the sand, relishing the connection to the earth beneath you. The sensation is grounding, peaceful, almost–

“Hey there, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”

A man’s voice, rugged yet gentle, breaks through the silence, interrupting your thoughts. His words dance in the air, pulling you reluctantly back to the present.

Are you kidding me?

With a slow and deliberate movement, you lift your gaze from the horizon, meeting the eyes of the stranger who has disrupted the sanctuary of your thoughts. You rest your elbows on your knees and sigh deeply.

“Oh my fucking god,” you murmur, rubbing your temples in annoyance and disbelief. “The sun’s been down for two minutes, and the first creep’s already here.”

“Wha–”

You look up at him. “Do you have like a radar or something where you get a notification every time a woman sits alone on a bench somewhere?”

The dark-haired man blinks in surprise, his expression caught between confusion and amusement. His brow furrows, his mouth slightly agape as he processes your words. After a moment of absorbing your outlandish accusation, his lips curve into a wry smile.

“Darlin’, I’m just–”

“Look, dude. If you’re here to murder me, could you at least spare me the whole blah blah you’ve got planned and just do it? Thank you.”

You look at him with a raised eyebrow, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s not entirely sure if you’re joking, but your sarcastic tone tells him you’re at least not scared of him.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I assure you I got no such plans. Just thought I’d check in on a fellow soul contemplating the mysteries of the universe.”

You roll your eyes, unimpressed by his attempt at humor. “Yeah, well, I prefer to contemplate in peace.”

When he doesn’t budge and just…stares at you with those big, dark eyes of his, you take a moment to size him up.

Your gaze drifts down from his eyes, tracing the contours of his muscular chest visible beneath a fitted white t-shirt. It lingers briefly on the obnoxiously large belt buckle adorning his waist, then travels down the length of his denim-clad legs to his cowboy boots. Despite the surreal encounter, you can’t help but notice how incredibly attractive he is.

God, what’s wrong with you?

“Look, sweetheart,” he says calmly, his voice a blend of warmth and reassurance. “I’m not trying to get into your business or anything, but it’s gonna get pretty chilly out here soon.” He tilts his head and studies your face. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asks. “We could go grab a bite to eat if you want, and my place is right arou–”

“How subtle,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “I’m not going home with you, dude.”

“Fair enough, but at least let me call you a cab and wait with you until it arrives, hm?”

His soft voice and patronizing tone are starting to grate on your already frayed nerves. You’ve been sitting here, not taking up any space, minding your own fucking business, and even that wasn’t good enough, apparently.

Okay, world. Hint taken.

“What the hell is your problem?” you blurt out.

“What do you mean? I’m just–I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?” The question bursts from your lips like a dam breaking under pressure, laced with frustration. “Do you see me holding up a sign where I’m asking for your help? Huh? Or is this more about you and some, I dunno, bullshit white knight fantasy you’re acting out?”

Your eyes narrow, fixing on him with a challenging glare, daring him to justify his intrusion into your solitude.

“No,” he responds calmly, his furrowed brow adding gravity to his words. “It’s because I’ve seen enough shit in my life to recognize when someone’s in need.”

The sincerity in his gaze catches you off guard, rendering you momentarily speechless. It’s as if this…stranger is peering into the depths of your soul, seeing past the walls you’ve erected to protect yourself.

His face softens, the lines around his eyes relaxing as he meets yours. “Mind if I take a seat?”

You shrug indifferently, though a flicker of curiosity dances behind your eyes. “Suit yourself.”

He smiles warmly as he settles beside you. “I’m Tommy, by the way,” he offers, extending a hand. You hesitate for a moment, but eventually, you decide to reciprocate by telling him your name and shaking his hand with a soft sigh.

As his hand envelops yours, there’s a brief surge of something unspoken deep inside you, a connection allowing two disparate souls to briefly intertwine before returning to their separate paths again as soon as he lets go.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, darlin’,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, his mustache curling slightly as he smiles at you.

The faint scent of his cologne drifts towards you, mixing with the salty aroma of the sea air. As you gaze at him, your eyes trace the lines etched around his eyes and mouth, evidence of a life fully lived. Strangely, there’s something comforting about his presence, something that makes you feel a little less alone.

You give him a subtle smile before turning your head back towards the ocean, mesmerized by the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the shore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy watches you silently, noticing the vacant look in your eyes and the way your gaze seems to be fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon. He furrows his brow slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he contemplates how lost you appear in that moment.

“What are you doing out here, sweetheart?” Tommy’s voice breaks the silence, his tone casual yet curious, as if striking up conversations with strange women on the beach is a regular occurrence for him.

Well, it probably is, you think to yourself.

“I, uh, wanted to watch the sunset,” you answer softly.

“Hm. It’s amazing, isn’t it? Should’ve been here and seen it too instead of wasting my time at that damn bar.”

“Oh? How did you waste your time? Can’t have been that bad, judging by the lipstick stains on your face,” you murmur.

“What? Where?” Tommy blurts out, his eyes widening in surprise as he hastily rubs at his lips and cheeks, searching for any traces of lipstick on his fingers.

You stifle a laugh. “I’m just fucking with you,” you deadpan, shooting him a quick glance.

He stares at you in mock offense for a moment before his lips curl into a wide grin. “Touché,” he says, thoroughly entertained by your dry humor. “But yeah, things didn’t go the way I would’ve liked them to.”

“What, she didn’t wanna go home with you either?”

“Very funny. But no, things were going well.” He sighs dramatically and rubs his forehead. “But then her husband showed up and kinda threw a giant monkey wrench into our plans.”

“Wow, tough break,” you scoff, shaking your head in mock sympathy, “not getting to fuck a married woman. I hate it when that happens.”

Tommy chuckles. “Alright, alright, I didn’t know she was married, for the record. She wasn’t wearing a ring or anything.”

“Sure,” you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you cast a skeptical glance in his direction.

“What are you up to, then, darlin’? Hm?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Besides not making out with married women?” You hear Tommy’s laugh beside you and wiggle your toes in the sand. “Just enjoying the ocean, I guess. I’ve missed it.”

“You’re not from here?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m not.”

“Hm. You’re gonna love it. There’s lots of cool things to see and do, especially for young people like you.”

You furrow your brow. “Why are you talking like you’re ninety years old and I’m your estranged grandkid?”

“I dunno,” he sighs, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I guess…turning forty did something to me.”

“Married women apparently still throw themselves at you. You’re gonna be fine.”

He chuckles, a deep, resonant sound that seems to echo across the beach. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, punctuated by the gentle sound of the ocean and the occasional cry of seagulls wheeling overhead.

“What brings you here, then?” Tommy asks, observing your profile. You look tired.

“I told you, watching the sunset.”

“No, I mean what brings you into town? Vacation or family or something?”

You turn to look at him, tilting your head slightly as you study his expression. “Why do you care?”

“Just making conversation,” he says with a smile, a glint of genuine curiosity shining in his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me. We can talk about something else if you want.”

“Like what?”

“Like did you know it’s illegal to own just one guinea pig in Switzerland?”

Your bewildered look amuses him.

“It’s true. You’re required, by law, to get your guinea pig a little guinea pig friend. They won’t sell you just one. Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever heard?”

You stare at him, shaking your head slowly. “What kind of women do you pull if this is how you flirt?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Who says I’m flirting?”

“Uh-huh,” you say with a smirk, then turn your head back towards the water. “But what if they want to be alone?”

“Hm?”

“What if you get a guinea pig in Switzerland and you have to buy a second one to keep it company but the first guinea pig actually just wants to be alone on a bench and then some other guinea pig with a mustache shows up and asks weird questions? What then?”

“Well,” Tommy starts, happy that you’re seemingly warming up a bit. “I think the first guinea pig would quickly realize that the other, dashingly handsome guinea pig isn’t that bad and just wants to be friends. And then they’d be friends and run around together and eat hay or whatever.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, and you know, I think us humans aren’t that different from them. I don’t think we’re meant to be alone either.”

You look at him. “Is that why you came to talk to me? Because you don’t want me to be alone?”

“Would that be so bad?”

“I guess not,” you murmur softly, your gaze drifting to the patch of dry skin on the back of your right hand. “And I’m, uh, not here for any special reason. I just…needed a break from home, I suppose.”

“And you have a place to stay, darlin’?” Tommy’s voice carries a gentle concern as he leans slightly closer, trying to see your eyes.

“Yeah, I booked a hotel room a few minutes from here,” you lie smoothly. “With sea-view and everything. Just haven’t checked in yet.”

“Where did you put all your stuff?”

“My stuff?”

“Yeah, your clothes and teddy bears and whatnot.”

You nudge the backpack sitting on the ground next to you with your naked foot. “This is my stuff.”

“Oh.” You must have really wanted to get away if you traveled this lightly, Tommy contemplates silently.

He used to do the same, packing a bag and escaping, seeking solace in the open road. But he learned the hard way that you can’t outrun your problems. They always find a way to catch up with you, no matter how far you go.

He gives you a sympathetic smile. “Have you had dinner already?”

“I had a bagel at the airport this morning,” you say nonchalantly.

Tommy’s brows furrow slightly, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Yup.” If you had even the slightest bit of energy left inside of you, you’d find his shocked face amusing.

“Okay, that’s just unacceptable. Wait.” He retrieves his phone from his pocket and opens a food delivery app. “What kind of pizza do you want?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want pi–”

“Yes, you do. I’m not gonna have you starving on my watch.”

You raise an eyebrow. “On your watch?”

“Yeah, on my watch. Now, what kind of topping–”

“Pineapple.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pine. Apple.”

“Oh, but I’m the weirdo,” he mutters, shaking his head and giving you the side-eye as he reluctantly adds pineapple as a topping to your pizza. “Anything else? Anchovies? Corn? My tears?”

“Jesus, don’t have a heart attack. Are you Italian or something?”

“No, just not a complete monster.”

You can’t help but chuckle, your smile lighting up your face for the first time in what feels like ages. Tommy’s eyes linger on you a moment too long, captivated by your sudden radiance, before he tears his gaze away as your smile fades once more.

Clearing his throat, he shifts his attention back to his task, fingers tapping away as he types the description of your location for the delivery.

“Should arrive in twenty minutes, the app says.”

You nod and lean back, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you watch the waves again.

“When did you decide to fly out here?”

“Last night.”

“How? Why?”

“Simple. I took out a map, closed my eyes, and this is where my finger landed. And as for the why…well, home just didn’t feel like home anymore, you know?”

“Hm. I know that feeling.”

You turn your head and look into his warm eyes. “You do?”

“Oh yeah. It took me almost a decade after retiring from active duty to feel home again, or like I was safe, or like I belonged. It’s, uh, not easy to get that feeling back once you’ve lost it. I’m sorry you’re going through that,” Tommy says with a somber tone. He really is sorry.

You look at him for a moment and give him a tired smile. “It’s okay,” you say with a shrug of your shoulders. “It wasn’t home to begin with. Not really.”

