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aleksatia · 2 months ago

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Possession, Obsession, Devotion: A Study in Five Men

Nope, I haven’t vanished. Super grateful for all your messages and the sweet support — seriously, thank you. Just swamped with work right now, so writing’s slowed down a bit. Still working on your requests, I promise! And I’m knee-deep in a pretty massive, emotionally wrecking angst based on a Songfic prompt. While that one’s cooking, I thought I’d drop another batch of my random writer notes — all bundled up in one chaotic little post.

CW/TW: Headcanons, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Love, Jealousy, Power Imbalance, Toxic Romance, Red Flags Treated as Romance, Intimacy with Control Undertones, Emotional Manipulation (Mild), Dubious Coping Mechanisms, Intense Emotional Dependency, Suggestive Themes, Mild Sexual Content, Unhealthy Attachment Framed as Devotion Genre: Romance-Infused, Erotically-Charged Drabbles with a Generous Side of Fluff Words Count: 8.6K

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Caleb’s Obsessed With You

1. You call another man “handsome” — even as a joke. You were teasing. Flirting, in that harmless, breezy way of yours. Caleb laughed. Then immediately kissed you like he needed to reassert territorial dominance with tongue and body weight. Funny how your jokes always end with your back against the wall and his hand on your throat. Lovingly.

2. You go to someone else for help instead of him. You needed tech support. A charger. Help moving the couch. And instead of calling your six-foot-two, military-trained, emotionally unstable boyfriend — you asked Xavier. Caleb didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway, watching, calculating how long it would take to move the entire solar system to make sure you never do that again.

3. You don’t sit on his lap when there’s clearly space.You chose the chair. Next to him. Not on him. He’s not mad. No, no. He's just questioning the entire fabric of your connection and whether you’ve lost all sense of instinct. And when you finally realize and climb into his lap? He sighs like a man being restored to life.

4. You post a photo where you're not touching him.Nice shot. Great lighting. Cute outfit. But why is he two feet away and not glued to your side like a shadow with military clearance? His arm belongs around your waist. His hand belongs on your thigh. And your caption? Should’ve been his name, followed by a possessive noun.

5. You forget to wear his dog tags. He left them for you. Carefully. On your nightstand. The same tags he’s worn through hell. And you? Walked out the door wearing a cute sweater and nothing that says “belonging to Colonel Caleb.” He’ll never say a word. He’ll just strip you slow the second you get home and fasten them back around your neck himself. With teeth.

5 Lies Caleb Tells Himself About You

1. “I don’t care that she uses my toothbrush.”You could take a fresh one. You don’t. You reach for his, same as always — like that handle belongs to you more than to him. He mutters something about germs. Then watches you rinse with that smug little smile. And later, when you're asleep, he moves it back to your side of the sink. Right where you like it.

2. “She can wear whatever she wants.”And you do. His shirt. His flight jacket. That tiny black top you swear is “practical.” He acts unbothered. Says nothing. But the second someone else looks too long? He stands behind you. One hand on your waist. That casual kind of possessive that feels like a warning wrapped in warmth.

3. “I don’t need her to text me when she gets home.”You’re a grown woman. A Hunter. You’ve neutralized things with more teeth than common sense. You say “Don’t wait up.” He says “Sure.” Then checks his phone every ten minutes like it's a heartbeat monitor and he's waiting to hear yours again.

4. “It’s fine if she flirts. I know it’s harmless.”You’re charming. It’s part of who you are. You wink. Smile. Lean in a little too close. Caleb plays it cool. Says, “She’s always like that.” Then grabs your waist in front of everyone and whispers: “Try that again, and I’ll fuck you so hard next time you won’t remember anyone else’s name.”

5. “She doesn’t need to say she loves me every day.”You say it once. In passing. A low little “love you” as you walk away, like it’s nothing. But he hears it like an oath. And that night? He holds your hand a little tighter. Pulls your body a little closer. Not because he needs to hear it again. But because if he doesn’t touch you, he might forget how to breathe.

5 Things That Make Him Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. Your hair falls in his face. Leaning over him. Stretching across the couch. Just close enough that it brushes his cheek like it has rights. You don’t even notice. But he does. Every time. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just breathes in and lets the world narrow to that one soft, smug part of you.

2. You chew on your thumb when you’re thinking. Not seductively. Not even consciously. Just a tiny bite to the edge of your nail while you’re mid-rant about your latest recon or trying to remember the name of a street vendor. It’s nothing. Stupid. Barely a gesture. And yet — he stares. Tracks it like a countdown. Fists flexing slow. Jaw tight. Because that mouth should never look that innocent.

3. You interrupt him when he’s cooking. He’s focused. Knife in hand. Half-distracted by heat and oil. And then you slide in behind him. Touch his lower back. Squeeze something you shouldn’t. Say “Smells good, chef,” with a grin that makes his whole spine forget how to hold. He curses. Tries to shoo you off. You lick something off his finger. And now dinner’s going to burn.

4. You try on his Fleet cap like it’s a joke. You lift it off the rack. Set it crooked on your head. Salute with two fingers and that smile that once made him fall off a training tower. “Colonel,” you say. And he’s gone. He should laugh. He doesn’t. He walks over, takes it off you slow, and kisses your temple like he’s reassigning you to a very different kind of mission.

5. You say “I’m yours”. Not in bed. Not in public. Just… casually. In passing. In that low voice you only use when something’s real. “I’m yours.”He looks at you like you just disarmed a bomb with your bare hands. And then he ruins you for saying it so lightly.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You’re the only one allowed to fly with him in his military jet.Clearance denied. Protocol says no. Regulations triple-confirm it. And yet — you’re in the co-pilot seat, boots up, fingers tracing buttons you’re not supposed to touch. He doesn’t stop you. Someone once asked why you get to ride with him when no one else does. He looked up from the cockpit and said, “She’s my gravity.” End of discussion.

2. You only need to place your hand on his to calm him down.No words. No pleading. No strategic de-escalation. Just your fingers, settling lightly over his, when something in him starts to coil too tight. And just like that — his spine eases. The heat in his eyes lowers by a degree. People have seen him end arguments with three words. They’ve never seen him go silent for anyone but you.

3. You’re the only person he’ll interrupt a briefing for.He’s mid-sentence. Room full of officers. Tactical projections glowing on the wall. His phone buzzes. He glances down, sees your name — and pauses. “Give me five,” he says. And walks out without waiting for permission. Someone once asked who it was. He said, “The only priority higher than this fleet.” No one asked again.

4. You walk in on his arm at the Farspace Fleet annual gala.He’s in dress whites. You’re in black. And the room — full of admirals, envoys, diplomats — parts like mist when you enter. He doesn’t introduce you. He doesn’t need to. You’re not just his date. You’re the one who makes him dangerous in silence. And everyone knows it.

5. You don’t need words to communicate.One glance. A tilt of your head. A tiny shift in posture across the room. He’s already moving. Already reading you like mission data. To others, it looks like magic. Intuition. Maybe telepathy. But for you two? It’s just muscle memory — built from years of almosts, nevers, and finallys.

5 Times Caleb Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He pulled the full personnel file on a man you once smiled at.You were being polite. Friendly. The guy asked something harmless, you laughed. By morning, Caleb had his record open on a secure datapad, scrolling like he wasn’t reading a life — just calculating the risk factor. You asked what he was doing. He said, “I like knowing who wants what’s mine.” And then kissed you like he hoped you never asked him to stop.

2. He showed up at your door at 02:03 AM. Soaking wet. Furious. Silent.You missed one message. One. He waited. Thirty minutes. An hour. And then something in him snapped. No threats. No drama. Just the sound of his knock like a warning shot. You opened the door. He didn’t speak. Just stared. And then pulled you in with a grip like survival wasn’t optional anymore.

3. He scared the hell out of a junior pilot for asking your name.The kid was fresh. Eager. Smiled a little too long. Said, “Hey, what should I call you?” You started to answer. Then turned — and saw Caleb across the room. Expression calm. Stance neutral. Eyes loaded. The pilot apologized before you even said a word.

4. He slammed his hand on the table when you joked about breaking up.Just a joke. A throwaway line. Something stupid like “Guess I’ll go find someone less intense.” And his hand hit the surface before the words fully left your mouth. Not loud. Not violent. Just final. He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Just looked at you like you’d put a knife in his ribs and smiled about it. You never made that joke again.

5. He called you “dangerous” — and meant it like a vow.It was late. You were arguing. You said something sharp. He caught your wrist and said it low, almost reverent: “You’re dangerous.” But not like an accusation. Like awe. Like worship. Like he’d already decided to stay, even if you wrecked him completely. Even if he’d have to protect the world from you. Or protect you from himself.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Zayne’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone else bandaged your scratch. Just a graze. A stupid piece of shrapnel across your forearm. A colleague wrapped it up. No big deal. You came home smiling. Told him it barely hurt. He nodded. Quiet. Then excused himself to the kitchen. Five minutes later, he returned with antiseptic, clean gauze, and the words: “Take it off. I’m doing it properly.” You didn’t argue. Neither did he. 2. Someone at work lent you their umbrella. A man. It was raining. You forgot yours. He offered. You accepted. Zayne didn’t say a thing when you mentioned it over dinner. Just hummed. Neutral. The next morning, you found a new umbrella in your bag. Carbon fiber. Windproof. Labeled discreetly with your initials. You didn’t ask how he knew the exact weight your bag could carry without straining your shoulder. 3. You asked the waiter to recommend a wine. It was harmless. Polite. You were curious. But Zayne was sitting right there. He didn’t blink. Just looked at the waiter, then at you. Then took the list back. “Actually,” he said, calm as glass, “she prefers reds with less acidity. I’ll order.” You nodded. The waiter nodded. And somewhere between the clink of glasses, you realized that wasn't about wine at all. 4. You didn’t invite him to your morning training. He’d had a night shift. Surgery ran late. You wanted him to rest. So you left quietly. He woke up to an empty bed, your gym bag missing, and a silence that felt like a closed door. You came back to find his routine disrupted, his pulse still too fast — and a protein shake mixed just how you like it, chilled and waiting on the table. He never mentioned it. But now, if you decide to “let him rest” again… your training starts later. And doesn’t involve clothes. 5. You called another man “smart.” It was a game show. Trivia night. Some stranger on-screen made a clever move. You smiled. “Wow. That was actually really smart.” Zayne didn’t look up from his tablet. Didn’t even shift. But ten minutes later, you found yourself in a very precise debate about probability, strategy, and why that move wasn’t that brilliant after all. You didn’t argue. You just leaned closer. He didn’t smirk, but you felt it anyway.

5 Lies Zayne Tells Himself About You

1. "I’m just your cardiologist during exams." It’s clinical. Professional. Necessary. He listens to your heartbeat, takes your vitals, asks you to breathe deeper — deeper. You unbutton your shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t feel anything. Except for the part where he adjusts his gloves a little too tightly. And maybe takes one extra second to remove the stethoscope from your skin. 2. "Lunch tastes the same without you." He orders the same thing. Same café. Same tea. But the pastry tastes off. The space feels louder. The table — emptier. He tells himself it’s fine. Then brings the leftovers back to his office. Doesn’t touch them. Just leaves the box where your hand might find it later. 3. "I don’t need to pick you up." It’s logical. You’re a professional. Your job runs over sometimes. So does his. But your message was short. The streetlights are on. The buses are unreliable. He checks traffic cams. Weather. Public transit delays. Then sits very still, staring at his phone, wondering how to offer you a ride without making it sound like panic. 4. "I’m not checking. I’m sleeping." You once left while he was asleep. You thought it was kinder. Quieter. Now he says he “needed water” or “had a dream.” But every night, at 3 AM, his hand reaches. Just to feel your back. Your wrist. The smallest proof that you haven’t disappeared again. 5. "Short skirts are inefficient." He says they’re impractical. Not suited for cold weather. Definitely not for terrain with hostile wanderer activity. You raise a brow. He adds, “You’re not seventeen. Dress like it.” But the second no one’s watching, his hand is already sliding up your thigh under the table. And when you raise a brow at him, he just says, flat: “Checking for circulation.” You’re not fooled. He’s already failed the mission.

5 Things That Make Zayne Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You straighten his tie. You’re not thinking about it. Just reaching out, adjusting the knot, smoothing the line down his chest like it’s second nature. He stays still. Breath held. Eyes on your face. You step back. He doesn’t. Because now all he can think about is using that same tie to bind your wrists to the chair in his office — and how many minutes he can steal between appointments without compromising your breathing. 2. You dip your finger into the frosting of his pastry. You don’t ask. Just lean in, collect a bit of cream with your fingertip — and taste it. Oblivious. Innocent. Distracted by something else. He watches. Silently. And now the fork in his hand feels criminally unnecessary, because his mouth is dry, his mind’s gone blank, and he’s halfway to pulling you into his lap just to return the favor — with interest. 3. You take off your bra without removing your shirt. It’s casual. Automatic. You’re talking about your day, laughing, and then — One arm out. Then the other. The strap slides through the sleeve and vanishes into your laundry bag like it never existed. His brain glitches. His hands twitch. And he will absolutely spend the rest of the evening pretending to listen while picturing every technical step of reversing that maneuver with his teeth. 4. You imitate him. Badly. You’re wearing his lab coat. His glasses. Sitting at his desk, brows drawn, lips pressed tight. Your impression is awful. He should be annoyed. But instead — he watches. Sharp. Quiet. And when you finally laugh and start to take it off, he gets up. Takes the coat from your shoulders himself. And tells you, too evenly, “You forgot the gloves.” 5. You trace lazy shapes on his wrist while talking about something unrelated. You’re saying something about your neighbor’s cat. Something trivial. But your fingers are moving in a slow, absent pattern across his skin. And Zayne — who has operated on live hearts under pressure, who has held lives in one hand and death in the other — is currently struggling not to grab your wrist and drag you onto the desk. Because apparently, nothing in this galaxy has the precision impact of your fingertip.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You have a keycard to his office.Not a guest pass. Not a shared access code. A permanent, personalized, high-level card to a room most staff can’t even knock on without permission. You walked in one day mid-shift, casual, spinning the card between your fingers like it was a hairpin. Three nurses saw. One dropped her tablet. Rumors started before you even closed the door. Zayne didn’t correct them.

2. When he received a prestigious award, the first person he thanked was you.Best cardiothoracic surgeon of the year. Cameras flashing. Applause rising. Everyone expected a speech about innovation and responsibility. Instead, he said: “I’d like to thank the one person who keeps me alive enough to do this work. My partner. My favorite interruption.”Then he looked straight at you. The auditorium melted.

3. You’re both dressed like weapons. And everyone notices.He wears tailored coats, precision-cut collars, charcoal palettes like a tactical signature.You? Heels like blades. A suit that redefines “combat-ready.” And when you walk together — sharp, silent, side by side — people stop talking. Someone once tried to photograph you. The headline read: Unknown dignitaries arrive. Security does not comment.

4. You don’t argue. You duet.Someone crossed a line. Loud, drunk, smug. Zayne responded first — clean, cold, just one sentence long. The man blinked. Started to retort. You finished it for him. Elegant, sharp, no profanity required. He left. Fast. And you turned back to Zayne like nothing happened — while everyone else tried to recover from what could only be described as a linguistic orgasm.

5. He opens doors, buttons coats, and moves chairs like it’s instinct.Not performative. Not flashy. Just… precise. He adjusts your sleeve without thinking. Helps you into the car like it’s always been his hand. You barely register it. But the woman across the street? The one who saw it all from behind her coffee cup? She’s still texting her group chat about “the man in the long coat and the woman who ruined my standards.”

5 Times Zayne Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He gets live data from your heart monitor.Your Hunter’s Watch sends updates to the cloud. Zayne rerouted the feed to his private tablet. “Just in case,” he said. Now he knows when your pulse spikes. When you’re injured. When you don’t sleep. You never gave him access. You never had to. The first time he called mid-mission to say “slow your breathing” — you realized he wasn’t tracking. He was watching over.

2. He absolutely hates when you drive. Always.You're capable. Fast. Efficient. And yet — every time you take the wheel, something in him shuts down. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just goes silent. And stares at the road like it personally offended him. He says, “It’s fine.” But he holds the dashboard too tightly for that to be true.

3. He freezes every time you say “I can handle it.”You mean well. You’re strong. You are capable. But when you brush him off with a casual “I’ve got this,” he doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just stops. Eyes unreadable. Hands still. And when you come back later — even fine — there’s already a backup plan on your datapad. Three versions. In color.

4. He never replies to emotional messages right away.You send: “I miss you. A lot.” His read receipt appears. Then… nothing. For two hours. And just when you start to spiral — he sends a photo. Of your favorite pastry. Waiting on his table. With one word: “Soon.” You hate how well it works.

5. He spoke to the man flirting with you like he was reviewing his autopsy.It was harmless. A drink. A joke. A compliment. You laughed. Zayne didn’t. He stepped in, shook the man’s hand, and said: "Tell me, has anyone ever checked your prefrontal lobe for impulse control irregularities?"The man left. Quickly. You rolled your eyes. Zayne didn’t apologize. He just took your hand. And changed the subject. Completely calm. Fully satisfied.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Rafayel’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone comments “🔥” under your photo — and you like it.He sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything. You think it’s harmless. He thinks it’s appalling that someone dared mark your beauty with an emoji better suited to grilled meat. He says nothing. But that night, you get a charcoal sketch of yourself in your favorite pose, signed with a tiny flame in the corner. When you ask about it, he hums. “Oh, just honoring your admirers’ creative input.”

2. You linger too long in front of another artist’s painting.Not just glance. Linger. Eyes soft. Head tilted. That thoughtful little breath you take when something moves you. He stands beside you, perfectly still. Smiling. Then leans in and whispers, “Cutie, if you start weeping, I may need to challenge the gallery owner to a duel.” You're not sure if he’s joking. You’re also not sure you want him to be.

3. You talk about a beautiful place you visited… without him.You’re glowing. Describing the light, the air, the view. He listens, nods, even asks questions. Then: “And did the sun taste the same without me there?” You pause. He smiles, all charm and cheekbones. “I’m just wondering how it dared rise, knowing we weren’t together.”

4. You send him a photo — and there’s someone else’s hand in the frame.You didn’t notice it. He did. He stares at the image like it’s a crime scene. Zooms in. Later, he replies: “Beautiful composition. Fascinating use of background tension. Would love to discuss the symbolism of that wrist — whose is it?” You laugh. He doesn’t.

5. You say some actor is “exactly your type.”He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just goes very still, then casually asks, “Before or after makeup?” Later, you find your datapad background changed. It’s him. In perfect lighting. Shirt unbuttoned just so. The caption reads: “Still unsure who your type is? Look into my eyes. You’ll remember.”

5 Lies Rafayel Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t paint you. It’s just resemblance.”He insists it’s a study of emotion. A symbol. A face from memory. But the tilt of the head, the mouth, the birthmark near the collarbone — they’re all yours. You ask, teasing: “Is that me?” He blinks. Smiles slowly. “Cutie,” he says, “I wouldn’t paint you without permission.” And then changes the subject. Very deliberately.

2. “I don't reread your old messages.”He’s far too elegant for that. Far too composed. Except on quiet nights. On long flights. In museums where the silence scratches at his skin. Then he opens the archive. Just for the rhythm of your words. The accidental poetry. The way you once wrote “come home soon” like it meant more than time and place. He says it’s for “emotional reference.” He lies beautifully.

3. “I don't watch your mouth when you talk.”He’s an artist. A visual thinker. Of course he looks at faces. But not like that. Not at yours. Not like he’s memorizing the shape of every syllable just to feel them later against his throat. Not like he’s fantasizing mid-conversation about shutting you up with his tongue and tasting the sentence off your lips. No. Never. He’s listening.

4. “I haven’t memorized your scent through every season.”He claims not to notice. But he knows the spring version of you — soft rain, citrus skin, the aftershock of lilac. He knows the winter version — leather gloves, cinnamon breath, quiet wool. He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t chase the memory. But when you walk past — his eyes close. Briefly. Automatically. Like he’s gathering air before going under.

5. “I don't imagine your name with mine.”He’s not that romantic. Puh-lease. Marriage is a construct, surnames are politics, and love is beyond paperwork. He says all that with a flourish. And yet — there’s a notebook. Tucked under his mattress. Full of signatures. Yours. His. Just to see how it would look. Just in case.

5 Things That Make Rafayel Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. When you eat something juicy. Fruit. Fingers. With zero awareness.You bite into it slowly, distracted. Something sweet. Ripe. Juice glides over your lower lip, and your tongue follows without thinking. He watches, motionless. Not breathing. Not blinking. You glance at him. He tilts his head. Smiles. Says lightly: "That peach is about to become my personal enemy." You laugh. He doesn’t. He’s too busy wondering how it’s possible to be jealous of the fruit.

2. When you kiss his hand instead of his mouth. He leans in, expecting lips. Contact. Heat. And instead — you take his hand. Press a kiss into his palm. Soft. Deliberate. His breath catches. His throat tightens. Because that wasn’t affection. That was submission. And now he’s wondering just how far you’d let him take it. 3. When you tease him with your voice. Not the words. The tone. The whisper. You say his name like silk sliding over glass. You ask “You think so?” like it means “prove it.” You laugh — not loudly, but just enough to make his chest hurt. He could diagram it, break it into sound waves, prove the seduction in math. But instead, he just steps closer. And says, low: "Say that again. Slower." 4. When you sit on the floor, barefoot, flipping through his sketches — looking like you belong there. You’re humming something. Knees tucked up. No shoes. No guard. You tilt your head, study a piece, murmur: “I like this one.” He doesn’t even remember drawing it. He just remembers the way your hair spills over your shoulder and how the studio feels suddenly too small for how much he wants you. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He just watches like a starving thing. Memorizing the moment in case he dies of it later. 5. When you say “more.” In any context. “More sugar.” “More time.” “More.” That’s all it takes. One syllable. One open door. You never mean it the way he hears it — but he takes it as a promise. Like permission. Like a match tossed onto something already too dry to survive. And the next time he touches you? He makes damn sure you say it again.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. He painted a self-portrait — with you reflected in his pupils. Not your full form. Not a shared composition. Just his face. Direct gaze. And in both eyes: you. Looking at him. Always. When the painting debuted in the gallery’s main hall, critics called it “a study in obsession.” He called it accurate. 2. In an interview, he said you’re the only one who gets his sketches. The host asked who his work goes to first — gallery, agent, press. He smiled lazily and answered, “Her.” The room stilled. “The raw ones. The incomplete. The brutal drafts no one else deserves to see.” He didn’t say your name. He didn’t have to. The moment he said it, you were already trending. 3. He delayed his own exhibition opening because you weren’t there yet. The venue was full. Lights ready. Guests murmuring. But he stood at the entrance, fingers laced behind his back, perfectly calm. “She’s on the way,” he said. “She had a prior engagement.” No one questioned him. Later, when you finally arrived — graceful, composed, in a deep sapphire gown that matched the evening — only he noticed the tiny scratch on your knuckle. The faintest shadow of something darker, just beneath the perfume. You smiled. He took your hand. And the doors opened like they’d been waiting for you all along. 4. Someone flirted with him. He looked at you. Then said: “I’m already spoken for. Permanently.” It was charming. Playful. Someone touched his wrist, laughed softly, leaned a little too close. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t react. Just turned his head toward you. Found your eyes. Then said it — quietly, cleanly, like a closing signature on a finished masterpiece. 5. At a charity auction, he sold a painting titled: “Painted Between Her Breathing and Mine.” The crowd didn’t know what to do with that. Some laughed nervously. Some applauded. The bidding started high and ended astronomical. But as the winning guest walked past you, holding the canvas with reverent hands — he still glanced back. At you. As if to say: That canvas holds the image. But I keep the original.

5 Times Rafayel Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He can disappear for three days and return with, “I just needed to stop being jealous.” No warning. No calls. Just silence, like he fell off the planet. You panic. Rage. Rehearse five speeches. And then he walks in — composed, scented like night air and oil paint. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I was being irrational. Had to… recalibrate.” You want to scream. Instead, you breathe him in like he’s home. 2. He destroyed the career of a critic who called your photo “poorly lit.” It wasn’t even a real insult. Just a throwaway line in a blog. But Raf read it. Once. And within a week, that critic was blacklisted from three galleries, publicly corrected by five curators, and accidentally misquoted in a viral controversy. You found out much later. He just looked at you and said, “No one calls shadow a flaw when it falls across you.” 3. He faked an illness so you wouldn’t leave for a mission. Nothing dramatic. Just a cough. A warm forehead. You hesitated. Postponed. Stayed. The next morning, he was radiant. Healthy. Annoyingly smug. You narrowed your eyes. He only shrugged, kissed your wrist, and whispered, “I needed one more night. Forgive the performance.” You did. Of course you did. The guilt felt almost like foreplay. 4. He left your clothes wet in the wash so you’d wear his shirt instead. Accident, he claimed. Timing. Cycles. But somehow, your entire outfit was still in the machine — cold, damp, and useless — while his favorite linen shirt lay folded neatly on the bed. You put it on. He watched you button it. And smiled like he'd won a silent war no one else even knew was happening. 5. He reads your messages without asking. Calmly. You know it. He knows you know. He doesn’t deny it. Just traces your jaw one evening and says, “You don’t hide anything from me. That’s why it doesn’t count as intrusion.” And the worst part? He’s right. You stopped hiding a long time ago.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Xavier’s Obsessed With You

1. You nap on the wrong side of the bed.You nap on the wrong side of the bed. Not wrong, exactly. Just… not his. You’re curled up in the late-afternoon light, peaceful, quiet, unaware. He doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t move you. But when you stir, there’s a weight in the silence. His side of the bed is untouched. Pillow perfectly aligned. No warmth. No scent. And your blanket — tucked just a little tighter — like a quiet reminder that even when you’re here, something’s missing. Something he’s not sure how to ask for without sounding ridiculous. Like: your perfume. On his pillow. Where it should be.

2. You tell him about a dream. Someone else was in it.You describe it absently. A mission. A flash of danger. And a man — not him — at your side. He listens. Nods. Doesn’t blink. But that night, when he kisses you, his hand stays on the back of your neck longer than usual. And his mouth says I want you, but his grip says: you don’t forget me, even in sleep.

3. You keep something old, worn, unnamed.A keychain. A patch. A folded slip of paper. Nothing dramatic. But it’s always near. He asks, once: “What is that?” You smile. “Just something from a long time ago.” He nods. Never brings it up again. But two days later, he leaves something else beside it. Not to replace. Just to match the weight.

4. You let the barista choose your drink instead of him.You smiled. Said “sure, why not.” Took the new coffee without hesitation. He was beside you. Holding your usual. You didn’t notice. But when you left the café, his own drink sat untouched. And he walked a little faster. A little quieter. As if recalibrating the fact that maybe someone else knows your taste. Even if it’s just in coffee.

5. You close your laptop too fast when he walks in.“Just a movie,” you say. Too quickly. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t tilt his head. Just nods and sets his gloves on the table like he didn’t notice the flicker in your tone. Later, while checking your tabs, he sees the paused frame — teeth on skin, hands holding wrists, someone begging. Silently. His breath doesn’t change. His expression stays neutral. But when he finds you, hours later, he doesn’t speak. Just pins your arms above your head and kisses you until you can’t remember what the scene looked like — only what it felt like when it became real.

5 Lies Xavier Tells Himself About You

1. “I’m not jealous of whoever taught you how to fight like that.”He knows it doesn’t matter. It’s skill. It’s history. Efficiency passed from one warrior to another. He tells himself it’s irrelevant. But when he watches you move — precise, lethal, beautiful — something coils in his chest. Not because of the technique. But because someone else saw you become this version of yourself. And he didn’t.

2. “It’s logical to sleep apart sometimes.” You need rest. Space. Post-mission decompression. He understands. It’s healthy. Statistically sound. But the first night you say “I’ll sleep in my own apartment,” the bed feels wrong. His internal balance off by degrees he can’t quantify. He tells himself it’s fine. Then stares at the ceiling for hours, heart syncing to a rhythm that isn’t there.

3. “It doesn’t bother me when you keep things to yourself.” You’re independent. He respects that. Boundaries are natural. But you say “I’m fine” with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, and he catalogs ten micro-expressions that say otherwise. Still, he nods. Doesn’t push. Then replays your words in his head for the next three days, trying to solve you like a puzzle that refuses to open.

4. "I could walk away, if it ever came to that." He tells himself he’s rational. Detached. If you chose something else — someone else — he would adapt. But deep down, he knows: he’s already memorized your weight in his arms, the way your name fits inside his silence. If it ever came to leaving… he wouldn’t walk. He’d stay exactly where you left him. Quiet. Waiting. Ruined.

5. "You wouldn’t lie to protect me. Would you?" You say “it was nothing,” “I’m just tired,” “I handled it.” And he accepts it. On the surface. But his mind starts building alternate versions. Safer ones. Worse ones. Ones where you bled and said nothing. He tells himself you’d never hide real danger. But he still checks your vitals in the logs. Every time.

5 Things That Make Xavier Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You walk in wearing a bright yellow duck kigurumi. Absurd. Fuzzy. Zipped up wrong. You yawn, mumble something about tea, and pad across the room like comfort incarnate. He looks up. Blinks once. And forgets what he was doing. The beak hood. The bare ankles. The way you scratch your neck, half-asleep. None of it should be seductive. But now he can’t look away. His gaze tracks you like threat assessment — only it's not danger he’s calculating. It’s proximity. Access. How long he can pretend he's unaffected… before you end up against the wall. Still wearing the duck. For now.

2. You adjust the chest plate of his armor. No rush. Just fingertips over matte metal, sliding a buckle, pressing a clasp. Your hands linger longer than they need to. You don’t even realize you’re doing it. But he does. He’s counting your seconds, your pressure, the exact placement of your thumb. If anyone asks why his next shot missed the center by half an inch, it’s because you touched him like a secret no one else was allowed to see. 3. You peel off your combat gloves with your teeth. It’s efficient. Quick. Practical. But the way your mouth closes around the strap and your fingers flex once, twice, before they’re bare — He’s staring before he knows he is. Processing nothing but the curve of your jaw and the memory of that same mouth around his length. The second glove doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does he, honestly. 4. You wear a thin black choker. No explanation. No warning. It’s not part of your gear. Has no field utility. But it’s there, snug against your throat like a promise no one else knows about. He sees it once and looks away. Sees it again and swallows too hard. The third time, he doesn’t look at all — he just shifts in his seat like everything in his world needs immediate recalibration. 5. You say “later” when he leans in. Just a little. Enough to feel the pull. And you smile, soft, apologetic, not teasing — just... not now. He nods, like he understands. He always does. But from that second forward, every calculation, every breath, every cell in his body becomes attuned to the moment you say now. And when you finally do — he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask. He just takes, like patience was never part of the equation to begin with.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You moved in perfect sync — without saying a single word. In the training hall, you didn’t say a word — but moved like a mirrored code. You shifted, he adjusted. You reached, he passed. No signals, no commands. Just two bodies in absolute sync. Someone watching whispered, “Do they rehearse this?” Someone else muttered, “No. That’s just them.” And suddenly, no one wanted to spar with either of you. 2. Someone called him “too quiet.” You didn’t let it slide. It was a throwaway comment —“He’s so silent, it’s weird.” You didn’t even look up from your drink. “Then you’ve never heard him breathe next to you.” The room went still. Xavier didn’t react. But you felt it — how he went still too, the way his attention locked fully on you. As if your words changed the temperature. 3. He braided your hair for three weeks while your wrist healed. At your desk. Between reports. No comments. No hesitation. Just practiced hands and quiet efficiency, like it belonged in the schedule. And maybe it wasn’t romantic. Or loud. But after that, no one ever looked at you the same way — because somehow, without trying, the two of you had redefined what closeness looked like. 4. You didn’t ask for his jacket. You didn’t have to. A shift in the wind. Goosebumps on your arms. No complaint, no drama. He just stepped behind you, slid his cardigan onto your shoulders like it belonged there, and said nothing. The couple walking by paused. Stared. You didn’t. You were already reaching for his hand. 5. There’s a photo of you on his desk. Just you, caught mid-laugh, in natural light. Among tactical reports and encrypted drives. He never explains it. Never acknowledges it. But everyone who enters that room sees it. And no one ever asks if he's serious about you. They already know.

5 Times Xavier Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He monitors your meals like it’s a clinical trial. “You didn’t eat enough protein today.” “That pastry had no nutritional value.” “Are you hydrating?” He says it softly. Calmly. Like a doctor. Like someone who cares. And yet — you’ve seen him survive three days on black coffee and whatever snack bar was closest to his hand. You mention this once. He pauses. Then says, “That’s different. I’m used to operating under stress. You’re not.” End of discussion.

2. He didn’t argue. He made the argument disappear. You disagreed about something small. Nothing dramatic. Just opposing views. He didn’t push back. Just nodded, quiet. Said, “If that’s what you think.” Later, you realized the entire issue — schedule, person, condition — was gone. Resolved. Removed. Replaced. No apology. No discussion. Just silence... and a solution that left you with nothing to win.

3. He never asked where you’d been.Not once. Not even after you were late. Not even when your message came hours too late. He didn’t accuse. Didn’t guess. He already knew. Tracked your path, logged your signal drift, checked your pulse history. All without a word. And still held the door open when you arrived.

4. He always calls via video when you’re in another city.He never misses a day. Never just texts. Always video. He says he likes seeing your face. That it “grounds him.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe. But every time the screen lights up, you notice how carefully his eyes scan the room behind you. How his voice sounds different if there’s movement. How he never quite hangs up until you say, “I’m alone. It’s quiet here.” Only then does he relax. A little. Maybe.

5. You told him, “Sometimes, you scare me.” He said, “Good.”It slipped out. Low. Uncertain. Not a joke, not an accusation — just the truth. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften. Just met your eyes and said, calm as ever, “Good. Then you’ll stay alert.” And for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was warning you… or protecting you from something only he could see coming.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Sylus’s Obsessed With You

1. You didn’t tag him. He made sure the world knew anyway.You posted a photo. Cute. Stylish. Perfect lighting. But no mention of him. No tag. No trace. He reposted it within minutes. Same photo. New caption: “Correction: mine.” It got five times the reach. And suddenly, everyone knew better.

2. Someone else made you laugh. Sylus didn’t.The waiter was charming. A little too witty. You laughed — loud, unfiltered. Sylus just raised a brow, pulled out his wallet, and handed the man $2000. “For your last night in customer service,” he said. He smiled. You choked on your wine. The waiter never came back.

3. You called some man a friend. Sylus ran a background check.“He’s just a friend,” you said. Lightly. Barely thinking. Sylus smiled. Tilted his head. “I’m just a man with access to his tax history.”And that was the end of that conversation.

4. You said another man had a nice voice. Sylus gave you no air.It was innocent. Harmless. “His voice is kind of nice.” Sylus said nothing. Just waited. That night, he read you poetry in three languages, one line at a time — mouth against your neck, breasts, stomach, thighs — until you begged him to stop. Not because you wanted him to. Because you physically couldn’t take more.

5. You forgot to wear his ring. He didn’t forget anything.It wasn’t intentional. You were rushing. Distracted. But he noticed. Of course he did. He said nothing all day. Then, that night — when you were breathless, undone, on your knees — he took your hand, kissed your finger, and slid the ring back into place. Slowly. Deliberately. Like sealing a deal you forgot you signed.

5 Lies Sylus Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t pick your outfit to match mine. Must’ve been the stylist.”It was just coincidence. That your lipstick matched his cufflinks. That your dress followed the same line as his collarbones. That when you walked in together, people paused — like royalty had arrived. He didn’t say a word. Just looked at you once. And didn’t look away for the rest of the night.

2. “I’m not furious that I wasn’t your first.”He says it doesn’t matter. Shrugs. “I’m not a teenager.” And yet, the thought of someone else touching you before him? It coils in his chest like smoke that won’t clear. He tells himself you chose him now — and that’s what counts. But the next time you moan his name, he fucks you hard enough to make sure no one else’s ever mattered.

3. “I don’t answer your messages instantly. I’m just always holding the phone.”He just… saw it. Right away. Just happened to be holding his phone. Just happened to pause mid-meeting, mid-deal, mid-war — to write: “Be safe.” You tease him for how fast he replies. He teases back. And never mentions the part where your name makes him drop everything.

4. “I’m not obsessed with the way you say my name when you’re annoyed.”You do it without thinking. That exact tone. That breath. That syllable dipped in heat. He rolls his eyes. Says, “What now, kitten?” But every time it happens — he shifts closer. Hears it again later in his head. And stores it next to the version you whisper when you want him most.

5. “I wouldn’t beg. If it came to that. …But only for you. And only once.”He’s not that man. He doesn’t plead. Doesn’t bend. But when he thinks of you leaving — really leaving — something dark and fragile coils behind his ribs. He tells himself he’d let you go. That he wouldn’t chase. But even in the lie… he’s already halfway down the hallway.

5 Things That Make Sylus Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You ask him to zip your dress. Then don’t wear anything underneath. It’s casual. Innocent. “Help me?” You turn your back, lift your hair, and wait. He moves slow — almost reverent. But when his fingers meet bare skin where silk should be… he doesn’t finish the zip. He turns you around, steps in close, and says, “You came dressed for trouble. Good. So did I.” 2. You say “don’t be gentle” with a smile that promises you’ll say it again, louder. He always controls the pace. The heat. The rhythm. But when you lean in, lips brushing his ear, and whisper those words — something in him fractures. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t give you time to change your mind. He just obeys. And makes sure you feel the echo for days. 3. You use his tie to pull him into a kiss. He likes power. Centered, composed. Collar straight, voice cool. But when you grab that perfect silk tie, wrap it around your fingers, and yank — he stumbles into you like a man starved. You kiss him once. He kisses you back like vengeance. 4. You say “yes, sir” in a tone that means the opposite. You drawl it. Sweet. Defiant. Like you know exactly what it does to him. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t smile. Just leans in, voice low against your throat, and says, “Keep using that tone, kitten. Let’s see how long you last when I take it seriously.” You don’t last long. Not that night. 5. You put on his ring and ask, “So what does this buy me?” It’s a joke. Almost. You twirl it on your finger, playful, reckless. He watches. Then smiles slow, wicked. “That?” he says, stepping closer. “That buys you a night where I don’t stop until you forget your own name.” And just like that, you do.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. The earring incident at the casino. You dropped it. Somewhere between the blackjack table and the bar. Nothing dramatic — until your face shifted. That quiet flicker of loss. Sylus didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just raised a brow. And a dozen seasoned criminals began crawling across the velvet floor. They found it in twenty minutes. You wore it for the rest of the night. He wore the look of a man who’d moved the world back into place. 2. The arrivals are always his favorite part. You come back from missions — tired, sore, alive. And there it is: his sportscar. Engine humming. He’s waiting with a bouquet of roses so rare you don’t recognize half the species. The entire terminal watches. You don’t. You’re too busy smiling. He says, “Welcome home.” And just like that, the war disappears from your shoulders. 3. The seat at the head of the table. It was a high-stakes meeting. Old money. Dangerous names. Sylus led you in by the hand — then pulled out his chair. You blinked. He said nothing. And while you sat at the head, calm and poised, he stood behind you like a king who knows exactly where real power sits. No one even dared raise a brow. 4. The auction. Your hand. His silence. He gave you the paddle. Not instructions. You bid on instinct — numbers rising, tension thick. The item? A rare protocore with blackout-level clearance. Sylus didn’t flinch. Not once. And when the gavel dropped — he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and said, “You can spend my money however you want, kitten. Just make sure they see you doing it.” 5. The moment the room lost him to you. It was mid-negotiation. Tense. Crucial. Every word counted. But across the table, your fingers tapped. Your eyes glazed. You were bored. Sylus watched. Then stood. “Deal’s done,” he said. “You’ll take our terms.” And somehow, they did. Because the only person in the room whose attention he wanted — was already drifting.