“Whatever your reasons are, you’re brave for leaving.”

You scoff. “Yeah, sure, I’m brave for running away.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Look, it’s okay. You don’t need to try and make me feel better ‘cause I’m not sad. But I’m also not gonna act like I’m not a coward who accepted far too much shit for far too long ‘cause I’m very much not brave.”

You sigh deeply. “I should’ve gotten the fuck out of that miserable town and relationship years ago. But now it’s too late.”

Tommy furrows his brow and opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.

“Are you married?”

“No, darlin’, I’m not married.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend.”

“So there’s no one special in your life right now?”

“Nothing serious, no. No attachments for me.”

“Hm. No attachments,” you murmur. “That sounds nice.”

Tommy nods. “It is, most of the time at least. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss being in love.”

“You’ve been in love before?” You tilt your head and look at him with genuine curiosity.

“A few times, yeah.”

“And the women you were with…they loved you?”

“Yeah, they did.” The soft smile lighting up his face tells you he has pleasant memories of his former partners. How nice that must be.

“Do you ever wonder why it didn’t work out?”

Tommy’s expression turns introspective, his gaze drifting towards the horizon as if searching for answers in the distant waves.

“I have,” he admits after a pause, his voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “But I guess that’s just how life goes sometimes. People drift apart, circumstances change, life changes...”

“Do you think it’s possible to hate someone you love?”

Your question catches him off guard, and the look in your eyes concerns him. “Well,” he says calmly, carefully choosing his words, “I can’t say I’ve ever had that experience, but I could imagine that’s how my brother felt about me back when I was spiraling and he had to watch me make bad decision after bad decision. He loved me, I know he always has, but he also hated me for what I was doing.”

“Sounds like a good brother,” you say, mustering a smile.

“He really is. Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah, but I don’t talk to them,” you say, your tone betraying a hint of sadness before you quickly mask it with indifference. “My, uh…best friend was like my sister though.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, you know,” you murmur, the smile on your lips not matching the bitterness in your tone, “that friendship kinda ended after I saw her sitting on my boyfriend’s lap, shoving her tongue down his throat.”

“What the hell? When was that?”

“Hmm, about a month ago. And you wanna know the real kicker? They’ve been fucking for like half a year. My best friend and my boyfriend. Laughing their asses off behind my back. Hilarious, isn’t it?”

“I’m so sorry, darlin’. They’re shitty people for doing that to you. You didn’t deserve any–”

“How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“How do you know that I didn’t deserve it? You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me.”

“I may not know you,” Tommy says gently, “but I know that no one deserves to be treated like that, especially by the people they trust. It’s hard sometimes to see things objectively because we’re our own worst enemies, but I’m telling you, you didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“What makes you say that?”

You look into his eyes, and the pain he can see in yours breaks his heart.

“Because, I fucking loved it. Everything he did to me, all these years. I loved it. I could’ve left him after he cheated on me for the first time, the second time, the hundredth time, but no. I loved how he came crawling back to me time and time again, promising me the world, telling me he only loved me.”

You pull away, hands resting on his chest as you try to find your words. Simon’s intense gaze has your mind swirling with conflicting emotions, and your heart pounding in your chest. “I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper, your body trembling as he presses you against the wall with his body. “You–you say you’ll change, you say you’ll never do it again, you say you regret hurting me. And I forgive you. Every time. But nothing ever changes. You do it again and again, not caring how much you hurt me.” He places a hand on the wall next to your head, pushing your shirt up around your waist with the other, his touch on your naked skin sending a shiver down your spine. He looks down at you with a hint of amusement, a devious smirk appearing on his face as he searches your pleading eyes. “I’m serious, Simon,” you insist, unsuccessfully trying to convince yourself of what you’re saying. “I’m done.” Leaning in, he traces your neck with his nose, your heavy breathing and the way your tits press against his chest making his cock twitch in his jeans. “Is that so?” he murmurs against your skin before softly sucking and kissing on your flesh. “Why are you doing this?” you breathe, instinctively wrapping your arms around him, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you draw him closer. His leg between yours presses against your core, and you can’t help but whimper desperately at the feeling. “I love you,” he whispers, his warm breath gently caressing the curve of your ear, his words piercing your heart like a poisonous dart. “No, you don’t,” you murmur, your voice heavy with sadness, your eyes betraying the turmoil raging within you. Despite the ache in your heart, a part of you still yearns for the comfort of his touch, the familiarity of his presence, the illusion of affection he gives you. You need him, need to feel him, need him to love you—even if it kills you. In this moment of vulnerability, you surrender to the torrent of emotions flooding your senses, pressing your lips against his in a desperate attempt to drown out the pain, to silence the screams that plague your mind—eagerly drinking his poison straight from the source. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pull him closer, offering yourself up to him with each rough tug, fervent kiss, and harsh bite to his lips. He matches your energy, gripping the back of your neck with a bruising hold as he hastily opens his jeans to free his cock. “I hate you,” you choke out, the words laced with bitterness and the raw intensity of your need for him as your heart races and your vision blurs. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, baby,” Simon murmurs with a smirk, his words a cruel reminder of the tangled web of emotions that binds you to him, even as you struggle to break free. With a deft movement, he pulls aside your panties, sliding his hard cock through your wet folds as he holds your leg up around his waist. “Oh fuck,” you moan as he pushes inside you in one harsh thrust, your fingernails reflexively digging into his scalp. Overwhelming pleasure mingles with the anguish of your body betraying you, even as your mind screams in protest. Your walls clench around Simon with fierce intensity, his repeated thrusts against your G-spot having you close to orgasm within a minute. “Tell me, baby,” he pants, his eyes gleaming with triumph and satisfaction as he watches in real time how his poison travels through your entire body, your mind, intoxicating your very being with his essence. “Tell me how much you hate me while you come on my cock.”

You tilt your head and give Tommy a tired smile. “Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard?”

“No, sweetheart, you’re not pathetic for wanting to be loved. You’re human and our feelings can be…complicated, irrational, dangerous. But you got yourself away from a toxic situation despite your feelings and that takes a lot of strength.”

“Hm.” You draw shapes into the sand with your toes, your heart heavy in your chest.

“Is he…why you left? You had to get away from him?”

“Surprisingly, no,” you say pensively, lost in thought as you fold one leg beneath you on the bench. “Things weren’t that bad after I decided not to care anymore. You know you can just wake up one day and realize it hurts a lot less to just not care about anything? Amazing. So yeah, that’s what I did.” You shrug and rub your left thumb with your right one.

“Of course, he didn’t like that at all, not being able to emotionally drain me anymore. He even told me I was depressed or some shit, acting like he cared, when all he actually missed was me giving him the reactions he wanted,” you scoff, bitterness dripping from your lips. “Coincidentally, that’s when he and my best friend started fucking.”

“I’m so sorry, darlin’, that’s beyond fucked up. Do you, uh, have someone to talk to about all this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean apart from handsome cowboys in too-tight jeans late at night?”

“Did you just call me handsome?”

“Don’t think so,” you give him a playful smile, then turn your head to watch the waves doing their mesmerizing dance. Despite the light-hearted banter, a hint of sadness flickers across your face. “But no, I don’t have anyone left.”

Tommy’s expression softens, his eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and concern as he listens to your words. He reaches out, but catches himself before his hand comes to rest on your shoulder.

“Why did you leave?” he asks gently.

“I saw her.”

“Who?”

“Laura. My best friend,” you say, shuddering at her name. “I came out of the hospital yesterday, stood at a red light, and then I saw her. Looking right at me from the other side of the street. We hadn’t talked since before I almost died a month ago, ‘cause she never bothered to answer any of my calls or texts…and there she was. Daring to look at me with those fake-ass tears in her eyes like she isn’t a fucking sociopath.”

“What did you do?”

“I just…looked at her, knowing I could never see her again. I walked away, went to mine and Simon’s apartment, grabbed a few things, and went to the airport.”

“And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here.”

The weight of your experience hangs heavy in the air, casting a somber shadow over the conversation. Tommy nods thoughtfully as he absorbs your words, until he suddenly shakes his head, chastising himself for his own stupidity.

“Okay wait, I’m sorry, but did you just say you almost died? What the hell happened?”

“Oh,” you scoff, a wide smile spreading across your face, its brightness contrasting sharply with the dullness in your eyes, “it’s nothing. One of my fallopian tubes burst ‘cause my dumbass gynecologist failed to diagnose an ectopic pregnancy, so I was hemorrhaging and had to have emergency surgery to get it removed.”

Tommy’s reaction is visceral: his eyes widen in shock, and his mouth falls open slightly, a silent gasp escaping him as the gravity of your words, spoken with horrifying casualness, hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Jesus Christ, darlin’...”

“But hey, the doctor said I’m completely fine at the check-up yesterday, so I guess that’s what I am.” You shrug and smile at him, but your attempt to lighten the mood falls flat.

“Darlin’, I’m so sor–”

“Don’t, please. It’s okay,” you interrupt softly, shaking your head. “My ex told me to have an abortion when I told him I was pregnant, and I wouldn’t have been a good mom anyway, so it’s best for the baby that it wasn’t born into the shitshow that is my life.”

“Dar–”

“I swear to God, Tommy, if you say ‘darlin’’ in that stupid, sexy accent of yours one more time,” you cut him off with a playful glare.

He smiles at you, though worry lingers in his eyes and tugs at his heart.

“I’ve always wanted to live near the ocean,” you muse, welcoming the breeze cooling your hot face down. “It’s kind of poetic that my journey ends here.”

“It really is beautiful here, I’m sure you’d love livi–” Tommy starts, but you’re not hearing him.

“You know, I have this recurring dream where I drown, but instead of feeling panicked or scared I just feel peaceful, light. Like the weight of the world is lifted off my shoulders. I don’t thrash or struggle, I just…let the water take me under and I can finally breathe.”

Concern flashes in Tommy’s eyes, but he quickly masks it with a calm expression, not wanting to alarm you.

“That sounds intense,” he responds gently, choosing his words carefully. “Dreams can be strange sometimes, but that one sounds like it’s trying to tell you something. Maybe it’s your mind’s way of processing all the heavy things that’ve been weighing on you."

He shifts slightly closer to you, his tone soft and reassuring. “But you know, maybe it’s worth exploring with a therapist or someone who can help you unpack it. Sometimes talking about these things can bring some clarity and relief.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you say absentmindedly.

“Darlin’, please look at me,” Tommy’s voice breaks through the haze of your thoughts, his gaze penetrating through the fog of your mind. If you had any tears left to cry, the sincerity in his eyes would surely coax them out right about now.

“About what you said earlier…you–you don’t deserve people treating you badly, or any of the bad things that happen to you. You never did, you hear me? You were supposed to be loved, protected and cared for, but you weren’t, and that’s not fair, and most certainly not your fault.”

You tilt your head, studying his face intently. Why does he care? Why couldn’t he just leave you alone? But hey, he’s trying to be nice, and it’s not like you’re ever going to see him again. So, you’re trying to be nice back.

“Thanks,” you say softly, mustering a smile. “But enough about me and my dumpster fire of a life.” You shift in your seat, untucking your leg and stretching it out in front of you.

“I’d rather hear about you and how you get your hair to be this healthy. I can never get mine to look that good. Do you think it’s because I just eat garbage, don’t drink enough water and don’t get enough sunlight?”

Tommy chuckles and nods understandingly, recognizing your attempt to shift gears, and decides to play along until you both hear the pizza guy calling for you.

Your insistence to pay for your own pizza and drink falls on deaf ears, so you begrudgingly accept Tommy’s invitation and thank him for ordering food. Surprisingly, you find yourself ravenously hungry after taking the first few bites of your pineapple pizza—that you originally only wanted to mess with Tommy. But even he has to admit it isn’t half bad after you make him eat a slice.

As you’re eating together and the night deepens around you, the street lamps along the boardwalk spending enough light, you ask Tommy about his life.

He shares his journey of enlisting in the army as a teenager, grappling with PTSD upon his return, and navigating through troubled times. He tells you about the unwavering support of his brother and how therapy helped him cope with his demons. You delve deeper, asking him about his wishes for the future, about his hopes and dreams.

You enjoy hearing about his life, about his experiences that are so different from yours. It’s comforting to get lost in someone else’s story for a bit. It’s a refuge, a welcome escape from your own tiring existence.

Pizzas devoured, you sit side by side, enveloped in the soothing melody of the ocean’s whispers. Time seems to lose its grip as you share both laughter and quiet, the minutes and hours slipping away unnoticed like grains of sand carried by the tide.

As tranquility settles between you, the world around you seemingly forgotten, a question gnaws at your insides, its weight palpable in the silence. It’s a question you’re reluctant to voice aloud, knowing it will rupture the delicate bubble you and Tommy have found yourselves in. Yet, it persists, demanding acknowledgment, refusing to be ignored.

You take a deep breath.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

He gives you a reassuring smile. “Of course, darlin’.”

“Why won’t you go home?”

Oh. Tommy looks deeply into your eyes, his own filled with turmoil, and finds that he can’t lie to you.

“I can’t,” he admits softly, turning his gaze towards the distant horizon.

You nod slowly, turning your head towards the water as well. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” he says simply, his acknowledgment laden with a quiet understanding.

You steal a glance at him, your eyes searching for comfort in the weary lines on his face. With a tentative gesture, you place your hand on the bench between you, a subtle invitation for connection.

Tommy, sensing your unspoken plea, catches the movement from the corner of his eye. His gaze meets yours as you turn your head, and in that shared moment of vulnerability, he understands. Without a word, he responds, reaching out to cover your hand with his own.

His touch is protective, a silent promise that you’re not alone.

“Do you…do you think that makes me a bad person?” you whisper, your voice trembling as you lay bare the depths of your fears.

“No,” he responds softly, his gaze meeting yours with unwavering sincerity. “You’re not a bad person for feeling the way you do.”

For the first time since your miscarriage, tears glisten in your eyes, shimmering like fragments of shattered dreams under the moonlight. Tommy’s words offer a glimmer of solace, touching your broken heart.

Silence settles between you two, heavy with shared pain. You sit like that for a while, two strangers finding kinship in the gentle embrace of this summer night.

Gently squeezing your hand, Tommy turns to look at you after a few minutes. “I need you to do something for me,” he says, his voice tinged with urgency. You look into his eyes, finding comfort in the warmth of his presence.

“Please stay with me tonight,” he pleads, his fingers tightening around yours, anchoring you to the present moment as if afraid you might slip away into the night.

“We can stay here, we can go for drinks, we can go dancing, we can break into the zoo—whatever you want, sweetheart. We don’t have to talk about anything, and I promise I won’t bother you anymore if tomorrow you decide that’s what you want, but please give me a chance to show you that I ca–”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

As the gentle breeze around you whispers secrets of hope and renewal, you find yourself nodding in agreement, a silent promise to give him the chance he so earnestly seeks—to let him show you the light that flickers within the darkness.

Tommy is momentarily stunned as he searches your face for any sign of hesitation. But there’s none to be found—only a quiet resolve that speaks volumes. A wave of relief washes over him, and he can’t hold back the wide grin spreading across his face.

“So, there’s a place a few minutes from here where we could dance, or there’s the bar I went to earlier, or we could–”

“Tommy?”

“Yes, darlin’?”

“I’m tired. Could we maybe…could we go home?”

Tommy’s face lights up even more. “Yes, yes, of course, darlin’. My place is right around the corner.”

“Great,” you say with a small smile.

You put your socks and sneakers back on, your movements slow and unsteady after hours of sitting. As you stand up for the first time, your legs wobble beneath you, but Tommy is quick to react, reaching out to steady you with his hands on your waist.

“Sorry,” you mumble, cheeks heating up as you realize your hands are gripping his shoulders for support.

“That’s alright, darlin’. I got you.”

“You’re so cheesy, you know that?” you say with a playful roll of your eyes before removing your hands and taking a step back.

“Look me in the eye and tell me it’s not working,” he teases back with a smirk.

“Whatever. Can we go?” You raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“After you, my lady,” Tommy says with a gallant flourish, gesturing for you to go first. You shake your head with a theatrical sigh, but play along and start walking.

He falls into step beside you, eager to lift your spirits with an array of random animal facts he’s accumulated over the years, and, much to your amusement, with some particularly funny stories about failed hookups, like the one from tonight.

As you draw closer to his apartment, he suddenly sucks in a sharp breath and comes to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to ask if you need anything.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, tampons, make-up wipes, solution for your contacts, hair conditioner, lotion—I don’t think I have any of that at home, but there’s a convenience sto–”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, touched by his consideration. “I got all my essentials in my backpack and really don’t need anything fancy. Thank you, though.”

“Are you–”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you interrupt softly. “Thank you.”

Arriving at Tommy’s apartment, you’re struck by its elegant yet welcoming nature. It’s spacious and tastefully furnished, with a modern aesthetic that speaks to Tommy’s discerning taste. You can’t help but wonder if his job as a contractor affords him such a nice living space or if he’s secretly a trust fund kid—or a very successful drug dealer.

“Must be nice,” you think to yourself.

As Tommy ushers you inside, you’re enveloped in a sense of warmth and comfort as the space feels distinctly homey, with its wooden furnishings and cozy accents that evoke a rustic charm. The polished hardwood floors gleam under soft lamplight, casting a warm glow throughout the living room.

Tommy assures you that you’re welcome to make yourself at home as he heads into the kitchen to get you a glass of water.

Despite its hominess, the apartment remains impeccably clean and organized—a testament, perhaps, to Tommy’s meticulous nature. Every surface is spotless, every item in its proper place, reflecting a discipline that may well stem from his army training.

As you explore further, you do notice small touches that hint at Tommy’s personality—framed photos of him and his friends, a worn but well-loved armchair and couch positioned opposite the TV, horse figurines on the sideboard, and a few potted plants scattered throughout, adding a touch of life to the space.

Your eyes are eventually drawn to the record player nestled in one corner, surrounded by a collection of vinyl records. The sight brings a smile to your face, appreciating the nostalgic feeling it gives you. You’re pretty sure you used to have the same model in your childhood home.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” you hear Tommy’s voice behind you as he hands you the glass of water with a knowing smile. “You like Jazz?”

“Thanks. And yeah, I guess?”

“Okay, wait a sec.” He moves with practiced ease, flipping through his collection of vinyl records until he finds the one he’s looking for. With a gentle touch, he carefully removes the chosen record from its sleeve, handling it delicately as if it were a precious artifact.

You sip on your water and watch in fascination as he places the record onto the turntable, the soft click of the needle finding its groove. As the first notes of a smooth jazz melody fill the air, you can’t help but smile, the music enveloping you in its warm embrace.

Tommy catches your eye and grins, nodding in approval as if to say, “See, I knew you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his arm with your elbow.

“Want me to show you around?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, so this is the bedroom,” he says, leading you down the hallway and into the room where you’ll be sleeping. The bed sits neatly made, its dark sheets promising a restful night ahead. “I’ll change the sheets for you in a bit, okay? And I’ll be sleeping in the living room on the couch.”

“I, uh,” you murmur, but stop yourself, shaking your head. “No, forget it.”

“What is it? It’s okay, you can tell me.” He searches your eyes as you meet his gaze, waiting patiently for you to answer him.

“Could you maybe…not change the sheets?”

Tommy’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t make it awkward. Instead, he nods understandingly and immediately assures you, “Sure, I’ll leave the bed as it is then.”

You offer him a grateful smile and as if sensing your need for comfort, he asks, “Do you need a shirt to sleep?” Without waiting for your response, he retrieves one of his shirts and hands it to you.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, taking the shirt from him and holding it close. It’s soft and smells nice.

“And here’s the bathroom,” Tommy continues, leading you through the space. “Feel free to take a shower if you want. Spare towels are here, and there’s a new toothbrush in the cabinet here. Toothpaste is over there. I even got fancy face masks if you wanna try, they’re in here. You think you got everything you need?”

“I think so,” you smile at him before leaving the bathroom to grab your backpack.

As you’re about to head back, Tommy slips in ahead of you. You watch as he discreetly removes all the razor blades, a silent but clear gesture of concern for your well-being. You understand what he’s doing, and although it stirs a pang of humiliation and shame inside you, you don’t say anything and act like you didn’t see it.

After he leaves the bathroom, you take a moment to compose yourself before closing the door, peeing, taking off your clothes, and catching a glimpse of the small surgery scars on your belly. They appear to be healing well, already looking much better than even a week ago.

With a deep breath, you turn on the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over your body, soothing away some of your tension. As you lather up, enveloped in the steam and the rich scent of Tommy’s body wash, there’s a knock on the door, interrupting your thoughts.

“Darlin’?” Tommy’s voice sounds through the door.

“Yeah?”

“Just wanted to check if you were okay.”

“I’m okay. But you seriously need to start buying body wash for adults, dude. I’m gonna be smelling like a fourteen-year-old boy now, and I don’t know how to feel about it,” you tease.

“Ha ha, you brat. Enjoy your shower.”

You smile to yourself and appreciate how clean Tommy’s shower is as, in your experience, that is not something you can count on with men who live alone.

As you lather shampoo into your hair, you close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of peace amidst the chaos of recent events. It’s all so surreal.

Once rinsed, you step out of the shower and wrap yourself in one of Tommy’s plush towels, the soft fabric hugging your body in a tight embrace. With the steam still lingering in the air, you take your time cleaning your face, brushing your teeth and detangling your wet hair, these simple acts of self-care something you’ve neglected in the weeks prior.

Luckily, your past self decided to pack a fresh pair of panties and a pair of soft yoga pants you can change into now, Tommy’s shirt completing your pajamas for tonight.