5 Times Sylus Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He knows what’s in your delivery before you do. No one told him. But every time you order something — clothes, tech, vitamins — it’s re-screened. Not stopped. Not blocked. Just… “verified.” You only noticed when your favorite moisturizer showed up improved. New formula. Better scent. Hand-selected. Of course. 2. He said he’d put you on IV if you skip another meal. You were busy. Distracted. He asked what you’d eaten. You said, “Does coffee count?” He laughed. Once. And muttered something about installing a medical station in your apartment. He was “joking.” Until you saw the discreet courier bring an IV stand the next day. Just in case. 3. He took you to dinner at a place you hadn’t been since Academy. You didn’t realize where you were — until you saw your ex across the room. The one who cheated. Sylus just smiled. You were in a dress that made people stop breathing. He ordered champagne. Lobster. Left a four-digit tip. And made sure your ex saw everything. Including the way you kissed Sylus on the way out. 4. He froze your accounts. Just to prove a point. You said you didn’t need his money. You insisted on “independence.” So he waited until your card declined at the pharmacy. Then texted: “You have my black card. Use it. Or stay home.” You gave in. He sent flowers. 5. He apologized like a storm front. You fought. It was ugly. The next day, a gift arrived at HQ. Then another. Then six more. By day four, your car was full. You marched to his door, furious. He opened it, leaned against the frame, and said, “Took you long enough. Come yell at me. I’ll pour the wine.”

7K notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

Note

Oh please, please, please something short, funny with 141 where their wife calls them on their way home from work “yea, I think I’m having contractions!” And by the time they rush home, she’s sitting in the bath tub with their new baby. And she’s all casual like ‘Hey! Look at this cool thing I’ve got!’ And it’s their baby.

(My Grandmother had this happen! Each kid under an hour. My grandfather nearly had a heart attack! He’d always hesitate to leave her alone. Suspicious she was ‘purposefully’ going into labor when he wasn’t there to help her. Lol…)

Okay, that is so funny and adorable! Hehe, omg, I love this. Dad!141 is my favorite. I love writing them as fathers or as potential fathers. And this prompt is just an excuse to do that! Thank you so much for sending it in. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): married life, pregnancy, childbirth, domestic fluff, swearing, humor

Word Count: 2.1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Price rubs at his temple, releasing a deep sigh.

It’s late. The base is nearly empty. Another late night filled with paperwork.

His phone buzzes, the cellular device vibrating on the desk. Price reaches for it, checking the screen. It’s you calling him, and his stomach flips.

“Cabbage,” he greets with a smile, answering the phone.

You’re pregnant, due date just a week or two away. Price doesn’t like leaving you home alone, but this is the last push. After tonight, he can come home early.

“John?”

His name is a question. There’s a hint of worry—of nervousness—and Price immediately picks up on it.

“Everything okay, love?” he asks, slowly standing, paperwork suddenly forgotten.

“John. I—I think—”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m having contractions.”

By the time the words leave your mouth, Price is already grabbing his coat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He swallows, pushing down his own anxiety, smothering it so he can be strong for you. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming home.”

On the other end of the line, you breathe heavily. Each whimper worries him.

“John,” you gasp, voice strangled as he throws himself into his car and turns it on.

“I know. I know. I’m coming.”

Price is doing his best to stay calm, to stay alert as he drives off base and heads for home, but all he can focus is on you.

“Keep talking to me, love,” he says, attempting to sound encouraging.

“Okay,” you reply, but then go quiet.

“Cabbage?”

When you don’t answer him, Price uses your name. Nothing. No sound at all as if the line’s gone dead.

“Shit,” he mutters, holding the phone out to check.

Call Dropped.

“Fucking shit,” he says, louder.

Price continues to dial—continues to call. Every time, he expects you to pick up, but you never do. The worry grows, becoming deafening as the seconds tick by. Traffic laws are broken, but it gets him home faster.

He’s throwing himself out of the car, dashing to the house, not caring if he forgot to put the vehicle in park. In the front entryway, he calls out to you, using your name.

There is no response.

“Fuck,” he whispers as he dashes up the stairs, heading for the bedroom. He enters, and it’s—

Empty.

“Where are you?” he breathes, turning away to check the rest of the house.

But then Price hears your voice, soft and soothing. Frowning, he checks the bedroom again, only to head toward the bathroom.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the tub. There’s blood and a fluid Price doesn’t recognize smearing the floor between your legs.

You glance up. Smile. “Hi,” you laugh as Price drops to his knees beside you.

There’s a baby in your arms. Its hands are tight fists, face pinched like it’s annoyed to be here.

“No wonder you didn’t answer the phone,” sighs Price, placing his hand against yours that cradles the infant’s head.

“A bit busy,” you chuckle.

Price laughs with you, taking his phone out his jacket pocket to dial the hospital.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I’m not leaving.”

“It’s fine, Simon. Really.”

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “The last time I left you this close to your due date, you gave birth while I wasn’t here.”

You dismiss him with a wave of your hand. “That’s not going to happen again.”

“It might,” he growls.

“It won’t,” you insist.

As you start to walk away, Simon blocks your path. “You’ve been complaining about your lower back all morning.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I always complain about my lower back.” Simon begins to object but you continue on. “And we need milk. And eggs. And bread.”

“Fine,” mutters Simon. “Fine. I’ll go. But you call me immediately if anything happens.”

“Okay, dad,” you reply, mocking him.

Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you in to kiss the top of your head. “Pumpkin,” he replies, and you hear the smile in it.

“The sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back. You can worry and fuss over me all you want then.”

Simon pulls you in for another kiss before heading out the door. The trip to the store isn’t peaceful. In the back of his mind, Simon stews, a little voice telling him that you’re going to call him any second and tell him you’re in labor. That’s what happened with your first, and Simon came home after you’d given birth.

He was devasted. Upset. Not with you—never with you. He was upset with himself for not being there to support you through it. To hold your hand. To encourage and shower you with love.

Simon is standing in line at the meat counter when you call him.

“Don’t be angry,” you say when he answers the phone.

“Are you having contractions?”

“…Yes.”

“Goddamn it.”

Simon abandons the shopping trolley, apologizing to the workers as he rushes out the door and to the car. When he enters the house, he hears your labored cry. Dashing up the stairs, Simon enters the bathroom at the same moment you cry out, clearly pushing. You’re on your hands and knees, sweat beads your brow, hair sticking to your face.

He dives to his knees, arms outstretched and reaching beneath you as the baby’s head emerges.

“I’m here,” Simon says, keeping his voice calm and soothing.

You start crying, head tilting to lean against his shoulder.

Another push, and then the rest of the baby is out and in Simon’s hands. The infant is silent at first, then releases a cry of displeasure.

“Bloody hell,” exhales Simon, “I’m never leaving you alone again.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I’m having contractions, reads the text.

Johnny’s mouth drops open, gaze growing distant.

You’re having contractions. You’re having contractions, and he is on the other side of the city. With traffic, he’s likely an entire hour away from you.

“Soap?” asks Gaz, waving his hand in front of Johnny’s face.

“I have to go,” says Johnny quickly, shooting up from his chair, almost knocking it over.

Gaz and Ghost both stand abruptly, clearly startled by Johnny’s sudden panic.

“Everything good?” asks Ghost.

Johnny shakes his head. “The missus is having contractions.”

“Oh,” replies Gaz, eyes growing a bit wide. “Damn. Go. You should go.”

“We’ll cover your tab,” adds Ghost.

Johnny groans. “Her due date isn’t for another bloody week.” He grabs his jacket.

“You’re going to be a father, Soap,” chuckles Ghost, punching him in the shoulder.

“Fuck. What if she has it while I’m not there?”

“Don’t these things take forever anyway?” muses Ghost. “Contractions don’t mean anything. Right?” He glances at Gaz.

Gaz shrugs. “I think you should worry if it’s close together.” Gaz holds his hands close to indicate the lack of time.

“Shit,” mutters Johnny, tapping away at his phone.

Are they close together?

It’s a few seconds and then the three little circles pop up, indicating that you’re typing back.

They’re close. A few minutes apart. I’m on the phone with the midwife.

“Oh fuck,” mutters Johnny, elongating the vowel as he tugs on his jacket.

Gaz grimaces. “It’ll be fine,” he tries to reassure as Johnny rushes past him. “Congrats!”

Johnny hardly hears him, he’s too focused on getting to the car. Every second is agony—not knowing what’s happening while he’s driving. When he pulls up to the house almost an hour later, there’s a car Johnny doesn’t recognize in the drive.

As bursts through the door, he hears calming music. Rushing forward into the living room, he finds you on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, propped up by a nest of pillows. The midwife putters about as you gently rock back and forth, cradling an infant in your arms.

You glance up. “Look,” you laugh, lifting the infant that you’ve just birthed, presenting it like you’ve completed a fun DIY craft project.

Johnny almost faints.

“Oh, babe,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The midwife makes a sound of annoyed agreement and Johnny winces.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “She came quickly.”

“I should have been here,” he groans, sliding to the floor next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.

You lean into him. “You’re here now,” you sigh, eyes closing as you snuggle against him.

Johnny looks to the midwife, and she smiles at him—a reassurance. You’re fine, and so is his daughter.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Ignoring it, Kyle keeps his attention on Captain Price, focusing on the briefing for the upcoming mission. The phone goes silent. Seconds later, it starts up again. Frowning, Kyle reaches into his pocket, sliding out the phone just enough to see the screen. Your name and picture appear on the screen, your smile bright and lovely.

“Need to answer that?”

Kyle’s head snaps up at the sound of Captain Price’s voice.

“Sorry, Captain. It’s the missus.”

Price inclines his head, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “It’s she pregnant?”

“She is,” affirms Kyle.

“Then you should answer it.”

Kyle gives him, Ghost, and Soap a brief nod. “Excuse me,” he mutters, standing and heading for the door.

When the meeting room door slams shut, the phone starts up again.

Kyle answers, his words falling from his mouth quickly, sounding like one solid word instead of several. “What’s going on, love?”

“I’m having contractions.”

You sound panicked.

“You’re—are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” you gasp. “Water broke earlier—"

Kyle’s voice rises slightly. “Your water broke and you didn’t call me?”

“I wasn’t feeling anything,” you reply, as if that makes it okay. “But now, it’s constant.” Your sigh is labored. Tired. “They’ve come on so suddenly, Kyle. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, love. Don’t apologize.” You have nothing to be sorry for. He’s just happy you called. “I’m coming home. Right now.”

“But you have that meeting. You can’t—”

“I’m coming home,” he reiterates. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hang in there, dove. I’ll be there soon.” Kyle disconnects the call and bursts through the meeting room doors. “It’s happening,” he announces.

Soap blinks, confused. “What’s happening?”

Ghost side-eyes him. “He’s about to become a dad.”

“Fucking shit. Really?” Soap turns to Kyle, beaming. “Congrats.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest, a look of pride on his face. “Go, Sergeant.”

Kyle nods, giving a half-wave as he backs out through the toward, heading toward the parking lot. He’s practically running—rushing to turn the car on. Taking off, Kyle hardly cares if he hits anything, and he doesn’t blink when breaking nearly a dozen traffic laws.

He makes it home in half the time he usually does. Every second counts. Every moment important. If the contractions are coming quickly and close together, it means the baby is ready, and he needs to get you to the hospital.

As he enters the front door, he calls out to you. Your answer comes, but it’s distant. Upstairs. Kyle takes the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom to find it empty. But the bathroom light is on.

A few steps, and he pushes open the door.

You’re not standing at the sink putting on your makeup or getting ready to leave. You sit inside the shower on the tile floor, the glass door wide open, pantless, and cradling an infant in your arms.

“Shit,” he breathes, moving forward. “Shit.” Kyle crouches just outside the shower door.

You grin sheepishly, lifting the baby like it’s an accident. “She came minutes after I got off the phone with you.”

“Oh, bloody hell, love,” laughs Kyle.

There are tears in your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be, my love.” Reaching out, he grasps the back of your neck. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your forehead. “She’s beautiful.”

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elixirfromthestars · 7 months ago

Text

By The Warmth Of The Oven

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

Word Count: 1.1k

Warning(s): none. pure fluff. tipsy bucky.

Prompt/Event: @the-slumberparty december daze -> is it those cookies that smell delicious or is it you?

a/n: This fluffy drabble is my holiday gift to you my dear Bella @nickfowlerrr ♡ In honor of Can You Feel It? being the first of many beautiful fics I read of yours 🥹🩷 Thank you everyone for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ || fluffy winter drabbles masterlist ❆

“Smells good…” Bucky’s voice comes out of nowhere from behind you as you grab another tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find him sauntering into the kitchen, making his way over to you.

“Freshly baked cookies always do,” you reply with a gratified grin, placing the tray on top of the stove so the cookies have some time to cool off before you plate them. Your friends had already gone through three batches of them and they practically begged you to make more. It was a nice feeling, almost rewarding in a way, knowing something you made was so loved by your friends.

“‘m not talking about the cookies, doll,” there’s a bit of a slur in his cadence that catches your attention at the same time that your heart skips a beat at his words. You turn to him to see he’s staring at you with a dreamy smile and a twinkle in his eyes, propped up against the counter by his elbow. You frown at his unusual nonchalant demeanor. You’ve never seen him act this way before.

Your head tilts slightly as you examine him a little closer. There’s a bit of a sway to his stance and his cheeks are tinted pink. “Bucky, are you drunk?” Almost immediately he shakes his head at your question, “No. I can't get drunk,” he replies with an obvious tone, and yet the pouty frown on his face tells a different story.

“Right, you can’t…” you affirm, mulling it over for a moment,“Unless…did Thor give you some of his special Asgardian liquor?” You ask, stepping slightly closer to him, the apples of his cheeks getting rosier in response.

“I took a shot. I started feeling funny and came here—felt safe,” he mutters that last part reluctantly, sharing something with you he wouldn’t if it weren’t for the alcohol in his system.

“In the kitchen?”

“With you.”

Your amusement is replaced with a soft expression at his response. He most likely hasn’t felt the effects of alcohol in decades and a part of him doesn’t know how to cope with the resurfaced inhibitions. The fact that while feeling unwell his first instinct was to come looking for you—it made a warmth spread throughout you that could easily rival the heat of the oven.

You reach out to cup his cheek, soothing the flushed skin with your thumb. He instinctively leans into your touch, his eyes shining with a gentle vulnerability that causes your heart to squeeze in your chest. You and Bucky have always had a flirtatious friendship for as long as you can remember, but it's never gone past that. Seeing him so openly affectionate with you stirs emotions deep within you that you aren’t sure you’re ready to bring to the surface.

“I don’t think the alcohol is going to stay in your system for long, Buck. How about we do this…you wait for me here while I go out and serve the cookies I baked,” his eyes widen slightly and you can tell he wants to protest until you add, “I’ll bring back some hot chocolate for us to share and we can enjoy it along with some cookies while we wait for that liquor in your system to wear off. How does that sound?” You suggest softly and you can see the way he thinks it through before he agrees with a nod.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you plate a few dozen cookies on decorative plates, leaving a handful behind for you and Bucky to share. You make sure to quickly take them out to your friends and serve up two piping hot mugs of hot chocolate before making it back to the kitchen in no time.

When you meet back with Bucky you find him sitting on the counter where he watches his legs as he swings them lazily to and fro. You observe him fondly for a moment longer than necessary. Trying to commit to memory how carefree and unguarded he is at this moment. When he notices you his face lights up in a way that makes you feel like the most precious person on earth.

“Here, as promised,” you hand him a mug of hot chocolate which he takes eagerly—too eagerly—as he immediately goes for a sip of it. Before he can, however, you stop him, placing your hand as a barrier between his lips and the mug. His mouth ends up pressed into your palm, and you ignore the heat that finds its way to your face at the softness of his lips brushing against your skin.

“Bucky, it's scalding hot! You’ll burn yourself! Wait until it cools down a bit, please.”

“It’s not gonna burn me, doll. I’m a super soldier. Watch—”

“Bucky!”

You use the cookies as leverage to coax Bucky into waiting for the hot chocolate to cool down before he drinks any of it. For the next hour or so, you enjoy each other's company. Between the sweet treats and the lighthearted conversations, time flies by in a heartbeat.

Then, while in the middle of a discussion over your last mission, Bucky does something that completely takes you by surprise in the best way possible—he kisses you. It’s short, but profound in the way he pours everything into it. Every flirtation you ever questioned could mean something more was proven here with this kiss, that it had meant so much more for more than just you.

You’re speechless when he pulls away beaming as if his heart might burst.

“Looks like I was right.”

“Huh?”

“I asked myself what was sweeter. You or the cookies. I knew it'd be you,” he states as a matter of fact, drinking up the way his words affect you as much as the kiss had. There’s a part of you that doesn’t believe him, but it's not because of him, but more so because you think you must be dreaming.

“That's the liquor talking.”

“I've sobered up a while ago, doll.”

You search his eyes for the truth of it all and you find it. This is real. This isn’t a dream. And the yearning that burns bright in his eyes is one you know all too well. It’s the same one reflecting in your eyes as your gazes lock on one another.

“I still think the cookies are sweeter,” you whisper, your eyes shining with a playful challenge despite the way your heart races in your chest with anticipation. He catches on, licking his lips as his flesh hand snakes its way to the back of your head to cradle it gently.

“‘m gonna prove you wrong, doll,” he declares in a huskier tone as he pulls you in for another kiss. And that night, by the warmth of the oven, Bucky continues to kiss you until he successfully proves you wrong.

#glimpses of love in the snowfall #elixirs snowfall daydreams #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes oneshot

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miedei · 2 months ago

Text

for years or for hours

spending the night at spencer's apartment for the first time, and he's more than a little obsessed with you

a/n: my obsession w early seasons!spencer strikes again!!!! i saw an edit of train episode spencer when i was drunk the other day and wrote half of this. he fucks guysss i swear he fucks

cw: shy!reader, fem!reader, smut mdni, fingering, praise, spencer is confident like v v confident, handjob, unprotected piv

wc: 3.7k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Spencer’s quickly got you expecting contradictions. From the sight of him, lanky and awkward-seeming, you’d never expected anything of the sort that you’ve seen.

When he asked you out, subtle and slightly cocky in his charm. When he’d swooped down to kiss your cheek when you’d met him at the restaurant. When he kissed you on the sidewalk, mouth warm and all-consuming.

His apartment isn’t a surprise, thank goodness. You’re nervous enough as is, spending the evening at his for the first time. It might have done you in if it was too far off from your expectations.

No, the cozy warmth of his domicile is just right for you, and you feel more than comfortable curling up on the sofa waiting for him to return from the kitchen.

It’s another astonishment when he sits down next to you, smile soft as he pulls you into his side with an arm around your shoulder, cool as can be. You’re not complaining, of course. Not even as you duck your head to hide the flush that’s crept up on your cheeks.

You’d gotten used to it, you thought. To expect the incongruity between his outward-facing persona and his true actions.

Apparently not, though. Not when you gasp when his index finger crooks under your chin, guiding your face up towards his.

His eyes dance as he looks down at you, a level of devotion that you feel just as vividly, no matter how early it is to feel this way.

“I was wondering if you could tell me what you want tonight,” His voice is low, melodic as it floats into the limited space between the two of you, “so we both know what we’re prepared for.”

Your words get stuck behind your molars, only a squeak leaving your lips when his thumb swipes over the curve of your jaw. His resultant smile is indulgent, even as he prompts you again.

“I really want to hear you say it for me, please.”

His cupid’s bow is really defined, you think stupidly. It’s so distinct and sharp, you can’t help but want to kiss it. But he won’t let up, you know that.

It’s not that you don’t want to sleep with him. You’ve wanted to since you met him, and more every day that you got to know him. You spent nearly an hour in the shower before coming to his apartment just for that reason. But wanting it and saying out loud are two different things.

Your voice is low when it finally comes, a whisper under your breath.

“You know I want you, Spencer.”