Slowly, you step out of the bathroom, the soft light of the living room floor lamp casting a warm glow on the scene before you. Tommy’s sitting on the couch, bathed in the gentle ambiance of the record player’s music.

With a glass of whiskey in hand, he seems lost in thought, fingers rhythmically tapping against the glass, his eyes focused on the spinning vinyl. As you approach, he looks up, a small smile gracing his lips as he welcomes you to join him.

“Okay yeah, I get it,” he quips, his tone playful as he notices how perfectly his shirt accentuates your eye color. “You look better in my shirt than I ever could. There’s really no need to rub it in.”

Chuckling, you settle into the cushion beside him, feeling the warmth of his presence. It feels oddly comforting to be close to him again, his cologne a familiar scent.

But as you sit beside him now, something shifts in the air, a subtle change that you can’t quite pinpoint. It’s as if a newfound awareness has settled between you, casting a different light on the space you share. And as you steal glances at Tommy, you start to feel restless, your heart rate quickening.

Oh.

The realization dawns on you slowly, creeping in like the first light of dawn, illuminating the depths of your emotions. You find yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him, mesmerized by the way he sits on the couch, his posture relaxed yet undeniably confident.

Your eyes trail over the breadth of his shoulders, down his strong arms, his sculpted torso, and settle on his spread thighs, the subtle flex of muscles visible beneath the fabric of his jeans. Each movement, each shift of his body, only serves to deepen the intensity of your attraction to him.

You’re in trouble.

His handsome face holds a certain allure, drawing you in with its rugged charm—especially with those warm eyes and the beautiful facial hair. As you look at him, really take him in, you can’t deny the flutter of arousal stirring deep within you.

A flutter that’s enough to urge your scrambled brain to make a move.

Tommy catches your prolonged stare, and his brows furrow slightly, a hint of curiosity flickering in his eyes. You gather the courage to ask for a sip of his whiskey, unwittingly biting your lip as you wait for his answer.

“Of course, darlin’,” he agrees, leaning in with a broad smile, bringing the glass closer to you.

As your fingers brush against his on the glass, you feel a surge of electricity pass between you. His pupils dilate ever so slightly, his gaze locked onto yours. You take the glass from him, your fingers lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary.

Raising the glass to your lips, you take a slow sip, relishing the smooth warmth of the whiskey as it slides down your throat. Your eyes never leave his as you lick your lips, the gesture not lost on Tommy as he watches you intently.

The flicker of desire in his eyes tells you that he’s captivated by your silent invitation, but as Tommy accepts the glass back, a faint frown tugs at his brow, his expression suddenly tense.

“Darlin’, don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, his voice husky with restraint.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence as you ask, “Why not?”

“Because,” he breathes out, “it’s making me want to do things I shouldn’t.”

“Hmm, but what if I told you that I want to do those things, too?”

Tommy swallows hard as you scoot closer to him, his eyes never leaving yours. His pulse quickens, evident in the subtle rise and fall of his chest, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, unsure of what to do or say next.

When your hand lands gently above his knee, his body tenses at your touch. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak, but all he manages is a heavy breath.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you lean in slowly, searching his eyes. You can see the conflict raging within him, desire warring with restraint, and you wait for his response.

With a shaky exhale, his gaze drops down to your lips, his entire being filled with longing and uncertainty. But as your palm wanders up his thigh, drawing closer and closer to his growing erection, his resolve begins to crumble like sand underfoot.

Unable to resist any longer, he leans in, closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender yet fervent kiss. His hand instinctively finds the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your wet hair as he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet urgency.

Feeling you so close, feeling your soft lips against his, he surrenders to the moment, to the sweet sensation of your embrace, letting himself be consumed by the taste of you.

And yet, in the back of his mind, he’s painfully aware of the circumstances of your meeting.

“I don’t think…this…is a good idea,” Tommy mumbles breathlessly against your lips as you whine needily for more.

“I don’t care,” you breathe, pulling back for a moment to hold onto his shoulders and straddle his lap. His cock twitches in his jeans as you scoot forward, your warm core putting delicious pressure on it. Smiling, you put your hands on his chest and lean in to kiss him again. He cups your face with his hands, kissing you back deeply before nudging your nose with his.

You open your eyes and meet his gaze, his pupils so dilated his brown eyes are almost completely black.

“Let me look at you, baby” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, sending shivers down your spine. With a smile, you straighten up and place your hands behind you on his thighs, giving him a great view of your spread thighs and torso.

“Is this okay?” Tommy asks softly as he traces your thighs with his palms, his touch sending tingles of anticipation through your body.

You nod your head yes, and his lips curve into a smile as his eyes roam your body and face with adoration. His hands wander over your hips, under the shirt you’re wearing, along your waist and further up, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, his eyes piercing yours as his hands come to rest on your waist.

“I’m sure you say that to every girl willing to sit on your lap,” you tease with a smirk, putting your hands on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm.

“Yeah, but with you I mean it.” His words carry a weight of sincerity as one hand reaches out to tenderly caress your cheek, while the other glides over the soft skin of your back. “C’mere baby.”

As you lean in, his lips capture yours with an almost desperate hunger, his kiss rough and deep, as if he fears you might vanish if he doesn’t hold onto you tightly enough. His hands glide to your lower back, hovering just above your ass, hesitant to go further yet craving to pull you closer, to feel every inch of you pressed against him, to consume you whole.

“You don’t have to be so gentle. I won’t break,” you say softly, leading his hands down to your ass. You hum in satisfaction as he grabs it, feeling the strain of his arousal against your aching pussy.

“Tommy,” you whine quietly against his lips, begging him to understand how desperately you need him.

Lost in the moment, you both sink deeper into the kiss, the world around you fading away until there’s only the heat of each other’s bodies and the rhythm of your shared desire. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands roam your back, igniting sparks of pleasure with every touch.

But as the intensity of your kiss grows, so does the weight of uncertainty. Tommy pulls back slightly, his breathing heavy as he searches your eyes for reassurance.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispers. “We don’t have to…”

“I want you, Tommy,” you purr, your eyes glazed.

Your hips rock against him, trying to relieve the tension that has grown between your thighs, eliciting a deep groan from him. His hands move to your waist, helping you grind against him.

“Oh shit,” he pants, reveling in the needy moans leaving your lips. “I don’t wanna hurt you, baby,” he admits with a soft shake of his head, looking at you with wide eyes, still moving you against the bulge in his jeans.

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you breathe, leaning in to kiss and suck at his sensitive neck, leaving purple marks behind. You feel his grip tighten, his restraint slipping as he responds to your touch with a low groan.

Lost in the overload of sensations—feeling your warm body, your soft lips and wet tongue, your urgent movements on him, hearing your moans and whispered pleas—Tommy is ready to give you what you both want.

But right as he’s opening his belt with deft fingers, he inadvertently turns his head and catches his reflection in the window. Watching you writhe on top of him, clutching his shirt, his own face twisted in ecstasy, a sharp pang of guilt shoots through him.

This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be doing this.

You move to kiss his lips again, but as you do so, you catch the concern in his eyes, and your heart sinks. “Hey,” you whisper, your brow furrowed, an anxious smile on your lips.

Your fingers trail gently through his hair, seeking reassurance, but when his movements cease and his touch withdraws, panic floods your senses.

“No, no please don’t stop,” you beg, your desperation evident in every word. You press against him, your hips moving with urgency, aching for the connection you crave so deeply. “I need you.”

Your hands gently cup his cheeks, your pleading eyes flitting between his.

“Please? Tommy?”

Feeling something bump against your leg, you’re called back to the present.

“Oh, hi there, buddy,” you coo, looking down at the toddler who just faceplanted in front of you. You lean down and offer your hand to help him up. “What are you up to, hm? Just running around?”

He looks up at you with wide eyes, his face breaking into a toothy grin. “You wanna sit up here and wait for your mommy?” You lift him up, putting more pressure on your bandaged hand than you should, and set him down beside you. “Great view, huh?”

He babbles something unintelligible, his little arms flailing as his excited laughter fills the air. “You’re so right, buddy,” you agree, following his gaze to the sparkling blue, “the ocean is beautiful.”

“Benji? Oh, there you are,” a lady in a swimsuit calls out, walking towards you with a relieved smile. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she says to you, her tone apologetic. “Benji, how many times have I told you not to run away, hm?”

The toddler giggles in response to his mom’s reproach, his little arms reaching out for her. You can’t help but laugh along with him.

“Think twice before you decide to have kids,” the lady says with a deep sigh, lifting her son onto her hip. “They’re not always as cute as they look.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you chuckle.

“Say bye to the nice lady,” she prompts, her voice warm and gentle.

Benji turns to you, his eyes bright with innocence, and waves enthusiastically with his chubby little hand.

“Bye Benji,” you coo, returning his wave with a big smile, your heart warmed by his adorable gesture.

You sigh and look at your phone. You have two new messages from Tommy.

Maria says she can’t wait to see you tomorrow. And that she’ll personally drag you here if you decide not to show up.

You’re family and there’s nothing you can do to escape us ;)

You swallow hard and can feel your puffy, irritated eyes starting to water behind your black glasses. What the fuck did you ever do in your insignificant life to deserve this kind of love?

Your phone lights up with another text from Tommy.

just accept it <3

You snort and shake your head. You’re so grateful for his friendship. It has changed a lot over the last couple of years, of course it has, especially after he started dating Maria, and more recently since you started…seeing his brother without telling him.

But the fact that you’re still honoring your yearly tradition to have your late-night talk on this very bench, is a testament to the depth of your bond. It’s a cherished ritual, marking the anniversary of your first meeting. You meet here, under the evening sky, exchanging stories and laughter, and indulging in pizza after sunset.

Two years ago, Tommy told you he met someone before you left his apartment the next morning.

“Sweetheart?” “Yeah?” “I, uh, I got something to tell you.” “Shoot.” “I met someone.” Your fingers halt as you’re tying your shoes, the world around you suddenly still as his words sink in. You stare at the floor, tension building in your heart. “We’ve only been on two dates, but I–” “Really like her,” you finish his sentence as you tie the laces into a knot, straighten up and meet his gaze. “Yes.” That’s it, then. You’ve been replaced. “Does that,” you clear your throat that feels incredibly tight now, your voice shaking, “does that mean we can’t hang out anymore?” Tears well up in your eyes as you feel a rush of panic flood through you. You look down and try to blink back the tears threatening to spill over. “Of course not,” Tommy says, his tone gentle yet firm. “Nothing and no one in the world could ever keep me from spending time with you.” “Okay,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper as you hastily wipe away a tear with trembling fingers. “I’m sorry for crying, I–I don’t mean to.” “Hey, you don’t need to apologize for that,” Tommy says softly, closing the distance between you two. His hands find their place on your shoulders, offering a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “Darlin’, look at me.” You lift your gaze to meet his, your eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I mean it,” he says with a comforting smile, looking intently into your eyes and cupping your face with his hands. “I promise I’m not going to leave you. I will always be here for you.” You study his face and tell the nagging voice in your mind to shut the fuck up. This is Tommy. He deserves love, he deserves happiness, he deserves someone who can give him everything he wants. And that’s not you. You give him a kiss on the cheek and a sincere smile. “I’m really happy for you, Tommy.”