His smile is tender, spreading wider across his face as he leans closer to you.

“What is it you want?”

“Spence…”

“All you’ve got to do is explain to me. I just want to know what you’re okay with doing tonight,” He croons, as if he doesn’t know, the bastard.

It takes a few more moments of silence, his thumb brushing over your skin steadily.

“I want to sleep with you.”

There’s an agonizing beat of stillness, but he makes up for it swiftly when he descends on you. That cupid’s bow melds perfectly against you, the softness of his lips sending giddy sparks up to your brain.

He’s muttering against your lips, but your brain’s too fuzzy to register more than a few words at a time, what with his fingers gripping your chin, and the other hand descending to your hip. Soft compliments and musings spill into your mouth, entreating you to come closer, kneeling on the sofa cushion just to be able to lean over him.

He pulls back at your movements, letting out an amused chuckle.

“You want to get closer?”

He leans back against the couch, spreading his legs slightly, causing his slacks to tighten around his thighs in a way that has you salivating. His hands returning to your hips, he looks up at you with that smile that makes you shiver.

“Come here, pretty girl.”

The nickname sends a shudder through you, but not even that could keep you back.

Despite your flush, you let him guide you into his lap, your hands awkwardly hanging by your sides.

His hands come up to brush against your knuckles, causing you to delight in the feeling of his calloused palm. He continues to move, skimming over your wrist, to your arm. The touch goes to your shoulder, the curve of your neck, and settles on your face, cupping your jaw in two impossibly large hands.

Drawing you to him, your foreheads touch. A sigh leaves your lips, wanting desperately to feel him kiss you again.

“Spencer…”

His mouth quirks up at one side, his left thumb rubbing circles into your cheek.

“Don’t have to ask me for it. You can take whatever you want, I’ll go willingly. Okay?”

You don’t bother responding, the feeling of his hands on you overwhelming your senses until it’s all you can do to lean in, pressing your front to his. Kissing him again, you can’t help but push closer, your lips parting against his.

Your mind floats away as he delves into your mouth, sounds muffled by his lips on yours. It could’ve been minutes, or hours, but you can’t bring yourself to wonder. Not when his lips are so soft, when you can slowly rock yourself on his lap.

Your movements force him to part from your lips, groaning. Slipping his hands down to your hips again, he urges you to rise off his lap, standing with you. Even as you both stand, his breath continues to mingle with yours, as if he can’t be enticed to part from you. He doesn’t even move to speak, his words tumbling straight into your mouth.

“Can’t— can’t do this here. My bedroom, okay?”

A whine leaves your mouth, but you nod desperately, letting him walk you backwards towards his bedroom. Despite your unwillingness to move your mouth from his, you can’t stop yourself from stepping back, gazing around his room with insatiable curiosity.

It’s exactly what you’d expect from looking at him. Neat, but slightly unkempt, with lining every available shelf, and even some stacked in towers on the floor.

As you turn around, eyes roving over every inch of the room, you jolt at the feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind. Warm breath hits your ear, causing you to shiver, then relax back into his chest.

“I’m glad you’re so interested in my home, but can I give you a tour later? There’s something else I’d much rather be doing with you right now.”

You let out a breathless giggle, nodding and turning in his arms, curving your own arms around his neck. A smile breaks out over his face, dipping down to press a slow, sipping kiss to your lips before directing you over to his bed.

Falling on your back on his bed, you revel in the softness of his sheets. Stroking the duvet absentmindedly, the smell of Spencer is even more concentrated here. His characteristically complex scent surrounds you, notes of citrus, old paper, and something unmistakably him.

It elicits another laugh from the back of your throat, causing him to look down at you with a quirked brow. He descends on you, crawling up the mattress until he’s hovering over you with an amused look on his face.

“What’s so funny?”

Despite the giggles still bubbling up in your throat, the sight of him above you has them halting immediately.

“Just excited, I guess. A little nervous.”

The dark pools of his eyes seem to deepen further, a swirling haze of browns that suck you in.

“I’m excited too. And a bit nervous, I suppose. But, I’ve got to tell you, I’ve been wanting to have you here for a while, in my bed.”

And there he goes again, saying something that sends a shiver of desire and heat down your spine, forcing blood to rush to your cheeks.

Without even trying to come up with a response, you lean up instead, capturing his lips with yours again. That works wonders in shutting his nerve-inducing declarations up, his hand coming down to grip your hip firmly.

You both get lost in it, lips moving steadily against each other for an indeterminate amount of time. Your brain only returns to you when you feel his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants.

He pulls away, looking in your eyes for any protest. Instead, you lean up for one more peck, before holding his wrist and encouraging him to descend further. He lets out a shuddering breath, his calloused fingertips tracing the skin right over your hipbone.

“Can I take this off?”

His voice comes out in a murmur, only audible because there are scant centimetres between your faces. Desperate, you nod quickly, mumbling your assent.

“Yeah, Spence, I want it off.”

He smiles, kissing you one last time before clambering off you, kneeling between your legs. He helps you eagerly, his fingers fumbling with pulling your pants off you. The moment you’re rid of the article of clothing, he wastes no time in climbing over you again, his hand returning immediately to your hip.

He seems to be focusing solely on touching you, his eyes angled down at where his hand touches your skin. Suddenly you wish you’d bothered to wear nicer underwear, anything better than the slightly ratty pair of red panties that surely don’t match your bra, but he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Brushing his fingers over the front of your panties, he lets out a groan, dropping his forehead to your collarbone. Slowly, slowly, he dips down further, tracing over the small wet patch that’s been forming since he kissed you the first time tonight. You can feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin at this discovery, and you can’t help but beat him to the punch.

“Don’t laugh, Spencer, please?”

“Why would I tease you? You’re all ready for me, I’m so glad.”

His words are placating, but you can hear the satisfaction in his tone.

His fingers haven’t ceased their movements, tracing slow circles over the gusset of your panties as you squirm under him.

He lets you whine a little longer, before retracting his hand, chuckling at the resultant yelp of protest.

“You’re all wet for me?”

You nod frantically, lifting your hips in an effort to tempt him into ridding you of your panties.

“Yeah, Spence…”

He nods in satisfaction, finally giving in and dragging the fabric down your legs. Once he’s set them aside carefully, he drags his palm up and down your inner thigh, kneading at the plush flesh there. Slowly moving higher, higher, he makes you wait until his knuckles brush against the bump of your pussy, making both of you suck in sharp breaths.

His eyes flick up to you, fingers gliding up and down over the seam of you, watching your face contort with the too-little pleasure. After watching you for a beat longer, he swipes up your slick with one lithe finger, positioning it at your entrance.

Pressing his forehead against you, he hums softly, kissing the apples of your cheeks as he slowly presses his middle finger into you. The feeling is overwhelming, the slight stretch of his finger causing you to arch your back, pressing your chest into his.

He grins, swallowing your moans with a crushing kiss. Slowly speeding up his movements, he brings his thumb up to cover your clit, swiping slow circles over the sensitive spot.

Finally, he interrupts the silence, words tumbling out of his mouth as if he’d been holding them back with great difficulty.

“So tight, angel. Does that feel good?”

You can only moan in answer, struggling to keep your eyes open as he slides in another finger.

“That’s it, there you go. Can’t wait to see you when you cum, you going to cum for me?”

His hair has fallen over his forehead, looking down at you with his pupils dilated.

Speeding up his ministrations on your clit, he makes you squirm again, watching with delight as you grind your hips down against his hand. The slow-building tension within you rises, each movement of his fingers and your hips bringing you closer and closer, until you have to grip his wrist in both of your hands, throwing your head back.

He leans down, mouthing at the now-exposed column of your throat, his words vibrating against your skin.

“Come on, angel, want to see you fall apart, you can do it. Wanted to see you like this for so long, so pretty and pliant for me. You’re going to let me keep touching you, huh? As long as I want? So that I— oh, good girl!— so— so that I can see you fall apart for me?”

He’s so preoccupied with rambling that even you reaching your climax in the middle of his sentence doesn’t stop him, but his hands show you all the appreciation you need. Along with his fervent praise, his right hand continues to thrust within you, allowing you to ride out your high. His left hand has snaked up your shirt, thumb swiping at the skin right below the underwire of your bra.

It’s only once you whine in overstimulation, pushing his hand away from your cunt, that he pulls away, although he never stops his caresses to your torso. Leaning in to dot kisses on your lips, he continues to mumble.

“Did so good for me, angel, thank you. Did that feel good?”

Chest heaving with the aftershocks, you gaze up at him with stars in your eyes, nodding.

“Felt really good, Spencer. I didn’t— didn’t expect…”

You trail off, unsure of how to explain why you’re so overwhelmed, but he understands, moving off of you to lay on his back next to you.

“I know. I don’t exactly think I was expecting for this to happen tonight either… But it was okay?”

You can’t help but grin at the contrast between his previous confidence and the hesitance he exhibits now. Shifting to lay half on top of him, you prop your chin up on his chest.

“It was more than okay, Spence,”

Without thinking about it, your hand drifts to his lower stomach, trailing down his clothed skin to the waistband of his own pants.

“Do you want to… keep going?”

Your voice comes out soft, still a little flustered by your own forwardness, but you still stare up at him, hoping he’ll say yes.

At the feeling of your fingers stroking his waistband, he throws his head back with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. You can’t stop yourself from laughing, shaking your head at him.

After a moment, he looks back down, his hand coming down to rest on your back. His breathing is slightly shaky, but his voice remains solid.

“If you want to, sweetheart. Okay?”

Another wave of infatuation rocks through your body, smiling up at him once more. Moving your hand away from his pants, you drag your palm up his torso.

“Can we take this off, please?”

His smile gains a wicked tinge to it, his hand moving in circles against your back.

“Only if you do too.”

You assent readily, kneeling on the mattress in order to pull off your shirt and bra eagerly, leaving you completely bare. Although you’d normally be embarrassed, you don’t seem to find a moment to be shy, not when he’s shirtless on the bed in front of you.

Spencer smiles up at you, the smile he uses when he knows he’s got someone cornered in an argument, the one he uses when he’s sure he’ll be able to beat you in chess.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

He reaches out to hold you by the waist, dragging you over to lay at his side again. His arm holding you to him, he grabs your hand, laying it on the warm skin of his chest.

“You can touch me angel, go ahead.”

Biting your lip, you slowly move your fingers over his skin, leaning forward to press a tentative kiss to his chest. He squeezes your waist affectionately, sucking in a harsh breath when your hand trails down to his waistband again.

Slipping your hand under his pants and underwear, you brush your fingertips against the heated skin of his cock, gasping just as he does. Looking up to him, you see him squeeze his eyes shut.

Your confidence grows, dipping even lower in order to wrap your fingers loosely around his shaft. A breathy moan leaves him, sending shivers down your spine.

An experimental tug gets him throwing his head back in pleasure, groans tumbling from his lips.

All of a sudden you can’t take the barrier between you, pulling your hand out of his pants and tugging his pants and boxers down clumsily. He laughs a little, helping you out with a shaky hand until he can kick the fabric off his ankles.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out again, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. Slowly moving your hand up and down, you watch him begin to pant softly. Only once you’ve gotten into a rhythm do you allow yourself to look down, the sight causing you to clench your thighs together.

It’s like the rest of him, long and surprisingly thick, with a curve to it that has your cunt feeling more empty than ever. You can’t help but squirm, pressing your front further into his side.

Even with your efforts to stay composed, nothing gets past Spencer. In between grunts and breathy moans, he still manages to tease you slightly.

“What do you think, angel? Want to keep going like this, or do you want me to make us both feel good?”

His words have you shifting against him, wetness pooling within you again.

At your nod, he slowly peels your hand away from his cock, pressing at your shoulder to lay you back against the bed again.

With a breath stuck in your throat, you watch as he kneels between your parted legs, hand stroking at your hip. With his other hand holding the base of his cock, he leans forward, swiping his head through the accumulated slick pooling at your entrance.

Both of you hiss at the sensation, your hand coming up to cup his cheek.

With his eyes locked onto yours, he slowly pushes forward, letting you feel the stretch. Kissing your palm, he watches you intently, ready to stop at any hint of discomfort. However, although it’s a bit of a struggle, the pain-mixed-pleasure quickly becomes overwhelming bliss.

He continues to push in until his pelvis is flush with yours, falling forward with a hand on the sheets next to you. Leaning in to place a crushing kiss on your lips, he murmurs against you as he begins to rock his hips.

“Pretty— pretty girl, you feel so good. So good for me, sweetheart, so tight,”

He pants into your mouth, thrusting slow and deep. Every time he presses into your fluttering cunt, his pelvis grinding against your swollen clit, neither of you can keep quiet.

He can’t help but speed up, gripping one of your thighs and hiking it up around his waist, allowing him to sink that much deeper. You’re captivated, both by the sensations of him, and the sight of him. His lips are parted, eyes dark and lidded as he gazes down at you, face overcome with both affection and lust.

It’s not long until you start feeling it again, that unknowable, intangible pleasure that goes straight to your head, legs beginning to tremble. Trying to warn him, you raise a hand to grip at his shoulder, nails digging into the skin there.

“Spencer… Feels so good, think m’gonna—”

Your mouth tips open on a soundless moan, back arching off his duvet.

“I know, angel. Getting close again?”

One of his hands snakes down between your bodies, tracing maddening circles over your clit. The stimulation is just enough, just what you need to get you there, feeling the pleasure shoot through your veins.

It takes one, two, three more movements of his hips, and you fall apart, a low, keening moan ripping itself from your throat. Spencer hums, muttering praises down at you until you tip over into overstimulation.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck— so tight, you feel so good. You’re going to make me cum, sweetheart, can I— can I, on your stomach?”

His hand comes up to knead at the softness of your stomach, staring into your eyes.

At your gasped-out yes, he pulls out of you with a groan, tugging at his cock a few more times until he cums with a low groan, marking your skin with his release. Once he’s just as spent as you are, he collapses at your side, arm sliding under your shoulders to pull you closer, as if he’s loathed to be parted from you.

The room is silent for a few minutes, the soft sounds of the city punctuated by the heavy breathing coming from both of you.

Only once your breathing evens out, he leans over, dotting kisses in your hairline.

“Felt so good, angel. How are you feeling?”

You smile hazily, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Really good. A bit… sticky.”

Both of you become increasingly aware of the cooling mix of fluids on your bodies. With a chuckle, he sits up, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder.

“I’ll draw us a bath, how does that sound?”

A rush of warmth goes through your body, and you follow his movements, sitting next to him and capturing his lips with yours again.

“I really like you, Spencer Reid.”

He doesn’t reply, not in words. But the swirling emotions in his eyes, and the all-consuming kiss he gives you are more than enough answers.

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d1stalker · 10 months ago

Text

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James.

Your James.

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself.

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing.

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence.

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust. He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him.

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin.

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you.

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream.

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood.

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh.

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there.

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him.

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity.

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week.

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own.

To you, he’s still James.

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it.

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own.

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body.

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say.

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines.

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly.

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close.

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end.

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still.

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know.

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air.

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze.

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain.

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence.

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving.

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes.

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew.

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries.

The first time you did it, it was an accident.

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet.

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart.

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it.

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past.

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves.

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery.

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next.

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes.

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions.

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him?

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word.

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier.

He doesn’t remember you.

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again.

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet.

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together.

Because we were everything to each other.

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving.

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile.

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns.

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom.

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed.

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk.

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did.

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you.

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run.

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different.

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?”

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back.

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything.

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page.

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still.

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly.

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail.

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face.

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart.

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord.

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James.

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

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apatheticsunday · 4 months ago

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Fatherless Behavior

AKA "Danny Fenton is actually Batman and Catwoman's son. He likes his bio mother a lot more than his billionaire furry bio father, and Bruce is just trying to be a good dad to another surprise kid" prompt idea!

I like the idea of Madeline and Jack Fenton being good parents who love their kids so much. Maybe Danny still got zapped by the ecto-portal and died, but he immediately went to his parents and they helped him adjust to being Half-Dead. So, obviously, if he's old enough to die, he's old enough to be told the truth. Maddy and Jack adopted Danny from a woman named Selina Kyle, who's contact information state she's in Gotham City and willing to re-connect with Danny when/if he's comfortable.

Maybe Danny says he's okay, doesn't need to know who his biological parents are, because Maddy and Jack are enough for him. But it's also okay to be curious, right? He's like... seventeen or eighteen at this point. So, he says he's going to tour Gotham-U and maybe, possibly hunt down his birth mother if he has some extra time.

Fast forward to him standing in front of a very posh apartment complex, the doorman refusing to let him in, and he's incredibly embarrassed. There's an older couple coming out the doors. The older man looks like he's going to walk over, possibly intervene, so Danny just begs asks the doorman, "Can you please just call Selina Kyle? I'm her son."

And Bruce, who's having date-night with Selina, nearly passes out. Because under the bright lights of Selina's apartment lobby, this kid looks exactly like the perfect mix of Bruce and Selina. He's got his father's unruly black hair, Selina's catlike blue eyes, and has several dark freckles on his neck like Damian. So... this is a Not Great situation because Selina had a kid behind his back?? Selina's gripping his wrist like a panther with an antelope's jugular and says, "Not in front of the child, Bruce." And if there's one thing Batman is good at, it's keeping his cool (or pretending to).

They all end up in Batburger with Selina and Bruce looking comically overdressed while Danny's in ripped jeans and a NASA hoodie.

Selina is kind. She got pregnant and then Bruce was presumed dead (Batman's Time Stream incident lasted how long?? I feel like 9 months is reasonable, right?), and she wasn't prepared to be a single mother. She also hadn't wanted Danny to have a criminal for a mother ("Wait, what??"), but didn't feel comfortable aborting.

"Our relationship can be whatever you want it to be, Danny. I'm not trying to replace your mom. I'm just here to help if you want." She doesn't try to touch him, doesn't treat him like a kid, just speaks calmly and respectfully to him.

Bruce, unfortunately, isn't as tactful. He begins with: "And I have an extra room in the Wayne Manor. I can pay for your tuition at Gotham-U, get you a job at Wayne Enterprise, and introduce you to my kids. Tim would like you, you're about the same age-" before Selina shoves an elbow into his side. The damage is already done, though. Danny practically shoves from the table (after slipping two Batburgers into his hoodie pocket since clearly Mr. Money-Bags can afford it, the presumptuous asshole).

"I came here to talk with my mother, Mr. Wayne. I don't want your money or to be a nepo baby at your company." Danny snarls a sarcastic little thanks before hauling ass to his hotel, muttering about rude-ass rich folk.

(Selina, still at the diner with Bruce: Look at what you've done! You've scared our son off!

Bruce: Maybe if you told me I had a son, I could've been more prepared for a surprise visit!

Selina: Maybe if you stayed dead like everybody thought you were, you wouldn't be surprised that I had a son. You weren't there!

A squeaky noise can be heard. It's a waitress trying to quietly write on a whiteboard that says "Days Without a Wayne Argument". The tally is changed from 4 to 0.)

Anyway, I want Selina to be more like a Cool Aunt instead of a mom. She gets that Danny already has a maternal figure in his life, doesn't really want someone Mother Henning him, so she becomes a safe space for him to let go. Watches the Neil deGrasse Tyson docuseries, offers him wine during girl's nights, lets him rant about how unsure he is of the future without giving unsolicited advice.

Danny pretty much sees Bruce and is like, it's on sight, old man. Bruce sends an expensive telescope to his house. It gets sent back with a book that says "How to Know When to Give Up: For Dummies". Bruce tries to catch Danny while going to Selina's apartment and Danny screams stranger danger so loudly that Bruce is momentarily worried he accidentally accosted the wrong teenager. Danny makes a comment about "another billionaire frootloop wanting to keep me in his basement" and Bruce is even more concerned now. He responds with, "Daniel, I would not keep you in my basement." Yeah... that definitely didn't help.

Oddly enough, Danny is now also being harassed by Batman and his Bat Cult.