You did continue spending time together—Tommy kept his word and didn’t abandon you—but as more and more time passed, you would see him less and less as his relationship with Maria deepened.

You expected that to happen, it didn’t hurt any less though.

One year ago, he told you he was going to propose to her, and you spent all night brainstorming ideas on how he could do it. After she’d said yes, they both let you know one day over dinner that they were going to elope, just the two of them, and you were the only person they’d tell beforehand.

A few weeks ago, Tommy beamed with pride as he shared that they were trying for a baby, the twinkle in his eyes warming your heart. Despite the joyous news, you couldn’t resist teasing him for planting that image in your mind.

After you’d shared your stories, and your pineapple and pepperoni pizzas, he very casually asked you if you were seeing anyone, and you said, “No.”

“You’re a horrible liar, darlin’.” “I’m not lying. I don’t like anyone except you.” “Stroking my ego’s not gonna get you off the hook, baby.” “Hmm, I’m pretty sure it’s working though.” “The longer you deny it, the more obvious it gets, you know.” “I’m not seeing anybody, Tommy.” “You really wanna play semantics with me?” “Alright, alright. I guess I’m…kinda seeing someone.” “Why just ‘kinda’? Does the guy not realize what a lucky bastard he is?” “It’s not him. It’s, uh…you know me.” “Yeah, and that’s why I know you’ve caught feelings.” “Ew, don’t say that.” “Well, it’s true. It’s written all over your pretty face.” “You suck, you know that?” “Yeah, it’s part of what makes me so charming. Does he know?” “I dunno, probably not.” “Are you gonna tell him?” “Uhh, I don’t think so.” “Why not? All this time I’ve known you and I’ve never seen you in love before. You can’t just…ignore it.” “Tommy…” “Don’t even try it with the puppy eyes, I’m immune to them.” “Liar.” “Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t tell him.” “Easy. If I never tell him, it’ll never hurt.” “That’s not how it works.” “You just couldn’t let me live happily in my delusions, hm?” “Sweetheart. I know you’re scared, and you have all the reason to, but…sometimes you gotta take a leap of faith, you know?” “I’m not sure I can.” “What does your gut say?” “My gut says he’s too good for me and that he wouldn’t like me if he knew who I really am.” “As someone who does know who you really are, I can assure you that it’s a privilege I wouldn’t miss for the world.” “I just…don’t wanna mess things up, Tommy.” “Look. Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost if you try. Everything changes and everything is alright.” “Wow, that was beautiful…you’re really starting to feel that rum and coke, huh?” “You know I’m right, baby.”

It’s funny, really.

You actually entertained the idea that Tommy might be onto something, that perhaps opening up to Joel could bring some semblance of peace, that perhaps you could be happy together. Yet here you are, back where you started, the familiar ache of loss settling in your heart, whispering that everything is far from alright.

As the sun dips below the horizon, the sky transforming into a canvas of vibrant colors, reflecting off the rippling surface of the water, you take your shoes and socks off. You sink your toes into the soft, grainy sand, relishing its comforting texture.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, allowing the rhythmic sound of the waves to soothe your racing thoughts. With each exhale, you remind yourself that you’re safe, embracing the tranquility of the moment as the colors of the sunset dance across your eyelids.

You feel grounded, peaceful, almost—

“Hi, darlin’.”

“Jesus, you scared me,” you startle with a gasp, snapping back to reality as Joel’s voice unexpectedly breaks the silence.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you saw me,” he says with an apologetic smile on his lips, his big puppy eyes looking puppier than ever.

You sigh exasperatedly and take off your sunglasses. “I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his words stumbling over each other, “I didn’t mean to intrude, I just...I thought I–I mean, I wanted to...”

“Joel,” you interrupt him, too exhausted—physically and emotionally—to beat around the bush. “What are you doing here?”

His brow furrows slightly and his heart plummets as he sees your bleary eyes, a pang of concern settling heavily in his stomach. “I wanted to see you, darlin’,” he confesses softly.

Your gaze sharpens with curiosity and suspicion as you ask, “But how did you know I was gonna be here? And can you please sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

Joel hesitates for a moment, then sits down beside you, his movements cautious as if afraid to spook you. With a nervous glance in your direction, he clears his throat, his voice low and hesitant.

“I, uh,” he begins, his words faltering slightly, “I went to your place after work to see if you’d maybe talk to me in person. But you weren’t there. And then I went to your office to see if you were working late, but I saw Kristen and she said it was your day off. You could have been anywhere at that point, so I went to Tommy’s and…told him.”

His eyes flit between yours, anxiously searching for your reaction.

You blink slowly, processing Joel’s words with a sense of resignation rather than shock. A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you realize that, at this point, nothing surprises you anymore. With a tired nod, you acknowledge Joel’s actions, feeling too drained to muster any significant reaction.

“How’d he take it?” you ask quietly.

Joel exhales deeply, a wry smile on his lips. “He isn’t too happy with me right now, but I think he’ll get over it.”

“Hm.”

“Darlin’, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice wavering with emotion. “I know you probably don’t want to see me right now, but after last night, I just…I couldn’t bare the thought of you not knowing how much you mean to me.”

As Joel speaks, you keep your gaze averted, unable to meet his eyes, your focus fixed on the sand beneath your feet. You hear every word he says, each one echoing in the silence between you, your heart pounding in your chest. Despite your reluctance to face him, Joel’s unwavering gaze remains fixed on you, his eyes silently pleading for understanding.

In the midst of the tense silence, a sudden clarity washes over you, and your heart speaks before your mind can catch up. Just as Joel opens his mouth to apologize again and explain further, you interject with your own question, the words tumbling out softly into the stillness.

“Do you ever feel like there’s something missing...like a piece of your heart is somewhere else? And no matter what you do, you’re always gonna be incomplete?”

You meet Joel’s gaze, your eyes searching his, peering into his soul with a vulnerability that lays bare your deepest feelings.

“I don’t feel like that when I’m with you,” you whisper.

Joel’s brows furrow in a mixture of surprise and tenderness as your words sink in. His lips part slightly, his expression softening with understanding as he processes the weight of your confession.

“Would you, um,” you clear your throat, “would you hold my hand and just sit with me for a bit?”

Joel’s eyes beam with adoration as he gently envelops your hand that’s clutching your shirt, delicately prying it away and intertwining his fingers with yours. With a soft, reassuring smile, he places your entwined hands on his thigh, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin.

As you both gaze out at the vast expanse of the water, the waves lapping against the shore in a mesmerizing dance, you feel a sense of peace settle over you like a warm blanket.

You still carry the weight of unresolved issues and uncertainties in your heart, acknowledging that they loom on the horizon, demanding attention. But for now, they can wait.

Your hand in Joel’s feels right, and in this shared moment right here, that’s enough.

Thank you for reading! 🤍

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greenwitchfromthewoods · 4 months ago

Text

nymph. [part 5] l General Marcus Acacius

Summary: you have been with him for a long time, but he has never seen you. but everything has changed.

Warnings: angst, fluff, memories of death and arena fights, old romance, lots of sadness, some tears, gods and mythology are treated in a simple way

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter. I've hidden something there… something that happened a while ago and came back to them. I'm curious… I'd like to know what you think of this series. or anything I write. My inner critic probably does too well. But I'll leave you with this and thank you for your time.

I hope you will be gentle with me. your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

nymph [masterlist]

It was another hot day and even though you were in the shade, you could feel the heat pouring off the sand in the arena. You had never seen a place like this before. It was massive, raised above the rooftops, as if it was shouting to everyone "I will be here for eternity while you turn to dust".

Marcus was strangely quiet and nervous that day, you could see it in his gaze and how close he was to you. Brutus and Aurelia, as they had promised, showed up at the coliseum with you, but it didn't help.

The crowd around you, the greetings from the other guests and the place itself, General Acacius was restless and would have given anything to be able to take you away from there.

But your eyes, like the eyes of a child, absorbed it all, absorbed his world.

"Marcus! How good to see you!" a cheerful and resonant voice reached your ears as well.

"Lucilla." Marcus nodded as the woman smiled fondly at him. "I’m glad to see you in good health."

She was beautiful. Golden hair fell in waves down her back, a robe draped around her shapely body, and precious stones and gold sparkled on her hands and neck.

Lucilla was beautiful and she definitely knew it. How else could you explain the spell she cast over the people gathered in this place.

She gave him a smile. "I was glad to hear in what glory you returned to Rome. Why haven't you visited me yet? It's not nice to keep old friends waiting."

"I had my duties."

"Duties?" she repeated, and her gaze wandered to you. You didn't look in her direction, but you could clearly feel her searching gaze on you. "Is this your new..."

Your name left his lips like the words of a prayer, Lucilla immediately felt it. Despite everything, the smile didn't leave her lips.

"I'm glad to see you're happy, Marcus." she said, her hand tenderly squeezing his arm. "If she gives you this happiness..."

"She gives me more than I dare to ask for."

The woman nodded. After a short moment, she withdrew to her seat, but you still had the impression that her eyes hadn't left you and Marcus.

"Everything’s good? Come on, let's take our seats."

You sat down at the back and after a moment you saw Emperor Geta and his brother appear in the box. All the majesty and splendor of their personas was overwhelming, but you had the impression that the people around them seemed to stiffen and began to weigh their words more carefully.

However, you didn’t have time to look at them more closely. The fights had begun.

Marcus felt ashamed and embarrassed. When he saw the expression on your face, his heart stopped for a moment. He wanted to take you away from there, to erase from your memory what you had seen, what you had heard...

Your fingers tightened on the ornate armrests of the chair and you slightly leaned forward as your widened eyes watched the bloodshed in the arena with horror.

"My dear..." he whispered in your ear, but only a sigh escaped from between your parted lips.

He took your hand and kissed it, but that didn't help either. Your fingers were ice cold. Gods, Marcus regretted ever letting you see all this!

The conversations and laughter of his companions reached him as if from behind a curtain. All his attention was focused on you and only his alertness allowed him to react appropriately when any words were directed at him.

Let this all be over! Please...

Brutus and Aurelia took you back home, Marcus's duties forced him to stay. You barely spoke to him or his friends, still dazed by what you saw.

"Take care of her." Brutus ordered Melitta when she appeared to welcome you home.

You were barely able to understand her words, although she spoke to you calmly and with concern.

"Where is she? Melitta!" his loud voice echoed through the darkened corridor.

The girl quickly approached him, leaned around the corner, and bowed quickly.

"My lord." she said "I tried my best, but she..."

"What about her?" Acacius growled, approaching her "Speak, girl, if you value your life!"

She raised her head, looking at him pleadingly "I prepared her a bath to ease her nerves. She's still there..."