#I feel like this could get so angsty for Bruce. He's actually a good BatDad it's just that he's socially inept at times #poor guy #and I love me some selina kyle content #also PLEASE somebody write this in a 23k word fic #I'd read it i pinky promise #batfam #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #selina kyle #catwoman #mine

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thedilfdiaries · 5 months ago

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Bottoms Up

bfd!Joel Miller x bfstepdad!Arthur Morgan x f!reader//7.1k

summary: a threesome sex pollen fic where two men kiss

warnings: mdni, 18+, 2 dicks one hole (I am not going for realism this is a sex pollen fic) reader is tipsy, oral m! and f! receiving, alcohol, sex pollen, age gap (reader is in college, make the men however old you want but they are dad's to a college-age girl), Arthur is married Joel is not, shitty moodboard

notes: this is for @yxtkiwiyxt 's nhie challenge. My prompt was never have I ever hooked up at a party with Joel Miller. If any of these warnings or the summary put you off, please move on and do not put yourself through this. A big huge thank you to my baby @thundermartini for holding my hand big on this one, sitting with me through my always never-ending moodboard crisis, helping with the title last minute, cheering me on, reading the smut, listening to me talk about this in between the other 5 million fics I have going for like a month and a half, and just being such an amazing human always I love you more than you know <3 A massive thank you to @arcanefox207 for beta-ing this bad boy on such short notice, being such a wonderful human and hyping me up, and an equally massive thank you to @itwasntimethatdidit40 for reading this as well, being a huge cheerleader always for me and the sweetest lovebug. And of course thank you a million times to @almostempty for giving me the entire sex pollen idea and how to incorporate it. I love you all so very much!! <3 And tysm @/keerysquinnpage on pinterest for the pictures of naked men

masterlist

The evening air is cool, slipping through the cracked kitchen window as Joel rinses a coffee mug under the faucet. The quiet hum of the fridge is the only sound in the house, a rare moment of stillness since Sarah moved in for college. He doesn’t mind the mess she brings with her—the stray notebooks on the kitchen counter, the piles of laundry that seem to multiply like rabbits—but it means his nights often end like this, cleaning up after her, one piece of chaos at a time.

He glances toward the trash can, where the lid doesn’t sit flush. With a low grunt, he tugs the can out, ready to take it to the curb, but as he reaches for the liner, something crumpled catches his eye. His brows knit together as he pulls out the wadded piece of paper. Smoothing it against the counter, his frown deepens.

It’s a flyer. Bright neon colors advertise a college party—cheap beer, loud music, and the promise of bad decisions. His gut tightens as he reads the details. The address is printed at the bottom and the date and time stand out like a glaring warning sign: Tonight. 9 PM. Joel glances at the clock on the microwave—it’s already past ten.

His stomach tightens.

Sarah hasn’t mentioned anything about going to a party. She’s been quiet all evening, coming home from class and heading straight to her room, earbuds in, barely mumbling a “hey” when he asked if she’d eaten dinner.

Joel runs a hand over his beard, staring at the flyer like it might offer some explanation. A dozen thoughts flood his mind- the packed rooms, the loud music, the drunk kids stumbling into each other. He can almost see Sarah in the middle of it all—maybe drinking something she shouldn’t be, maybe with a boy who has no business being near her.

“Dammit, Sarah,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the flyer back onto the counter. His fingers itch toward his phone, and before he can second-guess himself, he hits the contact for her mom.

The phone rings twice before she picks up, her voice warm but wary, the way it always is when Joel calls unexpectedly. “Hey, Joel. What’s going on?”

“Have you heard from Sarah tonight?” he asks, skipping past the pleasantries.

There’s a pause. “No, why?”

Joel exhales, gripping the edge of the counter. “She’s not here. Found a damn party flyer in the trash. Looks like it’s tonight. Think she’s there.”

Another pause, followed by a sigh. “Joel, she’s in college. Going to parties is part of the experience.”

“Yeah, and it’s part of the experience to make dumbass choices, too,” he shoots back, pacing the kitchen. “You know what these things are like. Cheap booze, god knows what else floatin' around. She doesn’t belong there.”

“She’s not a kid anymore, Joel,” her mom replies, her tone calm but firm. “She’s responsible enough to know her limits.”

“Responsible?” Joel lets out a sharp laugh. “She didn’t even tell me she was goin' out. Doesn't sound responsible to me.”

“You can’t hover over her every second,” she snaps, her patience clearly thinning. “She’s figuring things out. You need to let her.”

Joel clenches his teeth, his grip on the phone tightening. “You call carin' about her hovering? I’m just tryna make sure she’s safe.”

“And I’m telling you she is,” her mom says, exhaling sharply. “Joel, you’re gonna drive yourself crazy with this. Let her have her fun.”

Before Joel can respond, she hangs up. He pulls the phone from his ear and stares at the screen, his jaw clenching as frustration boils in his chest. Let her have her fun. The words echo in his mind, making his stomach churn. Maybe her mom can sit back and hope for the best, but Joel can’t. He won’t.

Pulling his jacket off the back of a chair, he grabs his keys and heads for the door. If Sarah is at that party, he’s going to find her. And she damn well better have a good explanation.

_____________________________

Arthur shifts in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he glances over the edge of his book. He isn’t much of a reader—hell, Sarah’s mom teases him often enough about that—but every now and then, he likes the quiet. The house is calm tonight, the kind of calm that doesn’t come around much these days.

Across the room, she scrolls through her phone, half-watching one of those reality shows she claims to hate but never misses. It’s nice, Arthur thinks, this kind of simple peace.

Then her phone rings.

Arthur watches her pick it up, her brow furrowing slightly as she glances at the caller ID. “It’s Joel,” she mutters, swiping to answer.

Arthur sets his book down, leaning back as the conversation begins. He raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. He can’t hear Joel’s words, but he can imagine them—gruff, insistent, probably pacing a hole into the floor on the other end of the line.

When she finally hangs up, she lets out an exasperated sigh, tossing the phone onto the coffee table.

“Let me guess,” Arthur drawls, his voice tinged with amusement. “Joel’s got his panties in a twist?”

Her lips twitch, but she shakes her head. “He found some party flyer in the trash. Thinks Sarah’s there and is acting like it’s the end of the world.”

Arthur snorts, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Sounds ‘bout right. Man’s wound tighter than a spring.”

“It’s exhausting,” she admits, leaning back into the couch. “I told him she’s fine. She’s not a kid anymore.”

Arthur nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe. But Joel’s got his reasons for worryin'. Can’t say I don’t see his point.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Don’t tell me you’re siding with him all of the sudden.”

Arthur shrugs, standing and stretching as he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair followed by his hat. “Ain’t about takin' sides. But if he’s worried enough to call, maybe there’s somethin' to it. Kids these days, parties like that—” He shakes his head. “Best not to assume it’s all harmless fun.”

Her frown deepens. “You’re not seriously thinking of going, are you?”

Arthur shoots her a crooked grin, pulling on his jacket. “Well, somebody oughta make sure Joel don't storm in there like a damn cavalry charge.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, muttering something under her breath as he grabs his keys.

As he steps outside, the cool night air hits his face. He slides into his truck, glancing briefly at the dashboard before starting the engine. Joel is probably halfway to the party already, tense as a coiled snake. Arthur can’t help the smirk that tugs at his lips.

Guess I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t make a damn fool of himself.

The closer Joel gets to the party, the more his unease builds. He can hear the music from blocks away, the thrum of bass vibrating through his chest. His gut twists, each beat of the song an irritating reminder that his daughter, his baby girl, is likely in there somewhere. He parks his truck and steps out into the loud, chaotic scene.

The house is a mess from the outside, students drunkenly spilling out of the door and onto the front lawn, some of them barely keeping their balance. The closer he gets, the worse the place is—loud and cluttered with more students than Joel can count. He can already feel his blood pressure rising. As he reaches the front steps, a wiry kid in a tank top and backward cap blocks his path. The kid can’t be older than twenty-one and is clearly drunk, his glassy eyes scanning Joel with exaggerated scrutiny.

“Whoa, whoa, dude, hold up,” the kid slurs, holding up a hand. “You can’t just storm in here lookin' like that. You’re way too tense, man. Party vibes only.”

Joel frowns, his patience already running thin. “I ain’t here to party. I’m here to pick up my daughter.”

The kid squints at him, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Nah, nah, can’t let you in all mad like that. House rules, bro. You gotta chill first. Like, take a shot, loosen up, and then you can go find whoever.”

Joel stares at him, his expression hardening. “I don’t have time for this. Move.”

But the kid holds firm, producing a tray of bright green jello shots with a flourish. “No shot, no entry. That’s the rule. C’mon, man, it’s just jello. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Joel exhales sharply through his nose, his patience worn to a thread. The kid in front of him sways slightly, the jello shots jiggling on the tray as he grins like he’s just presented the best damn solution in the world.

Joel doesn’t have time for this. He’s about to shove past the guy when a familiar voice cuts through the noise behind him.

"Well, ain't this a sight."

Joel turns just as Arthur steps up beside him, hands in the pockets of his jacket, that damn cowboy hat sitting low on his head like he owns the place.

Joel hates that hat. He’s hated it since the first time he saw it, sitting smug as hell atop Arthur’s head like some declaration of personality. The damn thing makes Arthur look too at ease, too comfortable in any situation—including this one.

The kid grins wider, apparently delighted by the addition of another older man to his party obstacle course. “Ayyy, two-for-one deal! Y’all both gotta take one. House rules, bros.”

Arthur glances at the jello shots and then at Joel. “You gonna play nice, or you plannin’ to deck this poor bastard?”

Joel glares. “I ain’t here for games.”

Arthur hums, clearly entertained. He plucks one of the tiny plastic cups off the tray, holding it up like he’s appraising fine liquor. “Hell, Miller, might as well get in the spirit.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. He is not in the mood for this nonsense, but Arthur’s already tipping the shot back, his expression unreadable as he swallows. A beat later, he clears his throat, grimacing. “That’s awful.”

The kid cheers like Arthur just won some kind of prize. “Hell yeah! Your turn, grumpy dude.” He shoves the tray toward Joel again, jiggling it obnoxiously.

Joel eyes the tiny cup like it personally offended him. His fingers curl into fists at his sides. Every second he spends out here, Sarah could be getting into trouble inside. He doesn’t trust these kids, doesn’t trust the booze, doesn’t trust any of this.

Arthur nudges him with an elbow. “C’mon, Miller. Ain’t gonna kill ya.”

Joel exhales through gritted teeth. Fine. If it gets this dumbass out of his way faster.

He snatches a shot from the tray, tilts his head back, and swallows it in one go.

Immediately, regret slams into him.

It’s sickly sweet and burns in a way that doesn’t belong in jello. His face contorts, and beside him, Arthur lets out a wheezing laugh. “Oh, that’s just nasty.”

Joel coughs once, shoving the empty cup back at the kid. “Happy?”

The kid fist pumps like a proud parent. “Vibe check complete, my dudes! Go forth and party.”

Joel doesn’t waste another second. He brushes past him, Arthur following close behind. The second they step inside, the heat and smell hit him—cheap beer, sweat, and something suspiciously skunky in the air. The bass rattles his ribs, and the sheer amount of people crammed into the space makes his pulse spike.

Arthur whistles low, glancing around. “Damn. Brings back memories.”

Joel ignores him.

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. “Right, then. Let’s go huntin’ hound dog.”

“Have you seen Sarah Miller?” Joel asks a couple of people milling about the entryway, but no one knows where she is. Some give him blank stares, others are too drunk to respond properly. His patience is thin.

He scans the crowd, eyes darting from room to room, trying to catch sight of her. The music pulses in his ears, every movement around him only adding to the feeling that everything is spiraling out of his control. Where the hell are you, Sarah?

A few steps into the living room, Joel freezes. His name cuts through the noise like a knife.

“Well, well. Joel Miller, at a college party. Never thought I’d see the day.” The voice is unmistakable—playful, familiar, and laced with just enough teasing to make his jaw clench. Joel turns, his eyes landing on you, Sarah's friend.

You’re leaning casually against the wall, a red plastic cup in hand, looking far too amused for his liking.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Joel demands, stepping closer, his tone sharp but quiet enough not to draw attention.

You shrug, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Same thing everyone else is doing. Relaxing, having a good time. You should try it sometime.”

Joel’s scowl deepens. “I ain’t here for that.”

“Figured.” You sip your drink, your gaze never leaving his. “Lemme guess. Sarah?”

He nods tightly. “You seen her?”

“Maybe.” You tilt your head, there's a playful glint in your eyes. “What’s it worth to you?”

Joel lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand over his face. “This ain’t the time for games, darlin’.”

You laugh softly, setting your cup down. “Relax, Joel. I’ll help you find her. You know,” you say, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you lean in slightly, “you clean up nice. Didn’t realize you’d turned into such a hot daddy.”

Arthur immediately coughs—more like chokes—his hand flying to his mouth as he fights to hold back laughter. “Oh-ho, now this is gettin’ good.”

Joel’s jaw drops slightly, his ears burning. “The hell did you just say?”

“You heard me,” you reply, unfazed. “Hot. Daddy. Don’t act so surprised—it’s a compliment.”

Arthur slaps a hand on Joel’s shoulder, grinning like a damn fool. “You know, Miller, I've been sayin’ you were gettin’ a little too soft in the middle. Guess the young folks got a name for it now.”

Joel looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. “You’re both somethin’ else, you know that?”

Arthur leans in slightly, smirking. “Yeah, well, guess that makes you Daddy Miller now.”

Joel’s groan drowns out your laughter as he rubs his face. “I swear to god—”

“Oh, c’mon, Daddy,” you tease, winking. “Let’s find your kid before you have an aneurysm.”

Arthur, still grinning, tips his hat. “Lead the way, darlin’.”

Joel barely has time to recover from your teasing before you grab his arm and start weaving through the crowd. His gruff protests are swallowed by the thumping bass and the loud laughter of drunken college kids. He follows reluctantly, still fuming but unable to shake the warmth spreading over his cheeks from your earlier comment.

“Where’d you see her last?” he asks, his voice low as his eyes dart around the chaotic scene.

You glance over your shoulder, smirking. “Patience, Joel. I’m working on it. You’re like a bloodhound, you know that? Just sniffing out trouble.”

He shoots Arthur a glare. “You comin’ or just standin’ there lookin’ smug?”

Arthur’s smirk widens as he follows. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Joel pushes through the crowd with Arthur close behind, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked a tooth. The bass rattles the floor beneath his boots, the house packed shoulder to shoulder with college kids shouting over the music, some already sloppy-drunk and stumbling. Every second that ticks by without finding Sarah makes his chest tighten, but what’s almost as frustrating is the bastard at his side.

Arthur, the smug son of a bitch, is clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Well,” Arthur drawls as they push past a couple making out against the staircase banister. “If ya told me you wanted to relive your youth, I’d have suggested a saloon instead of a damn frat house.”

Joel shoots him a glare, but Arthur just grins, scanning the room like he’s actually enjoying himself. “This ain’t a joke, Morgan.”

“Didn’t say it was. But you gotta admit—” Arthur gestures at the chaos, some kid throwing up into a plastic cup a few feet away, “—it’s pretty damn funny.”

Joel exhales sharply, fighting the urge to deck him. “Only thing funny is how I keep puttin’ up with your shit.”

Arthur smirks. “Aw, you’d miss me if I was gone.”

“Like I’d miss a damn splinter.”

Their back-and-forth is interrupted when a girl stumbles into Joel’s side, nearly spilling her drink down his shirt. She blinks up at him, eyes glassy, then lets out a breathless laugh. “Oh my god. You guys are, like, way too old to be here. Are you professors?”

Arthur lets out a barking laugh before Joel can answer. “Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

Joel shakes his head, muttering under his breath, and keeps moving. Arthur follows, still smirking, but then you step into their path, that mischievous glint in your eye returning as you block their way.

“Boys, please.” you say, arms folding across your chest.

Joel exhales sharply. “You know where she is or not?”

You hum, tilting your head, letting the tension stretch just a little longer. “Maybe.”

Arthur snorts. “She’s messin’ with ya.”

You flash him a grin. “Maybe I just like seeing Joel all worked up.”

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. “You ain’t the first.”

Joel rolls his eyes.

You step closer with a knowing grin. “Pretty sure she went upstairs.”

Joel stiffens, scanning the crowded staircase. His gut twists. Upstairs could mean anything—she could be safe, just hanging out, or she could be caught up in something way worse.

“I’ll check,” he mutters, already moving toward the stairs.

Arthur’s about to follow, but Joel shakes his head. “We cover more ground if we split up. Keep lookin’ down here.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so I get to stumble ‘round in a damn sea of drunk fools while you get to skulk off someplace nice and quiet?”

Joel shoots him a look. “You’d rather deal with the mess up there?”

Arthur considers, then sighs dramatically. “Fine. But if I get puked on, I’m makin’ you buy me a new damn coat.”

Joel just grunts, already halfway up the stairs, while Arthur turns back to the party. The moment you reach the second floor, the thumping bass fades slightly. The air is cooler up here, the chaos of the party reduced to muffled echoes below.

Joel glances back at you, suspicion in his gaze. “Where?”

You nod down the hall. “Last door on the left.”

Joel doesn’t waste a second, pushing forward. You follow, letting him step inside first. The moment he’s over the threshold, you swing the door shut behind you with a quiet click.

Joel turns, frowning. “What—?”

“She’s not up here.”

His brows knit together, realization settling in. “What the hell, darlin’?”

You take a slow step forward, and Joel—big, brooding, and absolutely clueless—actually takes a step back and sits on the bed.

“You seemed stressed,” you say lightly, tilting your head. “Figured you could use a break.”

Joel exhales sharply, shaking his head. “This ain’t funny.”

“Who’s joking?” You step closer, close enough that he can smell whatever sweet perfume clings to your skin. “Arthur can keep himself busy for a little while. And you… you look like you could use some help loosening up.”

Joel’s jaw ticks, his hands flexing at his sides. “Ain’t happenin’.”

You smirk. “Sure about that?”

Suddenly, the room tilts—not in a drunken, careless way, but in a slow, creeping blur. Joel sits on the edge of the bed, broad shoulders rising and falling with unsteady breaths. His shirt hangs open at the top, sweat beads at his temple, and his fingers dig into the mattress like he’s holding onto the last thread of his sanity.

Something is wrong.

You stand in front of him, warmth blooming in your chest—not from alcohol, but from the way he looks at you. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his entire body wound so tight he looks ready to snap. He looks wrecked.

“Joel,” you murmur, stepping between his knees. Your fingers trail along his jaw, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. “You feeling alright?”

His throat bobs with a hard swallow, his whole body rigid beneath your touch. “Somethin’ ain’t right,” he rasps, voice thick with strain. “Shouldn’t be feelin’ this way.”

You smirk, dragging your fingers lower over the pulse hammering in his throat. “Feel what way?”

His jaw flexes, eyes darting away, searching for an anchor—something to ground him. But control is slipping through his fingers like sand.

“You,” he grits out, voice thick and strained. “You smell so damn good.”

Your grin widens, emboldened by the way his hands twitch at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to grab you. “Maybe that’s just you finally admitting you want me.”

A low, ragged growl rumbles in his throat. Before you can tease him further, his hands shoot up, gripping your hips with a desperation that wasn’t there before.

“Don’t play with me, darlin’,” he warns, though the heat behind it is fading fast, cracking into something more vulnerable. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his pupils dark pools of hunger and confusion. “I—I can’t think straight.”

You lean in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Then don’t think.”

Joel exhales sharply, body trembling beneath your touch, every muscle wound tight like a drawn bowstring.

Then the door creaks open.

“What in the hell?”

Arthur’s voice slams into the moment like a bucket of ice water.

Joel curses under his breath, hands jerking away from you like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. You turn to find Arthur standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his expression shifting rapidly from bewilderment to something sharper, more knowing. His sharp gaze flickers between you and Joel, taking in his disheveled state—the sweat at his temple, the way his chest heaves like he’s run a mile.