"How long?" he frowned.

"Since she came home."

"It's been a few hours!"

He pushed Melitta aside and went inside. The stuffiness and the smell of incense immediately filled his nostrils. You were there, sitting on the edge with your feet immersed in the water. The maid had to cover your shoulders with a robe. But what frightened Marcus was your gaze. Glassy eyes stared into space, you looked like a sculpture.

"My love." he said quickly approaching you, he touched your cheek, directing your gaze to him "I'm so sorry."

"Marcus..."

He saw the tears running down your cheeks, your trembling lips, the crease between your brows. He had never felt so helpless before.

"I'm sorry you had to see this. I have no words to justify myself, but please... Just say something."

"I don't understand this, Marcus." Your whisper was barely audible. "I've seen the wrath of the gods, I've seen the battlefields, but this... Just to please a handful of people? Do you all despise your lives so much?"

"I have nothing to defend what you saw."

"How could you defend it? There were ordinary people there too..."

"Thieves and bandits. Slaves."

"People." You took a deep breath. "So who am I, Marcus? What am I? I feel like I'm floating between worlds, not belonging to any of them... I saw the delight on the faces of some, and the terror in the eyes of the dying. Where am I in all of this?"

Warm, large hands cupped your face. Gentle brown eyes looked at you with fear, but also with love and care.

"You're here with me. That's what matters." He said. "Our life is beyond all of this. I'll take you away from here, somewhere where you'll feel free, safe... You belong to me, and I belong to you. That's all that matters."

He saw the shadow of a smile on your chapped lips and couldn't help but taste them. They were salty from tears, but still soft and comforting.

"Come on, love. Let me take you to bed."

With incredible ease he lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bedroom. You were so fragile in his arms, when he placed you on the bed he was still surprised that you were real. It was late, the house was silent and the room was filled with the sweet scent.

You watched as Marcus removed the gold bracelets from his wrists and then his toga, which he placed on a nearby chair. The glow of the candles danced on his wide back.

"Lucilla."

Your quiet voice caught his attention as he poured himself some water from the jug on the table. He turned around, you were sitting on your heels and staring at him. Your face was so soft in the light.

"I saw how she looked at you." you continued calmly. "Something connected you. Feelings, right? Strong ones."

Acacius nodded.

"What happened?"

He cleared his throat and took a few steps, his thoughts returning to those times, the times of his youth.

"It was years ago..." he began "I was a young soldier, gaining experience. She was lonely. Like me."

"She's beautiful."

"Not like you." you smiled slightly and continued "Our paths crossed."

"Did you love her?"

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, which suddenly seemed colossal, rough. Inappropriate for you. However, your presence next to him was so soothing, he closed his eyes.

"I thought so." he replied "I thought it was love. But everything changed suddenly."

Your hand rested on his shoulder "How so?"

"I don't know. I was away from Rome for a while. When I came back, when I met her again and kissed her, I felt like I was betraying someone. It sounds crazy, but it was true. The shadow of an unknown person, someone I had lost and didn't even know, hung between us. I couldn't... Lucilla sensed it, she didn't ask questions. I devoted myself to the army, to Rome." He looked at you, a faint smile playing on his plush lips. When you stroked his cheek, Marcus sighed quietly.

"I've never told anyone about it. Is it possible to suddenly wake up one day and feel like something's been lost? Because that's how I felt. I didn't know what it was, but I felt like someone had cut out a piece of me. No one could fill it. And then, years later, you appeared... You were there like the wind, like a breeze or a warm gust." his lips brushed your wrist, you rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. “I felt you before I saw you. And once I saw your face, gods, it was like I woke up from a long sleep.”

For almost four days, General Acacius's house had been just you, Melitta, Antigonus, and the rest of the servants. His duties had forced him to report to the barracks, and this time he couldn't find an excuse.

It was your first separation in a long time, and although you missed him, every day surprised you with something. Like when Antigonus said you could accompany Melitta to the market. Or when you went to the nearby temple together.

Aurelia and Brutus, Marcus's friends, also visited you, but seeing that they had torn you away from sitting among the maps and notes you were so passionately devouring, they decided that nothing would threaten you. So if it weren't for Antigonus' complaints, you would probably have moved the bedding there.

You felt it again.

You didn't tell Marcus about it, but you waited for the familiar scent to fill the bedroom again. Maybe you were wrong? Maybe it was all just a vivid dream?

But when you stood by the open window to the garden, you heard the quiet words of prayer, you knew you were right. The grass was soft under your bare feet, and the pleasantly cool wind brought relief after the hot day. You walked quietly so as not to scare anyone away.

And when you stopped behind the rose bush, you saw her.

Melitta was kneeling in front of burning candles, with incense made of herbs and flowers that gave off a scent so familiar to you. Her quiet voice mixed with the rustle of leaves and cicadas.

You didn't want to interrupt her prayers, it wasn't right. But you listened to the words and with each subsequent one you felt as if your heart was sinking.

These were not ordinary prayers. Regret, sadness, a plea for forgiveness, a promise to improve... All these words were accompanied by Melitta's silent sobs, carried through the night to the stars along with the smoke of her incense.

And then you understood.

She was just like you.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

@ashleyfilm @gothcsz @littlenicpascal @missladym1981 @axshadows @psychoenergy @sabsunflowergirl @pedrofan @heckzprince @hard-candy-writing @mynameisbaby9 @94namkooksworld @bbyanarchist @picketniffler @tranquilty @psyched2b @jeewrites @tuquoquebrute @aotfantasmagorias @mynameismothra @kluvspedro @fefa-la-printcessa

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #general marcus acacius #general acacius #general marcus acacius x reader #nymph series #gladiator ii #gladiator 2

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misshoneyimhome · 2 days ago

Note

Your last relic has given me many thoughts! One being a 3some of Willy and Knies. Knies thinks he knows everything there is about pleasing women and Willy shows him that he in fact knows nothing.

Oh absolutely, this combo is definitely one of my top favourites too! 🌺 And honestly, who better to guide the baby Leafs than our calm, collected, and ever-so-charming Swedish boyfriend?

Hopefully I captured even a hint of what you had in mind when it comes to William’s gentle yet confident teaching vibes 🙈

Tropes & warnings: Matthew Knies x reader x William Nylander, Friends to lovers, Smut 18+: Threesome (M/M/F), Oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), Vaginal sex (protected), DVP, Praise kink, soft dom vibes, Gentle guidance, reverence, aftercare

➼｡ﾟ

Bed Chem I William Nylander x reader x Matthew Knies ☆

The moment the final buzzer went off, the building erupted.

You weren’t on the ice, but somehow you felt it all the same—that pulse of adrenaline, the eruption of joy that cracked through the walls of Scotiabank Arena like a sonic boom. The Toronto Maple Leafs had clinched a playoff spot, and the city was electric. So were the players. So were you.

The locker room had been a mess of champagne sprays and booming music, post-game interviews overlapping with spontaneous shouts and camera flashes. But by the time you reached the dimly lit rooftop bar uptown, the energy had mellowed into something warmer. The buzz of victory still hung in the air, but it was laced now with alcohol, cigarette smoke from the balcony, and the sort of grins that came from knowing a season’s worth of grit had finally paid off.

You arrived with a couple of the WAGs, but it didn’t take long for Matthew to find you.

“There she is,” he said, looping an arm around your shoulders like it was second nature. “Thought you were gonna ghost us after the win.”

You gave him a look, amused. “You think I’d miss a party full of sweaty men and overpriced cocktails?”

“Yeah,” he said with a crooked smile. “But only because you’re smarter than all of us.”

He tugged you toward the bar, ordering you a drink before you could even ask. He remembered your go-to without question—of course he did. You’d been there through enough of his rough nights and quiet ones, holding space and talking him down when the city felt too big, too loud. He’d always said you made it easier.

Tonight, he was golden. Laughing freely, glow from the overhead string lights catching in his tousled curls. You stayed close, not because you felt like you had to—but because being near Matthew always felt like choosing warmth in a cold room.

“You sticking to your usual?” you asked, nodding to the beer in his hand.

He glanced down at the label and made a face. “I dunno, I might need to branch out. Try something more… mature.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, sipping your drink. “Like a whiskey sour?”

“Like a wine spritzer,” he deadpanned.

You choked on your drink mid-laugh, earning a proud smirk from him. That was how the night flowed—easy, playful. You’d drifted in and out of conversations with other guys, teammates leaning over to toast, make a joke, ask you how work was. But Matthew always came back, his hand at the small of your back, his laugh ready for your next sarcastic quip.

You weren’t blind to how the others saw it. You’d heard the chirps. The “When’s the wedding?” comments. The knowing glances. But it wasn’t like that. You were close—had been since the day he’d landed in Toronto, fresh-faced and already exhausted by the noise. You’d been his anchor.

Still, as you leaned against the bar beside him now, the air between you felt… warmer than usual. Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the way his thumb absently brushed your wrist. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, you didn’t feel the need to pull away.

And that’s when Mitch, two beers deep and already in rare form, decided to start chirping.

“Mattie, be honest,” he called out across the lounge. “You bring your own PR girl out for moral support, or is this part of your new strategy?”

Matthew didn’t flinch. “She’s just here to keep me humble.”

You rolled your eyes, but Mitch wasn’t done.

“No seriously—dude acts like he’s a girl whisperer just ‘cause he got a couple swipe rights after a hat trick.”

“That was one time,” Matthew muttered.

“I bet he still thinks making a girl laugh is enough to get her off,” Mitch added, practically giggling now.

You turned your head toward Matthew, sipping your drink with a smirk. “Is that true, Kniesy? Is that your big secret weapon?”

His eyes flicked to yours, somewhere between defensive and amused. “Maybe… you know, I’m very attentive.”

“Oh, so you’ve read a women’s magazine before.”

“Hey,” he said, leaning in, “I didn’t say Cosmo wasn’t a resource.”

Laughter broke across the group. Even you giggled—genuinely. He was good at that, at making you laugh without trying too hard.

And still, you felt it: a shift in the air. The faint buzz of someone watching.

You turned your head, casually scanning the room.

William stood near the windows. Alone.

A glass of something amber in his hand, one foot crossed over the other, posture relaxed—but his eyes were trained on you. He looked like something out of a noir film. Gold hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck, sharp jaw highlighted in low light, blue eyes unreadable but unwavering.

You hadn’t spoken much tonight. A few words in passing. A gentle squeeze of your elbow when you first arrived. But you knew that look. You’d felt it before.

William Nylander didn’t hover. He didn’t chase. But he watched—especially when it came to you. Not possessive. Not overt. Just… watchful. Like someone who kept the perimeter clear without ever needing to be asked.

You turned back to your drink before your thoughts could spiral.

“So,” Matthew said, leaning in with a grin. “Back me up here. You do think I’m a good listener, right?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I think you’re an excellent listener. When it comes to Spotify playlists and Uber Eats orders.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m just saying,” you shrugged, teasing. “Your success rate with women might have less to do with skill and more to do with… face symmetry.”