Arthur’s frown deepens. “You wanna explain why Miller looks like he’s ‘bout to keel over?”

Joel groans, squeezing his eyes shut, like he’s fighting off some invisible force. “Somethin’ was in those damn shots.”

Arthur’s face darkens. His jaw tightens, his hand dragging down his face as the realization clicks into place. “Oh, for fuck sakes.”

For the first time, you notice it—how Arthur's fingers flex restlessly at his sides, the faint flush creeping up his neck. The way his throat bobs when he swallows, like something is catching there, thick and unshakable.

You bite your lip, watching as Arthur exhales sharply. His usual composure cracking, just enough to reveal the heat flickering behind his gaze, the same one you just saw in Joel’s.

Arthur clenches his jaw, shaking his head like he can force away the sensation clawing its way up his spine. “This ain't happenin’,” he mutters under his breath, pacing in short, jerky steps, his boots scuffing against the floor.

But you see it. His fingers flex like he’s itching to touch. His gaze flickers to you, then to Joel, then back again, lingering just a second too long. He’s trying—god, he’s trying—to hold himself together, but his breath comes faster and his muscles tense beneath his shirt.

“Arthur,” you murmur, stepping toward him. Your fingers ghost over his arm, stopping his restless pacing. His muscles jump beneath your touch, his jaw locking tight as he flinches back like you’ve burned him.

“Are you feeling it too?”

A sharp inhale. A pause.

Then, in a voice stretched thin with restraint, he rasps, “Don’t.”

But there’s no real bite to it—just a desperate, fraying edge. His pupils are blown wide. His nostrils flare as his gaze flickers around the room—searching for control, finding none.

"You say that," you murmur, dragging your fingers down his chest, slow, teasing. "But you feel it too, don't you?"

Arthur’s pulse throbs under your fingertips, hot against your skin. His breath is uneven. “Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you.” The words break off, swallowed by a tightness in his throat that says more than he can put into words. “‘Bout—” He cuts himself off, like just the thought of it is too much.The way he trembles, the way his eyes darken—they’re confirmation enough.

You trace his torso before feeling the undeniable bulge beneath his jeans.

He tenses. A sharp inhale punches out of his lungs. His hips jerk forward instinctively, the thick heat of him twitching under your touch, seeping through the denim.

Arthur lets out a low, muttered curse, his resolve shattering like glass. Before you can say another word, his hands are on you.

It’s sudden—like a dam breaking. His grip is firm, almost bruising, as he yanks you in, crashing his lips against yours. Heat ignites in your veins, scorching and insatiable. You melt into him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. He groans into your mouth,his hands anchoring you to him, pressing you flush against him.

Behind you, Joel makes a strangled, guttural noise—something raw, something starved.

Arthur finally pulls away, his breath ragged. His forehead presses against yours, hands locked around your hips like letting go isn’t an option. His grip is possessive, claiming.

But Joel isn’t about to be left behind.

He exhales shakily, hesitation flickering in his gaze for only a second before he’s on his feet.

He closes the distance in a single step, his fingers threading into your hair, tilting your face up. And then his mouth meets yours. It’s different from Arthur—deeper, rougher, edged with something raw and desperate. His grip is sure, his hands sliding down your body, pulling you flush against him like he needs to feel every inch of you, needs to brand himself into you.

Arthur shifts behind you, a low scoff slipping past his lips. “Oh, come on, Miller.” His voice is rough, breathless, and laced with utter need. “You kissin’ her or tryin’ to romance her?”

Joel pulls back just enough to glare at him. “Least I know how to take my time, Morgan. You just gonna stand there and watch, or you gonna do somethin’?”

Arthur’s smirk is sharp as a blade. “You askin’ me to show you how it’s done?”

Before you can blink, Arthur’s hands are on you again, gripping your hips so fast your head spins. He tugs you against him, chest flush to your back, his breath hot against your ear.

“You wanna be handled right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your skin. “You come to me.”

You feel it—the heat, the desperation, the all-consuming ache that quickly becomes unbearable. This isn’t just lust. It’s chemical. Something unnatural coils through their veins, winding tighter and tighter. Their hunger intensifies until it borders on agony.

“Sweetheart, you gotta tell us—" Arthur's hips jerk forward rolling against you and a strangled grunt slips from him. "—gotta tell us it’s okay, ‘cause I can’t, won’t be able to stop."

Your stomach clenches. The sharp spike of arousal sends a pulse of heat straight between your legs. They’re breaking apart, and it’s because of you.

You swallow hard, “I don’t want you to stop.”

Arthur hands are on you in a flash, tearing at your clothes like patience is a thing of the past. His lips scorch a path across your skin, demanding and relentless as his tongue explores every inch of you. He pants like he’s drowning and needs you to breathe.

Joel is no better. His large hands roam over your body, shoving under your shirt, his fingers greedily grabbing and kneading your skin.

“Darlin’, we gotta get this off,” Joel mutters, voice thick with need.

Arthur growls, yanking your shirt up and ripping it over your head in one rough motion, fabric flying to the floor. Your bra is next, unclasped in a single tug, his calloused hands immediately covering your bare skin, kneading your breasts, thumbs swiping over your stiffening nipples.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” Arthur rasps, voice wrecked, his palms mapping every inch of you.

Joel presses his lips to your skin, tongue teasing your nipples with slow, deliberate flicks before sealing around them with a hot, insistent pull. His hands trail heat down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He pulls back with a wet pop, breath warm against your skin. “Ain’t fair, Morgan. Can’t let you have all the fun.”

Joel growls, shoving your jeans down, gripping your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

Arthur’s fingers skim lower, finding you already soaked. His grin widens. “Fuck, sweetheart, you really want this, huh?”

“Yeah? How wet is she?”

Arthur drags his fingers through your slick folds before flicking his gaze to Joel, smug. “Why don’t you feel for yourself?”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. His hand joins Arthur’s between your legs, their fingers brushing, both of them feeling just how desperate you are.

A sharp inhale escapes you. The sensation—both their hands on you, teasing, possessive—sends a shock of pleasure straight through you.

Arthur chuckles, thick with satisfaction. “Damn. You feel that?”

Joel exhales sharply, grip tightening. “Oh yeah,” he grits out. “Feel that sweet cunt droolin’ for us.”

His fingers slip inside you, stretching you open, coaxing a moan from deep in your throat. Arthur watches, dark eyes hungry. “Gotta admit, I like hearin’ you make those sounds sweetheart.”

Joel scoffs. “Least I’m makin’ her moan.”

Arthur growls, fingers moving faster, pushing Joel’s aside like he’s reclaiming what’s his. “Let’s see who gets her beggin’ first.”

Both men grin, dark and satisfied, fingers still teasing through your slick folds. “Think she likes bein’ between us.”

Joel’s eyes burn as he watches Arthur’s hand disappear between your thighs. His jaw tightens. “Quit runnin’ your damn mouth and do somethin’.”

Arthur just smirks, fingers hooking into your panties and yanking them down, damp fabric sliding over your thighs.

“You’re a fuckin’ dream.” Joel murmurs.

Arthur scoffs. “Ain’t just gonna tell her. She deserves to feel it too.”

Joel steps back, eyes dragging over your body, chest rising and falling heavily. Arthur does the same, lips parted, a groan slipping from his throat.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Arthur mutters, fingers tracing the swell of your breasts, down the curve of your waist. “Ain’t never seen anythin’ prettier.”

Joel hums in agreement, hands following the same path, like he needs to memorize every inch of you.

Arthur’s the first to move, unbuckling his belt with a swift pull, letting it drop with a heavy clink. He shoves his jeans and boxers down, stepping free. Your breath catches.

Not to be outdone, Joel shrugs off his shirt, muscles flexing as he makes quick work of his jeans. When they fall, your mouth goes dry.

They’re both… big.

A nervous thrill rushes through you, anticipation crackling along your skin like a live wire. Arthur smirks, catching the way your eyes widen.

“Somethin’ catch your attention, sweetheart?”

Joel exhales sharply, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bet she’s wonderin’ how she’s gonna take us both.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but the pulsing need between your thighs overpowers any hesitation. You reach for Arthur first, fingers wrapping around the base of his length, feeling the sheer weight of him. His head tips back slightly, but his eyes never leave you.

Not wanting to leave Joel waiting, your other hand wraps around him, fingers curling, testing. He sucks in a sharp breath, muscles tensing beneath your touch.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters, voice strained.

Arthur chuckles, breathless. “She’s got a good grip, huh?”

You lick your lips, heart hammering as you stroke them both, hands moving in slow, deliberate motions. The power of knowing you’re the cause of their unraveling sends a rush of arousal straight through you.

You lean in, taking Arthur first, tongue flicking against his heated skin. His hips jerk, a low growl slipping from his throat.

Joel’s hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands—not to control, just to feel, to anchor himself as he watches you.

Arthur exhales a shaky breath, fingers flexing at his sides. “Hell, sweetheart… keep that up, and I ain’t gonna last.”

Joel chuckles, rough and strained. “Guess I gotta see what all the fuss is about.”

You glance up, meeting their hooded gazes before switching—lips leaving Arthur to wrap around Joel, your hand still working him as you take him deeper.

The sounds they make—needy, desperate, barely held together—send heat pooling between your thighs.

Arthur strokes a hand down your back. “You look so damn good like this, sweetheart.”

Joel exhales sharply, grip in your hair tightening just slightly. “Yeah, she does,” he agrees, voice ragged. “Come on, darlin’. Need you on the bed. Now.”

You barely hit the mattress before Arthur is on you. His mouth is hot, insatiable, kissing you like he’s got something to prove. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, messy and frantic, like he’s trying to erase every other man you’ve ever kissed. His hands grip your skin with urgency, mapping out every inch of you for himself.

Joel isn’t far behind. He crawls onto the bed, big hands sliding up your body. “Goddamn, baby,” he rasps, “you feel so damn good.”

Arthur drags his mouth down your throat, biting at your collarbone, fingers flexing against your hips as he grinds against you, shameless and eager. “Can’t stop touchin’ you,” he mutters, breath coming in heavy, hungry bursts.

Joel watches Arthur roll against you, sees the way your body arches for him, and lets out a low, frustrated sound. His cock twitches. His fingers dig into your thighs, possessive, patience unraveling.

“Goddamn,” he grits out. “I need you.”

Arthur’s head snaps up, eyes dark and burning. His chest heaves. “We need you,” he corrects, voice rough, daring Joel to challenge him.

You whimper, heat pooling low as Joel meets Arthur’s stare, something dangerous passing between them. Then Joel moves, fast, gripping your chin, tilting your head back into a deep kiss. His tongue sweeps against yours, stealing your breath, swallowing your sounds like he owns them.

Arthur watches with an intense gaze, his chest rising sharply. “Shit,” he mutters, voice strained.

Joel chuckles darkly. “Ain’t no stoppin’ now, Morgan.” He smirks, taunting, then glances down at you, his touch slow but deliberate. “She needs us.”

Arthur swallows hard, gaze flickering over you, taking in your wrecked state. His cock is flushed, leaking, aching. The sight of you between them, desperate and wanting, nearly drives him insane. “Then let’s give her what she needs.”

Joel’s fingers trail over your breast, rolling a nipple between them. You arch, whining, and his voice drops to a rasp. “Look at you. So goddamn beautiful.”

Arthur groans in agreement but refuses to let Joel take the lead. He moves lower, mouth dragging down your stomach, hands gripping your thighs, pushing them apart. He inhales sharply at the sight of your slick heat. “Christ, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stroking through your wetness. “All this for us?”

You nod, breathless, fingers tangling in his hair. “Please,” you whisper, wrecked with need.

Arthur doesn’t hesitate. His tongue flattens against you, moving with slow, devastating precision, determined to ruin you for anyone else.

Joel shifts beside you, watching, stroking himself. “Fuck,” he mutters, his free hand tracing over your trembling thighs. “You like that, darlin’? Like him eatin’ you out while I watch?”

Your answer is a broken moan. Your fingers tighten in Arthur’s hair as he sucks your clit, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through you. He pulls back just enough to rasp, “Wanna feel you come on my tongue, sweetheart. Be a good girl for me.” Then he’s back on you, relentless, holding you down as you writhe.

Joel grits his teeth, watching you fall apart, his strokes turning rougher, breath ragged. “Goddamn it.” His gaze burns at the way your body shakes, how your moans break into gasps.

It doesn’t take long. Pleasure coils tighter, spiraling until it snaps. You cry out, thighs trembling as you come. Arthur groans against you, licking you through every wave, refusing to stop until you’re shaking.

When you finally sag against the mattress, panting and wrecked, Arthur pulls away, wiping his mouth. His jaw is slick, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Think she liked that.” His fingers stroke over your inner thighs, teasing. “Sweet as honey.”

Joel clenches his jaw, his cock thick, heavy, flushed a deeper shade than normal. “Fuck,” he growls, gripping your thigh, spreading you wider. His voice is rough, raw with hunger. “Need to be inside ya, darlin’.”

Arthur chuckles, breathless. “That so?” He shifts up, hovering, smug. “Think I should get a turn first, Miller.”

Joel’s eyes flash. “Like hell you will.”

They hold each other’s gaze, both rock hard, both determined. Neither will be satisfied until they’ve both had you.

Arthur shifts back, but not in surrender. A challenge. He lets Joel take his place between your legs, then leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers teasing down your stomach. “Tell him whose cock you wanna feel first.”

A needy whimper slips past your lips. Your legs spread wider in silent invitation. Desperation threads through your voice. “Joel—please.”

Joel groans, victorious, guiding himself against your entrance. “That’s a good girl.”

With one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, knocking the breath from your lungs. You whimper, still trembling from your release, but Joel hushes you, voice softer now. “You can take it, baby. You want it bad, don’t you?”

The stretch burns, but it’s a sweet, aching pain drowned out by the desperate pulse of need. Joel presses his forehead to yours, his breath ragged, his hips already snapping into a deep, unrelenting rhythm. He’s relentless, making up for lost time, proving something with every thrust.

Arthur exhales sharply, his cock twitching at the sight of you unraveling beneath Joel.

A deep, broken moan rips from your throat, your fingers digging into Joel’s biceps.

“Hell baby feel so good,” he grits out, head dropping to your shoulder. “So goddamn tight.”

Arthur watches, smirking. “Damn, sweetheart. Feels good, don’t it?” He tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Bet you’re squeezin’ him so fuckin’ tight.”

Joel’s jaw tenses. “Ain’t gonna last if you keep talkin’ like that.”

Arthur chuckles darkly. “Then I better make it worse.”

His hand drifts lower, brushing featherlight over your swollen clit. The jolt of sensation sends a wrecked moan spilling from your lips.

Joel curses. “Son of a bitch—”

Arthur grins, circling slow, lazy strokes, watching you shudder. “What’s wrong, Miller? Too much for ya?”

Joel growls, slamming deeper. “I can handle my fuckin’ business.”

Arthur doesn’t stop, his murmured praises filthy and relentless as Joel fucks you harder, driving you into his hold. “That’s it, baby,” Joel rasps. “Takin’ it so fuckin’ well.”

Arthur presses a kiss to your jaw, fingers working you over. “Come again, sweetheart. Let him feel you clench up nice ‘n tight—then it’s my turn.”

Pleasure coils in your belly, overwhelming, consuming. Arthur watches, his grip tight around his cock, stroking in quick, eager pumps. His jaw flexes, frustration flickering in his dark gaze before he moves.

No hesitation. No warning. Just action.

His hands grip your hips, shoving Joel’s hold aside like he’s claiming you for himself. Joel doesn’t even glance back—but his fingers tighten, sensing exactly what Arthur’s about to do.

Arthur spreads you wider, pressing in beside Joel, the stretch sharp and immediate. Your body struggles to take them both.

Joel curses, breath wrecked. “You feel that, baby? Takin’ both of us like you were made for it.”

They move in tandem, one pulling out as the other pushes in, a brutal rhythm that has you seeing stars. The pressure, the stretch, the way they fill you—it’s too much, too good.

Joel’s head falls back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as his cock grinds against Arthur’s with every deep thrust. Skin slaps, breaths tangle, and they stretch you to your limit.

Then Arthur grips the back of Joel’s neck, crashing their mouths together. It’s rough, desperate—teeth clashing, tongues fighting for control.

Joel groans into the kiss, hips snapping harder, like he’s trying to fuck you so good Arthur can feel it too. He fists a hand in Arthur’s hair, yanking him closer, deepening it with a low, wrecked sound.

The sight makes your head spin. The way they lose themselves in each other, needy and ravenous, it’s intoxicating. You reach between them, wrapping your hand around Arthur’s cock pulling it from its warm home, slick from where he’s been inside you.

Arthur jerks, gasping, his eyes blown wide. He moves, shifting toward your head, his cock brushing your lips in silent demand.

You take him in, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him deep. Arthur curses, fingers twisting in your hair, guiding your movements.

Joel’s thrusts stutter, then recover—harder, relentless. “Jesus christ,” he grits out, watching the way you take Arthur. His cock twitches inside you, throbbing. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Arthur groans, hips jerking. “That’s it, sweetheart. Takin’ us so damn good.”

Joel’s mouth crashes back to Arthur’s, their kiss messy, desperate. They groan into each other, bodies moving in perfect rhythm—Joel stretching you open, Arthur hitting the back of your throat, pleasure spilling over in waves.

The tension builds, unbearable. Joel’s grip tightens, thrusts turning erratic before he shudders, spilling deep inside you with a wrecked moan, forehead pressed to Arthur’s.

Arthur isn’t far behind. His grip in your hair tightens as he comes, thick and hot down your throat, his moans swallowed by Joel’s mouth as they kiss through it. His free hand flexes against Joel’s neck, holding him close even as his hips still.

For a long moment, the only sound is ragged breathing, the slow cooling of sweat-slicked bodies. Joel presses his forehead to yours, fingers smoothing over your waist, grounding himself. Arthur trails lazy patterns over your skin—unexpectedly gentle after the desperation of moments ago.

Joel finally breaks the silence, voice low and hoarse. “What the hell was in those shots?”

Arthur lets out a breathless chuckle. “Just know I ain’t never felt somethin’ like that before.”

You hum, fingers threading through Joel’s damp curls as he nuzzles into your neck, his body still half-draped over yours. “Guess that makes three of us.”

Arthur’s fingers ghost along your hip, voice quieter now, but dark with something possessive. “Y’think it’s outta our system?”

Joel’s hand slides over your stomach, flexing like he’s already thinking about round two. “Hope not.” His smirk brushes against your skin before he nips at your shoulder. “Ain’t done with you yet, darlin’.”

Arthur chuckles, warm and dark against your ear. His teeth scrape your pulse, his hand gripping your thigh. “Reckon neither am I.”

taglist:

@harriedandharassed @syd-djarin

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader #joel miller #arthur morgan #tlou fanfiction #red dead redemption 2

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aerofbreath · 6 months ago

Text

DP x DC Prompt

There are a few changes whenever it comes to being the Ghost King. None of which Danny has noticed.

Being the High King of the Infinite Realms almost makes you a god, so all of his subjects will really see him as such. Whenever they look at Danny, whether in his human form or as a ghost, they see him as something truly beautiful. It's almost like there's an alluring glow around him, leaving everyone almost breathless.

For some reason, he's in Gotham (There actually is a reason, but that's a post for another time) and he's been invited to a Startup Event so he can be able to find funding for the company he's started to make. Due to the rumors around him being a skilled engineer, Bruce had sent Jason in to help make investigations since he's learned that Danny lives right in the heart of Crime Alley.

Jason, now wanting to know everyone in his turf finally finds Danny and being as someone who's been dead and revived, he qualifies to be one of Danny's subjects. Only, Jason obviously doesn't know that.

So here Jason is, really trying to wrap his brain about why he thinks this man who looks like he hasn't slept in three weeks (actually, it's 3 and a half weeks thank you very much) is the most beautiful person he's ever seen. The way there's a subtle glow only visible to him. The way he smiled, albeit awkwardly.