Matthew groaned. “Unbelievable.”

You leaned into his shoulder, whispering just loud enough for only him to hear. “You’re cute. You’ve got a good heart. But I don’t think you know quite as much as you think you do.”

He looked down at you, playful spark dimming just a bit into something more earnest. “So teach me.”

The words hung between you for a beat longer than they should have.

You didn’t even get a chance to respond before William joined your side.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped in, sitting close enough that his arm brushed yours. He was still holding his drink, but his attention was fully on the two of you now. And Matthew—bless him—sat up straighter.

William’s voice was quiet but firm. “Some lessons take more than charm.”

Matthew blinked. “Wasn’t asking you, bro.”

“I know,” William replied, eyes still on you. “But maybe she should.”

Your pulse jumped.

The banter was still there. The teasing. But something else had slipped underneath it. Something sharper. He wasn’t just joking. And neither were you.

You swallowed, trying to mask the heat rising in your chest. The room had shifted, and you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the way both of them were looking at you now—like you were something worth studying. Something worth sharing.

Somewhere deep in your gut, you felt it:

This night was far from over.

It was always like that with team nights out—one moment the room was buzzing, too full, too loud, everyone trying to shout over each other, and the next it was emptying out, drinks half-finished, jackets thrown over shoulders, plans whispered between teammates as they slipped out in pairs or small groups.

You hadn’t noticed how late it was until you checked your phone. Past one.

Someone had changed the playlist from classic bar bangers to something smoother, bass-heavy, the kind of rhythm you felt in your chest before you even recognised the song. The laughter had faded. The clinking glasses, too. And when you finally looked up from the low leather couch, it hit you—nearly everyone had left.

Nearly.

Matthew was still beside you, legs spread, fingers drumming lightly against his thigh, leaning forward now like the weight of the day had finally hit him. He looked relaxed. Buzzed. Eyes soft and cheeks still faintly flushed.

William stood a few feet away, now with his drink abandoned on the edge of a side table. He was rolling the hem of his sleeve with slow, careful fingers, like he had nowhere else to be.

You wet your lips, heart skipping when the silence held. It wasn’t awkward. But it wasn’t casual either.

Matthew exhaled a short laugh. “Didn’t realise we were the stragglers.”

“Or the smart ones,” William offered, finally sitting down in the armchair across from you both.

You watched the way he lounged into it, like his body already knew how to own a space before his mind even tried. William was… intimidating in the quiet. Not because he was trying to be—but because there was something about his silence that felt like a secret.

Matthew gave a half-smile. “Guess that means we get the afterparty.”

You stretched your arms above your head and hummed. “Or we’re just too stubborn to go home.”

“Speak for yourself,” Matthew said. “I live for moments like this.”

“Like what?”

“This,” he gestured around. “End of the night. No pressure. Just… honesty.”

You looked at him sideways, surprised.

William tilted his head. “That usually comes after drink number six.”

“Exactly,” Matthew grinned. “We’ve reached that stage.”

You didn’t say anything at first, just let your gaze bounce between them. The air felt… different. Still warm, but thicker. Slower.

“So,” Matthew said, suddenly glancing at you, “what’s the most honest thing you’ve said to someone after midnight?”

You blinked. “That’s a loaded question.”

“I know. That’s why I asked it.”

You smiled. “I told someone I was in love with their dog once.”

Matthew snorted. “That tracks.”

You glanced at William. “Your turn.”

He looked at you, then at Matthew. “I told someone I didn’t want just sex.”

That pulled the air tight.

Matthew blinked. You stared.

“Well, damn,” Matthew said softly. “Didn’t expect you to go deep.”

William just shrugged. “Honesty, right?”

You looked at him a moment longer. The calm in his voice wasn’t forced. There was no bitterness. But something flickered in his eyes. Something unreadable.

“What about you?” William asked, nodding at Matthew.

Matthew hesitated. Then smirked. “I once told a girl I could make her come just with my mouth.”

You burst out laughing. “No, you didn’t.”

He raised a hand in mock-defence. “Hey, she agreed with me.”

“Was she unconscious?”

William chuckled. “That’s the cockiest thing I’ve heard all week.”

Matthew grinned. “I’m just saying, I’m good at what I do.”

You gave him a look, playful but sharp. “You say that with a lot of confidence for someone who thought clitoral stimulation was a TikTok trend.”

Matthew feigned a gasp. “I did not!”

“You did,” William added, unbothered. “In the group chat. We all remember.”

“Et tu, Brute?”

You were laughing again, but something about the heat in your cheeks wasn’t just from amusement. It was Matthew’s eyes on you, bold and youthful, and William’s steadier gaze—quiet, unreadable, but somehow deeper. You felt the shift again. That edge between teasing and something else. Something closer to a line neither of you had acknowledged yet.

You stretched your legs out across Matthew’s lap without thinking. He rested his hands lightly on your shins, thumbs brushing over your skin. William’s eyes followed the movement, slow and deliberate.

“You know,” you said, tone light but voice quieter, “for a guy who claims to be so good with women, you never really struck me as someone who… understood them.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

You nodded. “You’re enthusiastic. And sweet. But I think you think enthusiasm can replace intuition.”

He looked genuinely intrigued. “So what, I need a mentor?”

“Maybe,” you teased. “Someone older. Wiser. More… Swedish.”

William didn’t even blink. “You offering your services?”

You paused. The words hung there.

Then you tilted your head. “Maybe I am.”

Matthew leaned back, mock serious. “Are we talking about, like… a coaching session?”

You smirked. “You couldn’t handle me, Kniesy.”

“Try me.”

William shifted in his seat, jaw flexing just slightly. “He might try, but he won’t finish.”

Your breath hitched.

Matthew grinned, playing it cool. “You think you’d do better?”

William’s gaze never left yours. “I know I would.”

That’s when it happened. That moment. The second when everything tipped sideways. Because you weren’t joking anymore. And neither were they.

And God help you, but the idea didn’t scare you. It thrilled you.

You took a breath, heart pounding. “We could always find out.” The words slipped out softer than you expected. Barely more than a whisper.

Matthew blinked. “Wait—are you… serious?”

You looked between them. Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe it was the tension that had been brewing for years. Your pulse was screaming, but your gut was calm. “I trust you both,” you said. “And I… want to feel good. I want to be with people who know me. Who care.”

William leaned forward slowly. “We’d never do anything you weren’t sure about.”

Matthew nodded, eyes wide but sincere. “We’d take care of you.”

You gave a slow, steady nod. “Then let’s go.”

No one moved for a moment. It was like the silence itself needed a second to process what had just happened.

Then William stood first, walking over to you and offering a hand. You took it without hesitation. Matthew followed close behind, grabbing his jacket and slinging it over one shoulder.

And as you stepped into the cool spring air, sandwiched between two men who suddenly looked at you like you were a star they couldn’t stop orbiting, your chest tightened—not in fear, but in anticipation.

Because this wasn’t just a wild idea anymore.

This was happening.

And something told you… it would change everything.

William’s place was warm.

Not just physically, though the condo had that lived-in luxury—soft lighting, clean lines, the smell of cologne and something woodsy hanging faintly in the air. But the warmth came from something else. The quiet, steady kind. The way William held the door for you and Matthew. The way he let you walk in first like you belonged here.

You’d been in this place before—group hangs, pre-game meet-ups, the odd Sunday movie night when the guys needed normalcy. But never like this. Never with this undercurrent humming beneath your skin, this sense that every movement was leading somewhere.

“Can I get you guys anything?” William asked, already shrugging off his jacket.

You shook your head, still standing in the entryway, heartbeat too loud.

“No,” Matthew said softly. “I think we’re good.”

William looked over his shoulder at you, eyes darker now. “Then come here.”

You moved slowly, unsure but not nervous. Like stepping out onto a frozen lake—you could feel the tension beneath the surface, but something in you trusted it to hold.

Matthew trailed behind you, a step or two slower, his usual confidence muted now into something gentler. Watching you. Watching William.

You stood in the centre of the living room, just a breath apart, the three of you hovering like magnets waiting to be pulled together.

It was William who crossed the distance first.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“You sure?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His kiss was soft. Focused. Like he’d wanted to kiss you for a long, long time and was finally allowing himself the pleasure. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was knowing.

You leaned into it before you realised, one hand sliding up his chest, anchoring yourself to the steady beat of his heart.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to glance past you—to Matthew.

“Come here.”

Matthew obeyed. You felt his presence at your back, warm and close, as his hand found your waist and his lips grazed your neck.

“God,” he breathed. “This is… so much better than anything I ever imagined.”

You laughed softly, breath catching as he pressed a kiss behind your ear. “You imagined this?”

“I’m a guy,” he said. “We imagine everything.”

William chuckled low, one hand sliding along your arm. “Then stop imagining.”

And just like that, it began.

They moved with you, not at you—guiding you gently to the sofa, William sitting first and tugging you into his lap, your knees straddling him as Matthew settled beside you, hands brushing your thighs like a question.

You kissed William again, deeper now, more need curling beneath your skin. You felt Matthew’s lips at your shoulder, his hands climbing slowly up your torso, fingertips teasing beneath your blouse.

When he reached the first button, he paused.

“This okay?”

You nodded.

One by one, the buttons came undone. Then William’s hands joined his—warm palms sliding up your back as they helped you ease out of the fabric.

Every touch felt intentional. Every movement filled with quiet reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” Matthew whispered. “Like, unfairly.”

You turned your head and kissed him—Matthew—softly, testing the space between you, surprised by how natural it felt. How right. There was no hesitation, no awkward clash of lips. Just warmth. The heat of his breath mingling with yours as his mouth parted under the pressure, tasting of beer and something more.

Your fingers curled at his nape, drawing him in as you deepened it, emboldened by the low sound he made—half sigh, half groan. His hands stayed respectfully on your waist, thumbs rubbing soothing circles just above the hem of your jeans, as though memorising the feel of your body, asking for permission with every pass of skin on skin.

Then you felt another pair of hands—steady, sure, achingly familiar.

William’s.

They skimmed low, trailing from your ribs to your hips, where they caught the waistband of your jeans and knickers. He moved with careful intention, tugging them downward in one smooth, patient motion. You rose slightly, shifting your weight just enough to let him help you out of them completely.

The moment you were bare, the air hit your skin—cool, sharp, electric.

And then William’s mouth followed.

He kissed your inner thigh first, just above the knee, a slow drag of lips and breath that made you twitch. Then higher. Then higher still. You felt the stubble on his jaw graze you gently, his nose nudge soft skin as he pressed closer. And finally, the warmth of his breath against your core.

You couldn’t help it—you gasped.

His hands came to rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing lines along their curve as he knelt between your legs. His eyes lifted to meet yours, sharp and dark and reverent, like he was about to say grace.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “About tasting you. About making you fall apart.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Firm. Intentional. Unhurried.