Danny, on the other hand, is just confused as fuck. He sees Jason and goes, "Oh! Someone interested in maybe funding me! Here! Let me info dump on you about how it works!" and Jason is just like, "Uhuh yeah. You're pretty."

"What?"

"What?! I said your company is pretty."

"My company is pretty?"

"Pretty cool! I said your company is pretty cool. I- Uh- I have to go." Jason just leaves a blushing mess.

Bruce, in the batcave is just confused as to why his son is having a bisexual crisis in the middle of a mission. Dick is just laughing his head off watching his stone cold brick of a baby brother literally stumble and bumble like an idiot in front of a tired twink.

Edit: I actually wrote something about it!

#dp x dc prompt #dp x dc #aeri writes #this is part of the fic im writing hehe #dead on main #probably #still debating on it #danny phantom #batman #batfam #dcu

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diamonddaze01 · 8 months ago

Text

fleeing feelings

pairing: hvc x fem!reader | best friend!seungkwan genre: best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, university au wc: 9.6k warnings: alcohol consumption (pls drink responsibly!!) a/n: for @k-vanity 's “falling for you” event! My prompts were London Fog (“You said what to who now?! Why?!”) and Pumpkin Spice Latte (“Excuse me, but is this seat taken?”) // enormous thank you to @cheolism for the most gorgeous banner // and thank you to my lovely betas @lovetaroandtaemin and @tusswrites

summary: so you might have told vernon you loved him while drunk – now all you have to do is avoid him. forever.

The headache is real.

It feels like someone decided your skull was the perfect canvas for a jackhammer. Each throb sends waves of pain coursing through your brain, and even the soft hum of the world outside your window seems like an assault on your fragile state. If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re pretty sure your last memory was of collapsing into your bed after a night of regrettable decisions, you’d swear you were dying.

You blink up at the ceiling, groaning as sunlight streams through the blinds, slicing through the dim room like a guilty conscience. Your eyes ache at the brightness, and you throw a hand over your face in an attempt to shield yourself from the assault. The cold sheets are a welcome contrast to the fire that’s raging inside your head.

You wish for sleep, but it doesn’t come. Instead, you're greeted by an annoyingly chipper voice, too loud for a Sunday morning at 11 a.m.

"Morning!" Seungkwan chirps, a little too cheerfully for someone who clearly has no understanding of the term hangover. He's holding a glass of water, like it’s the most exciting thing in the world, and you can't help but squint at him through half-closed eyes. He’s got that same gleeful smile on his face, looking way too awake for someone who shares an apartment with someone who just wants to die right now.

"Seungkwan, please... It’s too early for your brand of happiness," you croak, your voice hoarse and barely audible. Your throat feels like you swallowed sandpaper, and you barely have the strength to sit up.

"Well, it’s already late enough for me to help you feel better," he says with a grin that’s too wide to be genuine, handing you the glass of water and an aspirin like it’s some kind of miracle cure. "You don’t want to end up like last time, do you?"

You roll your eyes, trying to sit up but the world tilts dangerously. You clutch the glass like it might actually save you, your fingers trembling from the effort. "Last time?" you mutter, still a little too disoriented to make sense of anything. “I barely remember last night.”

Seungkwan’s grin stretches even wider. "Oh, last night was a memorable one," he says, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, like he’s got the best secret in the world.

You squint at him, struggling to keep your eyes open. "What do you mean by that?"

The moment it leaves your mouth, the memories come rushing back, one after another, like a broken dam finally giving way. You and Vernon had gone outside for some air, the cool night breeze refreshing against your skin. You remember the conversation turning quiet, the alcohol still buzzing in your veins, the way the breeze ruffled his hair, and then...

Oh god. Oh no.

You freeze, the blood draining from your face as your stomach drops. Your heart stutters in your chest as you try to piece it together. You had told Vernon you loved him. In your drunken haze, it had slipped out, but now? Now it feels like the kind of thing you would never, ever do if you weren’t so far gone on cheap whiskey and bad decisions.

You look at Seungkwan, your face crumpling in embarrassment. "I... I told Vernon... I told him I love him."

Seungkwan blinks at you, the shock clear on his face. For a second, it seems like he doesn’t even know how to respond. Then, his eyes widen comically, and a burst of laughter bursts from him. "You said what to who?!" He takes a step back, as if the sheer magnitude of your confession has physically knocked him off balance. "You confessed? To Vernon?" He cackles, his laugh loud and echoing in the quiet of your room.

You slump back against your pillow, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. You wish the floor would just swallow you up. "I didn’t mean to! I was drunk—okay?" you mutter, your words barely making it out.

Seungkwan is practically vibrating with laughter. "Oh my god, you actually did it," he says between fits of giggles. "That’s so—wait, wait. What did Vernon say back?"

And that’s when the panic sets in. You stare blankly at Seungkwan, your brain spinning. You want to remember, you need to remember what he said back, but it’s a complete blank. The memory of his face, his expression, even his words—they’re gone. As if it never happened. You feel a new wave of nausea rising in your stomach.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to speak. "I don’t remember," you confess, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Seungkwan stops laughing, blinking at you like he’s just realized you might be serious. "What do you mean you don’t remember?" he asks, sounding more confused than before.

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead, trying to steady your dizzying thoughts. "I... I can’t remember what he said back. And that’s worse than not hearing anything at all."

Seungkwan’s face falters for a second, then the teasing glint returns in his eyes. "Well... you have to face him, right? He’s literally just down the hall," he points out, his voice softening as he sits on the edge of your bed. "And you’re gonna have to talk to him eventually. You can’t avoid him forever."

You frown, looking at him as if he's spoken a foreign language. "And why the hell not?"

Seungkwan leans in, his finger counting off the reasons like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life. "One: he’s our best friend. Two: he lives down the hall, not in another universe. And three..." He pauses, dramatically. "He’s your BEST FRIEND."

You groan, rolling over and burying your face into your pillow, desperate to block out the light, the noise, and Seungkwan’s well-meaning logic. "You already said that," you mumble into the fabric, wishing the pillow could swallow you whole.

"I’m emphasizing," Seungkwan replies, sitting back in a huff. "Emphasizing that he knows you like the back of his hand, stupid. He’s not gonna let you avoid him."

You moan into the pillow. "I can’t even think about facing him right now, Seungkwan. Not today."

"Tough. You’re facing him eventually, whether you like it or not," Seungkwan says, but his voice softens, his hand brushing your back comfortingly. "But hey, I’m your best friend. I’m here to support you through whatever happens."

You just grunt in response, curling back into the pillow like it might somehow shield you from reality. "Great. As long as you’re here to watch me suffer."

Seungkwan grins, his voice full of mischief. "That’s the plan."

You can feel the weight of your poor life choices pressing down on you as you sit in the overpriced, over-crowded coffee shop, nursing the lukewarm disaster that is your latte. It's one of those days where everything tastes like regret—coffee included. Your laptop screen blurs as you try to focus on your prelab. You're supposed to be working, supposed to be productive, but all you can do is mentally list everything that went wrong in your life in the past 48 hours.

The lab professor? Completely useless. Your grade? Already plummeting. And as for the whole Vernon situation? Yeah, let's not talk about that.

You can feel the throbbing pain in your temples as your mind drifts back to that night—the confession that slipped out of your mouth when you were way too drunk. The look on Vernon’s face... God, you're so embarrassed. If there was a hole to crawl into, you’d dive right in and never resurface.

Beside you, Seungkwan is breezing through his own prelab, the same one you’re supposed to be working on, but it seems like he’s in a completely different world. As usual. He taps away at his laptop, his fingers moving in a rhythm like he’s been here for hours—when in reality, he probably hasn’t even started yet. You scowl at your laptop as the blinking cursor mocks you for not getting anything done.

You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself together. "God, I hate this class. And I hate that professor," you mutter, rubbing your temples. "Why did I even sign up for this? Why is life like this?"

Seungkwan doesn’t look up from his screen, but you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Because you're a glutton for punishment. You're just mad because the only thing you're getting out of this lab is the overpriced coffee."

You huff, sloshing your latte around in its cup in a way that makes you wish you could just drown in it. "Yeah, well, I’m about to drown in this lab report if I don’t figure it out soon."

"Should’ve taken easier classes," Seungkwan snorts, and you shoot him a glare. He knows you better than anyone, and he knows you're not the type to shy away from a challenge. You don’t even have the energy to argue, so you let him win this one.

The door chimes as someone enters, and your focus breaks. You glance up, hoping it's just some random student walking in to grab their iced coffee, but no.

Of course not.

You hear that low, familiar voice, the one that makes your heart do a little flip. "Is this seat taken?"

No. No. Fuck.

There, standing by the table, looking like he belongs in some glossy magazine for college students who know how to look effortlessly cool, is Vernon. The guy you still haven’t figured out how to face after that monumental fuck-up of a confession two days ago. And now? Now he’s standing there, staring at you and Seungkwan with a hesitant smile, probably wondering if it’s safe to sit down or if you’re about to sprint out of here like a coward.

Seungkwan, the absolute bastard, beams at Vernon. "Oh no, it’s totally free," he says, too eager. He's so happy to make this as awkward as possible. You could almost feel the smugness radiating off him. "Come sit, Vernon. We could use the company!"

Your heart sinks into your stomach as Vernon takes the seat across from you, not missing the subtle shift in your posture. He looks at you with those eyes of his, eyes that are both too warm and too intense, and you feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You can’t look at him. You can’t.

You force a smile, but it feels like you’re pushing your lips together with a crowbar. "Uh, yeah. Just working on it," you mumble, barely even aware of what you just said. Your brain is too busy doing its best to not short-circuit. You take another sip of your latte, hoping the caffeine will somehow pull you together. It doesn’t.

Seungkwan, the little devil, doesn’t help at all. He’s practically radiating glee, enjoying your discomfort far too much. "Yeah, Y/N here is just dying to finish her part of the report," he says, clearly trying to get a rise out of you. "But it's okay, she’s doing just fine! Aren’t you?" He shoots you a wink, but Vernon doesn’t catch it—thank God.

Your eyes flick to your screen, looking for any excuse to not talk to Vernon right now. You just need to not look at him. "Actually, I forgot something," you blurt out, standing up abruptly, not even thinking it through. "I just... I need to grab something. I’ll be back in a second."

You don’t wait for anyone to respond. You don’t even look at Vernon as you grab your bag and make a hasty retreat to the counter. Your heart is pounding in your ears, and your breath feels shallow. This was a terrible idea. Why did you invite him to work on the prelab in the first place? Was it because you wanted an excuse to spend time with him? To not feel so much?

You don’t know.

You leave the cafe altogether, your mind racing, and find yourself walking aimlessly for a few minutes, trying to cool off. The cold air outside stings your cheeks, but it’s a welcome distraction from the heat of embarrassment still flushing through your body.

You pull out your phone, needing something to take your mind off everything. It pings almost immediately with a message from Seungkwan:

Boo 🍊: so... how long are u gonna avoid him

You laugh weakly, but it’s more from disbelief than anything else. You text back quickly:

Y/N: i’m not avoiding him

Y/N: i’m just

Y/N: strategically distancing myself until i can look him in the eye without dying of shame

Boo 🍊: ur not gonna go back to the cafe because its too much?

Your phone dings again in quick succession.

Boo 🍊: u realize ur only making it worse right

You squeeze your eyes shut, biting your lip to suppress a groan. Oh god, Seungkwan, shut up.

Y/N: i’m already halfway across campus

Y/N: oh well, can’t exactly go back now

Boo 🍊: he looks like you kicked him in the nuts and then ran away btw

Boo 🍊: i’m keeping him company

Boo 🍊: ur not getting away with this btw i’m never letting u live this down

You exhale loudly, already feeling the weight of your decision in the pit of your stomach. What did you think would happen? You’ve messed this up royally. Again.

Y/N: I hate you so much.

Boo 🍊: no u don’t ! you’ll see him again soon. probably tomorrow

Y/N: fuck you

Boo 🍊: love u too! don’t worry i’ll handle this

Boo 🍊: good luck with that prelab see u at home <3

You slump your shoulders in defeat, staring at the screen of your phone. There’s no getting out of this. You’ve somehow managed to make this even more awkward. Of course, Seungkwan would drag it out. You wouldn’t expect any less from him.

You drag yourself back into the apartment, the weight of your failed escape attempt still heavy on your shoulders. The door slams behind you, and you sigh deeply, almost as if trying to shake the embarrassment off your body. You kick your shoes off and leave them by the door, your bag slung over your shoulder like a dead weight. You’re so done with everything.

The apartment feels like it’s mocking you—seemingly quiet, except for the hum of Seungkwan’s obnoxiously loud voice floating from the living room. You hear the faint click of his phone screen as you shuffle toward the couch. You can practically feel him smirking at your impending doom even before you see him.

Sure enough, when you walk into the living room, he’s lounging on the couch, sprawled across it in his usual dramatic fashion. He’s scrolling through his phone, one leg thrown over the side, looking like he hasn’t had a care in the world since he woke up.

You throw yourself onto the couch next to him, feeling the familiar softness of the cushions sink beneath you. The weight of the last few hours presses down on your chest. It’s so comfortable here, but you can’t fully relax. Not with him sitting right next to you, clearly enjoying the aftermath of your spectacular mess.

“Don’t even say it,” you groan, pushing yourself into the cushions like they might swallow you whole.

He doesn’t even glance up from his phone. Instead, he lets out a small, knowing laugh. “So... how’s the avoidance game going?”

You just close your eyes for a moment, willing yourself to disappear. “I’m never leaving my room again. Ever.”

Seungkwan bursts into laughter, the sound filling the small apartment and bouncing off the walls. It’s enough to make your skin crawl, but you can’t help but feel a bit of a tug at your own lips. He’s genuinely enjoying your misery, and you hate it. “I mean, it’s been two days, and you’ve already chickened out at the café. That’s a solid record.”

You groan dramatically, rolling your head back against the cushion. “I didn’t chicken out. I just... needed a moment to not make eye contact with him, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” Seungkwan says, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s why you bolted out of there like a squirrel avoiding a hawk.”

You push his shoulder weakly, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Shut up, Boo. You have no idea how embarrassing it was.”

“Of course I do,” he says smugly, setting his phone down on the coffee table with a soft thud. “I was the one trying to hold a conversation with Vernon while you were having your little meltdown across campus.”

“Can we please not talk about it?” You bury your face in your hands, muffling your groan of embarrassment.

Seungkwan’s voice is dripping with amusement. “Well, you better figure it out soon. You invited him to our café session, and now you’re running away from your own mess. It’s hilarious.”

You sit up, rubbing your face in exasperation. “I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye again.”

Seungkwan shrugs, his grin still wickedly satisfied. “Well, it’s not like you have much of a choice. I mean, unless you’re planning to live in that room of yours forever?”

You lean back against the couch, the soft fabric cool against your skin. You feel the weight of your thoughts settle in again, and with it, the overwhelming desire to hide from the world. “I can’t,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s gonna know I’m avoiding him on purpose.”

“Yeah, he’s not that dumb,” Seungkwan says, flipping through his phone lazily. “But you know what? You could avoid him for a while. You just need to avoid... everything you’re supposed to do, forever.”

You turn your head slowly to look at him. “That’s your solution? Run away?”

“Pretty much,” Seungkwan says, completely unfazed. “But you have to be more creative. Maybe pretend you’re dead? Or like you have the plague?”

You snort, despite yourself, the idea so absurd that it almost lightens the mood. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just start wearing a sign around my neck: Please, don’t talk to me. I’m a walking disaster.”

Seungkwan grins, his eyes lighting up mischievously. “Honestly, I think it’s a good look for you.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hold back a laugh. “You’re the worst.”

Seungkwan stretches out, his grin wide and smug. “Look, I saved you today, but don’t expect me to keep doing this forever. At some point, you’re on your own.” He reaches for his phone, ready to return to his lazy scrolling.

You sit up, the absurdity of the situation hitting you in waves. “Yeah, I’ll figure it out... eventually.”

Seungkwan gives you a side-eye. “Sure you will. But for now, enjoy the free ride, disaster queen.”

It’s just your luck that, of all people, Vernon is your lab partner today. The second your professor calls your name, you feel your stomach twist into knots. You swear your internal groan echoes in the hum of the fluorescent lights above you. Why him?

Across the lab, Vernon’s already tugging on his gloves, eyeing the instructions on the counter like he’s got his shit together. You can’t help but stare at him for a second, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, the way he moves like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The thought of having to work with him makes you feel like you’ve been thrown into a pressure cooker, and you’re about to explode.

You try to focus, really, you do. But it’s impossible. Your brain keeps wandering back to him. His fucking hums. His stupid little smile. The way his dark eyes flicker up every now and then to make sure you’re still there. It’s like he knows exactly how much he’s fucking with your head, and the worst part? He’s probably not even trying.

A Bunsen burner hisses in the background, and the sound almost makes you flinch, like it's too loud in the otherwise quiet lab. You try to focus on the beaker in front of you. Try to just get through this. But it’s hard when all you can feel is the weight of his gaze on you.

“Got it, Y/N?” Vernon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He’s leaning against the counter now, watching you with a lazy grin, like he knows what he's doing to you.

Your face flushes involuntarily, and you shoot him a tight smile, hoping to play it cool. “Yeah, got it,” you mumble, though your mind is a jumbled mess. Your hand shakes slightly as you pick up the pipette, and you swear he notices, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s even worse. You hate how easy it is for him to get under your skin.

It’s bad enough that you’re stuck with him, but now you’ve got to get through an hour-long experiment without combusting. The tension is palpable, and it’s making you want to crawl out of your skin.

But then, just as you’re about to lose it, you spot Seungkwan strutting back from the fume hood. You swear you can feel the relief hit your chest like a tidal wave. Perfect.

Seungkwan doesn’t seem to notice you until you’re already walking toward him, your feet moving on their own accord, desperate to make the switch. When he looks up, his gaze flickers over you, and that smirk creeps onto his lips. The one you know too well. The one that says, I’m going to fuck with you now.

“What’s up, Y/N?” he asks, popping his gum. “Need help with the chemical equations? Or is it more of a personal emergency?”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “I need to switch lab partners, Seungkwan. Like, now.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Really? What’s wrong? Does Vernon’s inability to mix chemicals properly scare you, or are you just that tired of looking at his face?”

You grimace, frustration bubbling in your chest. God, why’s he gotta make it worse? “No, it’s just… I can’t focus with him staring at me every five seconds.”

Seungkwan’s smirk widens, and you can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Oh, so that’s what it is, huh? You’re not focused because Vernon keeps looking at you like you’re his personal chemistry experiment?”

Your heart rate spikes. Fuck off, Seungkwan. “Shut up, I’m being serious,” you mutter, but you can hear the hitch in your voice, and it makes you want to punch yourself in the face.

Seungkwan doesn’t let up, leaning in closer with that same cocky grin, looking far too pleased with himself. “Is that why you’ve been staring at him for the last five minutes, then?” he teases, and you swear you can hear the little giggle in his voice. “I didn’t realize we were doing that kind of experiment today.”

Your blood goes hot. “Stop it!” you hiss, but you can’t keep the embarrassed flush from spreading across your face. “I just need you to switch with me, Seungkwan. That’s it.”

Seungkwan chuckles lowly, clearly having way too much fun with this. “Oh, okay. So you want me to switch with you just because you can’t handle the heat, huh?” He taps his chin, like he’s thinking about it, but it’s obvious he’s already decided.

“Fine,” you say, voice low but firm. ��But only if you actually want me to send that video of you drunkenly crying about chickens to the entire friend group. You remember that one, right? The one where you were saying, ‘Those chickens are my babies, I love them so much’?”

Seungkwan’s eyes widen, and for a second, you swear you see a flicker of panic. You almost smile, but you hold it in. Gotcha.

“No,” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to backpedal. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would,” you reply smoothly, crossing your arms. You can feel the smug grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “So, how about it? You switch with me, or I make everyone’s day a little more interesting?”

Seungkwan looks around the room, clearly considering his options. He’s not stupid enough to let that video go public. “Okay, okay, fine. You win, Y/N. But you owe me for this one, big time.”