His tongue swept through your folds with maddening precision, teasing before pressing flat against your clit with just the right amount of pressure. He moaned softly into you, and the vibration alone sent a bolt of heat through your spine.

Your back arched, hands scrambling for something to hold on to. One found his shoulder. The other slid into his hair—thick, soft, a little damp with sweat—and you tugged, instinctively, just enough to feel him groan in response. The sound went straight through you.

You could feel every detail. Every flick of his tongue. Every purposeful pause. Every moment he let his nose nudge against your thigh like he couldn’t get close enough. It was overwhelming. And still—somehow—exactly what you needed.

Beside you, Matthew hadn’t moved far. His breath was uneven now, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a shift. He reached out with one hand, stroking the length of your arm with gentle reverence. His other hand cradled your jaw, grounding you in his presence as his lips found yours again—slow, coaxing kisses that gave you something to hold onto while William unraveled you below.

Your thighs began to shake. That pressure—low, hot, coiling—was building fast.

“W-Willy,” you gasped, hips tilting into his mouth.

And then he stopped.

Pulled back. Licked his lips.

You let out a sound—needy, wrecked, half-whimper.

He just smiled. “Your turn,” he told Matthew, his voice rough and knowing.

Matthew looked like he might combust on the spot.

“I—I don’t wanna ruin the fun,” he admitted, flushed to the ears, breath catching.

“You won’t,” William said calmly, standing to his full height. “Watch. Listen. Then try.”

You moved in your position, pulse still racing, as you lay back on the couch, legs open and draped across the cushions in invitation. Matthew moved between them, eyes wide, searching your face like you were sacred scripture.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, offering a reassuring smile. “You’ve got this.”

He started slow. Tongue tentative. Hands a little unsure, but sweet. So sweet.

William crouched beside him, not touching either of you—just guiding. “Go slower. Focus on the top. Feel her breathing. Let that guide you.”

Matthew listened. Really listened.

He adjusted. Tilted his head. Flattened his tongue. One of his hands splayed against your lower stomach, the other steadied your thigh, and he moaned when he felt you twitch beneath him.

Your breath caught.

He was definitely a quick learner. Smart and curious. And when he found that rhythm—pressure and pace just right—you let your head fall back with a cry.

“Matt—oh my God—”

He kept going. Determined now and focused. He sucked your clit a few times, and just like that you came, hard and fast—hips bucking, hands fisting the cushions, voice echoing through the room as the coil inside you snapped and pleasure rushed over you in waves.

Matthew pulled back slowly, lips shiny, eyes wide with something like awe.

“Oh… yes,” he breathed, resting his head on your thigh like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. “That was—holy shit.”

William chuckled softly from above you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Told you.”

You were still shaking, heart pounding, chest heaving.

And then they came back to you. William next to you on the couch, lifting you gently into his lap, kissing your temple. Matthew kneeling at your feet, stroking your calves as he gazed up at you with something between pride and disbelief.

And then, like they’d rehearsed it, they kissed you—one on the neck, one on your lips. Like you were sacred. Like you were theirs.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were.

“More?” William asked, his voice husky, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You nodded, breath shaky, body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure.

“Say it,” he whispered, his hand trailing down your side, anchoring you with every touch. “Tell us what you want.”

Your reply was a breath, a confession. “I want you. I want to feel you inside me.”

The air shifted—like something ancient and silent had just been summoned. They helped you up, warm hands on your arms and hips as you left the sofa behind and padded down the hallway together. William guided you into his bedroom, dimly lit and clean, with soft sheets and the faint scent of cedarwood lingering in the air. You could hear Matthew behind you, the slight catch in his breath, the soft creak of the floorboard under his weight.

Your back met the edge of the bed, and you sank down gently as you watched them both undress completely.

William stood at the foot of it, eyes dark with restraint as he reached into the nightstand drawer. He slid a condom out of the box, tore it open with ease, and rolled it on with a practiced hand, his gaze never leaving you. Then he climbed onto the bed, shifting beside you and drawing you gently to your side, body curled around yours.

His hands were everywhere—stroking your spine in long, grounding sweeps, massaging your hips with reverence, touching you like he was reminding himself you were real. One of your legs lifted to hook over his hip, welcoming him in.

He kissed your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, before positioning himself at your entrance.

And then—slowly, carefully—he pressed in.

The stretch made your eyes flutter shut. You gasped, body arching instinctively as the fullness hit, his body molding to yours in the most intimate way. The heat of his chest at your back. The sound of his breath at your ear. It was more than sex—it was surrender.

You opened your eyes—and there was Matthew.

Standing in front of you, one hand loosely gripping the base of his cock, the other resting against his stomach. He was flushed, eyes heavy, lips parted as he watched William sink into you.

You reached for him. “Come here.”

He did.

You took him in your hand first—slow, teasing strokes that made his hips twitch—before guiding him gently to your lips. You kissed the tip, then slid your mouth over him inch by inch, letting the moan in your throat reverberate around him.

William began to move behind you. Long, deep thrusts. Controlled. Reverent. His fingers tightened around your waist as he matched the rhythm of your mouth.

It was overwhelming—in the best possible way. The push and pull. The heat. The rhythm of William moving inside you, the weight of Matthew on your tongue, their soft groans and praises surrounding you like a lullaby spun from sin and safety.

You were the centre of gravity. And you wanted more.

You pulled off Matthew with a whimper, lips wet, hand still stroking him slowly. “I want to feel you too,” you whispered to him. “Please.”

They stilled.

William’s hand traced down your side, grounding you. Matthew looked at you like he was trying to memorise you.

A pause. Then William’s voice, low and careful: “You’re sure?”

You nodded. “Yes. I want this. I want both of you.”

William then gently pulled out before Matthew reached for a condom with shaking hands, tearing it open and rolling it on with quiet reverence. Then he lay back on the mattress, propped on pillows, arms open in invitation.

You climbed over him slowly, one knee on each side of his hips, gently and slowly guiding him to your entrance. You gasped as you eased down onto him—already sensitive, already aching—and he moaned beneath you, hands flying to your hips like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You rode him slowly at first, trying to catch your breath. But then William was behind you again—steady, calm, the grounding presence he always was. He pressed soft kisses between your shoulder blades, hands sliding along your waist.

“Lean forward for me,” he murmured.

You obeyed, bracing your hands on either side of Matthew’s head. His arms cradled your back, keeping you steady as William positioned himself again.

You felt him—hot and hard—at your entrance. And then, with excruciating care, he pushed inside.

The stretch made you cry out. Your fingers curled into the sheets. Your body trembled with the sheer intensity of it.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” William breathed into your shoulder. “Let me in. Let us take care of you.”

They held still for a long moment, letting you adjust. Letting your body catch up to the sensation of being filled completely.

Then—slowly—they began to move.

In sync.

One pushing while the other pulled. A rhythm of careful thrusts and reverent touches. Their hands roamed your body like you were art. Their lips brushed against your back, your shoulder, your neck. Matthew’s eyes locked with yours, wide and worshipful.

You’d never felt anything like it. Not even close.

The pleasure was molten. Liquid. Spreading through you like wildfire. Your moans turned to cries. Their names spilled from your lips like prayers.

You came first.

It hit like a wave—your body shuddering, your thighs quaking, your voice cracking as they held you between them, coaxing you through it.

Matthew followed next, gasping your name as he thrust deep one last time, head thrown back against the pillow.

William came last—always controlled, always composed—his arms wrapping tightly around you as he buried himself fully, groaning into your skin as he let go.

And then…

Stillness.

Just the sound of breathing. The weight of their bodies. The lingering tremble in your limbs.

You collapsed between them, chest heaving, every nerve ending singing.

No one spoke. They didn’t have to.

It was quiet.

Not the kind of silence that begged to be filled—but the kind that settled in like a warm blanket, the kind that only followed something honest. Something real. Like your bodies had said more than words ever could, and now the quiet was just the breath between pages.

You lay between them. Skin still flushed, heartbeat finally slowing. Matthew beneath you, chest rising and falling, one hand still tracing lazy patterns up and down your back. William behind you, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other splayed across your ribs like he never wanted to let go.

No one moved. Not really.

Matthew let out a low, exhausted chuckle.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

You smiled, face buried against his chest. “Can’t feel my brain.”

William kissed the top of your spine. “Can’t feel bad about that.”

You laughed softly—genuine, a little sleepy. Your muscles ached, but not in a way that hurt. More like the echo of something good. Something earned.

They stayed close, touching you gently like you might disappear if they let go for even a second.

You shifted slightly, limbs heavy, letting your cheek rest against Matthew’s chest. His skin was warm. His heartbeat steady.

“I still feel like I’m floating,” you murmured.

“Same,” he said, voice low, a little shy now. “That was…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to.

William’s voice came from behind you, soft and steady. “You were perfect.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“So were you.”

He smiled—slow, tired, full of something that made your heart clench.

“I mean it,” he said. “You didn’t just… let us have you. You trusted us. That matters.”

Matthew nodded. “It really does.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of those words sink in. Maybe it should’ve felt overwhelming. Maybe you should’ve been second-guessing everything. But all you felt was… full.

In every sense of the word.

“Alright,” William said, sitting up a little. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You started to protest, but he was already easing you up, his hands gentle, movements unhurried. Matthew helped too, his touch soft, reverent, the teasing edge from earlier now replaced with something tender.

William disappeared into the ensuite, returning a moment later with a warm cloth and a bottle of water.

He crouched beside the bed, pressing the bottle into your hands. “Small sips.”

You obeyed.

Then he brushed a damp cloth between your thighs, movements careful, almost clinical—but still loving. Like he was honouring the body he’d just worshipped.

You touched his wrist lightly, silently thanking him.

When he finished, he climbed back into bed beside you. You reached for him without thinking. Matthew rolled over too, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“We should probably talk,” you whispered, unsure where the thought came from, but knowing it needed to be said.

“Eventually,” William said, already pulling the covers up over all three of you. “But not tonight.”

“Yeah,” Matthew echoed. “Let’s just… be.”

You sank into the sheets, wrapped in warmth and the scent of their skin.

The weight of the moment finally settled in your chest—not heavy, but real.

Because this wasn’t just some wild night. Not something you’d laugh about tomorrow and lock away in a mental file labelled “one-time mistakes.”

This was something else. Something that shifted tectonic plates you hadn’t realised were movable.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. You didn’t know what this meant for any of you.

But right now, in this bed, with two men who had just shown you more tenderness and reverence than you’d ever expected to receive in your entire life—right now, you weren’t afraid.

You were seen. Held. Wanted.

And when you finally drifted off, tangled between William’s quiet strength and Matthew’s golden warmth, the last thing you felt was a kiss on your forehead… and a voice, low and steady, murmuring into the dark:

“Sleep, baby. We’ve got you.”

#my asks #smut 18+#william nylander x reader x Matthew knies #william nylander imagine #matthew knies imagine #wn88 imagine #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagines

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