You give him a sweet smile. “Deal.”

Seungkwan walks over to Vernon, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Vernon, buddy, looks like you’re stuck with me as your partner today.”

You barely suppress a laugh as Vernon’s head jerks up in surprise. “Wait, what? Really?”

You take that as your cue and grab your stuff, moving toward Chan’s station. You’re feeling lighter already, knowing the rest of this class won’t be nearly as awkward. Chan’s a great guy—easygoing, level-headed, and most importantly, not Vernon.

You set your bag down on the counter and look over at Chan, who’s already elbow-deep in his notes, completely unaware of the chaos you just caused. “Hey, Chan,” you say, forcing a cheerful tone despite everything. “Looks like we’re partners now.”

He looks up with a bright smile, oblivious to the fact that he’s been dragged into your mess. “Oh, hey, Y/N! Sounds good to me.” He’s so sweet and always so positive, but… well, the thing is, Chan could not for the life of him keep track of chemical reactions if his life depended on it. This could be the worst decision you’ve made today.

You sit down, a little defeated, as you adjust your gloves and open the instructions. You’re partnered with Chan now, but nothing feels quite right. As sweet as he is, chemistry might as well be a foreign language to him. You glance back over at Vernon’s lab station, which, of course, is conveniently located just a few feet away. You can hear the familiar sound of Vernon and Seungkwan’s voices drifting toward you, but you’re so not ready to face them just yet.

You feel your chest tighten as you try to ignore it, but then Vernon speaks again. “I don’t bite, Y/N,” he teases, his voice cutting through the air like a soft command. It’s casual, playful even, but it does nothing to stop the heat that floods your face.

You swallow hard, praying the blush on your cheeks isn’t visible. This is not the moment. Not the perfect moment to have him distract you. Your pulse picks up at the sound of his voice again, and you can almost feel his gaze on you. You don’t look back, but you know he’s probably waiting for a response.

“Y/N?” Chan says softly, his voice pulling you out of your mental spiral. “Are you okay?”

You quickly look away, feeling that familiar heat creeping up your neck. “I’m fine,” you mutter to yourself. “I’m fine.”

Your stomach flips as an idea strikes you—fake sick. You’ve done it before, and it’s a perfect way to buy yourself some time away from Vernon, maybe even the entire day.

Just get through this, and then you can run away forever.

Your body starts to tremble slightly as you put a hand to your forehead, doing your best to sound miserable. “Ugh, I don’t feel so good...”

Chan immediately rushes to your side, concern flashing across his face, and you can hear Seungkwan's snort of disbelief. Vernon looks at you with a furrowed brow, clearly not buying it. But he’s too polite to say anything. “You sure? You look kinda green.”

That’s your cue. You make a dramatic move, leaning over the lab counter, your hands gripping it as if you're about to collapse. Your stomach gives another exaggerated roll as you close your eyes. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” you say in a voice that’s so over the top, it sounds like it came straight out of a soap opera.

You expect Vernon to panic, maybe grab your arm to steady you, but instead, he just stares at you, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Really?” he asks slowly, clearly unconvinced. "Or is it that you want to run away again?"

Oh my god. You freeze, horrified that Vernon might actually be onto you. You try to hide your terror behind your palm, rubbing your eyes like you’re just too tired to keep up the act. “No! No... I’m definitely sick,” you say with a cough for added effect.

But Vernon isn’t having it. He places his hands on his hips, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “You’re not even trying to hide it. Just admit you’re avoiding me. What’s the deal?”

You panic, fully aware that your ridiculous performance isn’t going to fool him for long. You grab your bag off the back of the chair with a look of pure desperation. “No, no! I just—uh, I need to go to the bathroom! I’ll be right back, promise!”

Before Chan can protest, you push past him, stumbling out of the lab with as much speed as your shaking legs can muster. You burst out into the hallway, nearly running into a group of students on their way to their next class. Too close. You force your breathing to steady as you walk briskly, acting like you haven’t just staged the most obvious escape ever.

You round the corner, ducking into the nearest restroom. You push open the door, locking it behind you, leaning against the cool tile wall as you try to gather yourself. What is wrong with you?

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Seungkwan, of course.

Boo 🍊: i was joking when i said u should get the plague idiot

Boo 🍊: ur the worst actor i’ve ever seen

Y/N: i had to ok

Y/N: this is a nightmare.

Your phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Boo 🍊: ur so obvious it’s kinda gross

Boo 🍊: chan’s gonna fail this lab for u. also. U NEED TO TALK TO VERNON AT SOME POINT

Y/N: not today!

It’s Friday night. One week since that confession. And honestly? All you want right now is a shot of shitty tequila, a cheap beer, and some damn good music to drown out the past seven days. You’re tired of thinking about it. You’re tired of pretending like last weekend never happened.

The second you and Seungkwan step through the door of Mingyu’s house, you're hit with a wave of noise. It’s too loud, the bass too heavy, but somehow, that’s exactly what you need. The house is packed, the kind of party that screams “let’s fuck up everything in the best way possible.” You spot Mingyu behind the kitchen counter, already wearing that signature smirk of his, mixing drinks for whoever’s brave enough to stand in line. But then—of course—your night has to take a turn.

Vernon.

He’s sprawled out on the couch, head bopping to some random SoundCloud rap, looking way too at ease in his flannel and backwards cap. Fucking perfect. You mentally groan. You’d hoped for at least a few hours of peace tonight, but apparently, that’s not in the cards.

Seungkwan nudges you, elbow digging into your side. “Well, well, well,” he says with that knowing grin. “Guess your worst nightmare is here.”

You shove him back, rolling your eyes. “Don’t make it worse.”

“Too late,” Seungkwan chirps. “Now, let’s get some tequila in your system.”

You head straight for the kitchen, not bothering with small talk. The music is too loud, the room too warm, and your head is already swimming with the thought of one thing: tequila. You pull the bottle off the shelf with the same speed as if it’s your lifeline, and without hesitation, you pour yourself a generous shot. No chaser. Just straight into your system.

Seungkwan eyes you carefully from the counter. “Careful,” he singsongs in your ear, his voice dripping with teasing. “That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.”

You shoot him a sideways glance, the corners of your lips twitching upward. “Shut up,” you mutter, then down the tequila like it’s water. The burn sears down your throat, and the warmth spreads through your chest almost immediately.

You reach for another shot when—just your fucking luck—Vernon walks into the kitchen. His eyes land on you instantly, like he knew exactly where to find you. You want to swallow him whole—no, just pretend he's not even here– but you know that’s not going to happen.

“Wow, look who’s getting to the good stuff early,” Vernon says, voice as smooth as ever. His gaze flicks down to your hand around the bottle, and then right back up to your face, and something in his eyes makes you want to melt into a puddle on the floor.

Seungkwan shoots you a sideways look, his smirk turning even more mischievous. With a dramatic sigh, he pushes himself off the counter, clearly done with this conversation already. “Alright, well, have fun with that,” he says in a sing-songy voice, clearly aware of how uncomfortable this is getting. Then, he makes his exit, blowing you a mocking kiss from the doorway before disappearing into the living room.

You roll your eyes at his back, shooting him a silent curse with your eyes, but the moment Vernon steps forward, all that annoyance evaporates into something else entirely. Your focus is back on him, and that damn smirk on his face.

“Didn’t know tequila was your thing,” Vernon says casually, leaning against the counter next to you. You move to pour another shot, but Vernon steps closer, cornering you against the counter with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. The proximity is almost suffocating, and you feel your pulse spike in your neck, your heart pounding. You try not to make eye contact, your gaze fixed firmly on the bottle in your hand, as if it could somehow shield you from him.

Vernon’s smirk widens, and he leans in slightly. “Y’know, you need to look at me to make conversation,” he says, voice low and teasing.

Before you can even process what’s happening, his hand slides under your jaw, his fingers gently but firmly lifting your chin until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

Your breath hitches in your throat, and for a second, you forget to breathe. His eyes are almost burning into you, and you can’t look away—not that you want to.

For a second, you forget about everything. Your entire focus narrows to the guy standing in front of you, the guy who’s been fucking with your head for over a week now. You try to focus, try to snap yourself out of it, but damn—he looks good. Too good. That stupid backwards cap, the flannel shirt that’s just loose enough, the way his jawline sharpens under the dim kitchen light. You swallow, trying to keep your cool, but fuck, he’s too close. Too damn close. You want to push him away, but the closeness has your body freezing, every nerve on edge.

It’s the same feeling you had last week. And it’s happening again.

Fuck. No. This is not how it’s supposed to go.

Your mind races, trying to think of something, anything, to get out of this. Then—like a miracle—Mingyu strolls by, not even realizing the chaos you’re trying to keep under control. You latch onto him like a lifeline.

“Mingyu! HI!” you shout, ducking under Vernon’s arm and making a beeline for him. You grip his arm with a little too much force, probably dragging him away from whatever conversation he was having with someone else. He looks at you, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, but you don’t even give him a chance to ask why you’re acting like a madman.

“Long time no see! Let’s catch up!” you practically drag him out of the kitchen before Vernon can say anything, and Mingyu shoots a glance over his shoulder at you. He looks confused, but soon the music envelops you, and he happily throws an arm around your shoulder and pulls you onto the dance floor.

The music is a blur of bass and off-key notes, but the tequila in your system helps dull everything, smooths out the jagged edges of your thoughts. Mingyu is practically yelling in your ear, his voice way too loud for the volume of the song, but you can’t help but laugh at his unrelenting enthusiasm. He’s screaming the lyrics to some cheesy pop song—something from five years ago that you can’t even remember the name of—but he’s grinning, and you can’t help but mirror his energy. For a moment, the heat of the room and the chaos of the party become distant, fading into the background, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you forget about Vernon. You forget about everything.

Mingyu pulls you into a ridiculous spin, and you laugh, the sound lost in the music. His arm tightens around your shoulders as he twirls you back into his chest, but just as you feel yourself getting lost in the rhythm, your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s Seungkwan.

You swipe the screen without thinking, still caught in the whirl of the dance floor.

Boo 🍊: he’s staring at you

Your heart drops.

You freeze mid-spin, suddenly feeling too warm, too exposed, like you’re still back in that kitchen, caught between the tequila, the tension, and the pull of Vernon’s eyes. The phone screen flickers in your hand, but you don’t even need to read the message again to know what it means. You know Seungkwan’s been watching the two of you dance around each other, and you know who he is. Vernon’s watching you. He’s staring.

You glance over your shoulder instinctively, and there—across the room, leaning against the doorframe—is Vernon. That tantalizing smirk is still in place, like it’s carved into his face. His eyes are on you, not even trying to hide it, and that stupid look on his face says everything. The way he watches you makes your skin tingle, and the realization hits you harder than the tequila burn in your stomach.

“Yo, you good?” Mingyu’s voice cuts through the noise, pulling you back to the present. You swallow hard, still trying to shake the feeling of Vernon’s gaze on you. You force a smile and nod, but all you can think about is the way Vernon is watching you.

“Mingyu,” you murmur, grabbing his wrist, “I think I need a drink. I’ll be right back.”

Before he can protest, you make a beeline for the kitchen again, your feet moving quicker than you can process. You need space. You need air. The heat of the dance floor still clings to your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating feeling that’s starting to build in your chest. The tequila's starting to wear off, but your nerves are still shot, and you can’t get rid of the image of Vernon leaning against the doorframe, eyes fixed on you like he’s just waiting for you to make a move.

The kitchen’s quieter, the music a distant hum, and you’re almost grateful for the space, the absence of people. You grab the tequila bottle again, not caring if anyone’s watching. You pour yourself another shot, but before you can even bring it to your lips, you hear footsteps approaching. You don’t need to look up to know who it is.

“I think we should talk,” Vernon’s voice sounds closer than you expect. You try not to flinch, but you can’t stop yourself from stiffening. You move to step away, but then his hand is on the counter next to you, trapping you in place. You don’t want to look at him, not after everything that’s happened.

“I’m serious,” he adds, tone shifting just slightly. There’s a quiet edge to his voice, a softness you’ve never heard before, but it only makes you hesitate more.

You finally raise your gaze, and for the first time tonight, you meet his eyes. His smirk is still there, but there’s something else too—something you can’t quite place.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” you say, your voice lower than you intended.

Vernon’s eyes flicker for a moment, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face, but the moment’s gone too quickly. He chuckles lightly, not mocking, but with a sense of finality.

“Fair enough.” He straightens up, taking a step back, giving you a little more space, but still standing there. “But just so you know…” His voice softens again, the teasing replaced with something a little too sincere for your comfort. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Fuck. That’s it. You can’t be here anymore.

You spin on your heel, heading straight for Seungkwan, who’s been knee-deep in a Mario Kart championship with Soonyoung and Seokmin. The game is so intense that Seungkwan barely notices you storming up to him, too busy yelling at the screen as he tries to secure his victory.

“Time to go,” you say, your voice sharp enough that even Seungkwan can’t ignore it.

He looks up from his game, a little confused. “What? We just GOT HERE!”

“TIME TO GO, SEUNGKWAN,” you hiss, a little louder this time, unable to mask the frustration that’s bubbling up in your chest.

Seungkwan groans, annoyed that his Mario Kart dominance is being interrupted, but he stands up anyway, muttering something about the injustice of it all.

But then, like a fucking curse, Vernon appears in front of you, stepping into your path just as you try to make your exit. His presence feels almost too heavy in the moment, his gaze unrelenting as his lips curl into that same familiar smirk.

“Leaving so early?” he asks, voice laced with amusement, and his eyes lock on yours, steady and impossible to ignore. It makes your stomach flip, and you feel that heat in your cheeks you can’t seem to get rid of.

You avoid his gaze, turning your face just enough to escape the intensity of it. “Oh yeah, early morning,” you mumble, desperate to get out of there. “Lots of stuff to do, classes and all…”

Vernon tilts his head slightly, his smirk widening as if he can see right through your bullshit. “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he says, voice matter-of-fact, as if calling out your feeble excuse is somehow amusing to him.

Shit.

You try to force a smile through it, but it feels like it’s made of plastic, fake and thin. You avoid his gaze like it’s radioactive. “Yeah, uh… just, you know—okay, bye!” You nearly shove Seungkwan out the door before Vernon can say another word.

The second the door slams shut behind you, Seungkwan bursts out laughing, his voice loud in the quiet of the carpark.

“You’re such a mess,” he cackles, still trying to catch his breath. “Did you seriously try to pull the early morning classes excuse? Like, no one knows tomorrow’s Saturday?”

You shoot him a middle finger, too tired to even care. “Shut up, Seungkwan. Just drive.”

He laughs harder, but at least he doesn’t push it further. Seungkwan’s car engine roars to life, and as he drives off, the weight of the night slowly lifts from your shoulders. But in the back of your mind, you can still feel Vernon’s eyes on you, like they never really left.

Dinner a week later is nothing fancy—just some ramen you scrounged up after dragging yourself through another shit show of a week. The kitchen, warm and dimly lit by the overhead light, feels like a small refuge, and for a second, you’re fine with being here. The steam rising from your bowl swirls in the air, and you twirl the noodles absentmindedly, trying to ignore the weight of everything slowly settling over you.

Seungkwan’s sitting across from you, casually slurping his ramen, but there’s something in the way his eyes flicker up, a strange glint in them, that makes you pause. The silence stretches for a moment, the kind that feels like it’s waiting for something, and then, as if he can’t hold it in any longer, he drops the bomb.

“Vernon’s coming over later.”

You freeze, a piece of noodle hanging from your chopsticks, your eyes wide. “WHAT?” You nearly choke on the noodles, the shock making you forget to swallow. “Why the hell is he coming over? Are you—seriously?”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, lips curling into a grin that doesn’t match his feigned innocence. “Just to study,” he says, shrugging like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Our lab midterm is in a couple of days, and we can’t figure out the damn ratios for the prelab.”

Your mind stutters, trying to catch up with what he’s saying. Vernon, your uncomfortably charming classmate, is coming here. Of course he is. “Seungkwan, you know I—” You stop, frustrated, searching for words that aren’t quite coming. This is your house, your space, and you’re already struggling with the thought of being alone with him. The awkward tension from the last few days suddenly feels so much heavier now.

Seungkwan, not missing a beat, looks over at you with a teasing grin. “Haven’t you run away enough? It’s been, like, almost two weeks.” He’s got that smirk on his face again, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing all the right buttons to get you riled up.

You glare at him, trying to muster some kind of defense, but your words come out quieter than you expect. “I’m not running away,” you snap, though it’s weak. It’s been two weeks of exactly that. “I’m just—busy. You know, college stuff.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, and you feel your resolve crumble under his knowing look. “Yeah, sure. College stuff. That’s totally why you’ve been dodging Vernon for the past week. Can’t blame you though—guy’s got a way of making things... uncomfortable.” He chuckles at his own joke, but there’s an edge of teasing that cuts too close to the truth.

You groan, rubbing your face in frustration. “Stop making this worse.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Seungkwan shrugs, his grin widening. “Haven’t you thought about actually talking to him? It’s not like you’ve got that much time before he shows up.”

“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, then, more to yourself, “I didn’t plan this. He didn’t plan this. This is... This is all just—” You stop yourself, shaking your head, your words trailing off.

Seungkwan chuckles again, but this time, it’s softer, almost like he’s giving you space to breathe. “Look, I’m just saying, maybe stop running away for once. You’ll figure it out.” He slaps you lightly on the back, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

But before you can even gather your thoughts, Seungkwan’s phone rings. He picks it up immediately, urgency lacing his voice, and you’re taken off guard.

“Seokmin?” He pauses, listening. “What? Is the fish… what? It can’t breathe??” He gasps, standing up quickly. “I’ll be right there, man, I swear! I’m coming now!”

He hangs up, looking at you, his face twisting into exaggerated concern. “Emergency. Seokmin’s fish is dying.”

You blink, disbelief painted on your face. “You’re fucking joking. You’re actually leaving me with Vernon? Alone?”

“Yup!” Seungkwan says, already halfway to the door. “You’re on your own, Y/N! Don’t burn the place down!” His laugh echoes as he bolts out, leaving you standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring after him in utter disbelief.

Great. Just great.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rings. Your stomach does a flip, nerves bubbling in your chest. You almost consider pretending you’re not home, hiding in your bedroom until Vernon leaves. But that’s childish, and you can’t avoid this forever. With a sigh, you pull yourself to the door and open it, finding Vernon standing there, looking annoyingly comfortable with that goddamn grin on his face.

“Hi,” he says, voice teasing but warm. “So, Seungkwan tells me we’re doing some studying?”

You step aside to let him in. The last thing you want is to be rude, but the silence that follows as you both walk to the kitchen feels suffocating. You can practically feel the tension hanging in the air, thick with all the things you’ve been avoiding. His presence lingers, like it’s always been there, and yet it’s different now.

Vernon leans against the counter casually, and you busy yourself with rearranging things on the counter, anything to avoid looking at him. You can feel his eyes on you, but you can’t make yourself meet them. Every time you think about what happened, your heart races, and the words you said to him feel like a blur. But they’re always there, hovering on the edge of your thoughts.

Finally, Vernon breaks the silence, his voice softer than before. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You freeze. The air in the room seems to tighten, and his words land with the weight of a trap you didn’t see coming.

“What?” You try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out rough, more strained than you intended. “Pshhhh nooooo.”

“You have.” Vernon pushes off the counter, stepping closer to you. His movements are deliberate, but there’s a softness in them as he closes the space. His eyes remain locked on yours, steady and searching, like he’s waiting for you to crack, to finally admit something. You can’t look away, your breath shallow, the pulse at your neck pounding hard. “And you can’t even look me in the eye. Did I do something wrong?”

His voice is gentle, almost too gentle, and it makes your chest tighten. You shift uncomfortably, your arms folding across your body, a silent defense against the intensity of his gaze. The room feels smaller now, every inch of space filled with the heat between you. You feel trapped, your heart hammering in your chest, yet there's nowhere you'd rather be—and that's the problem.

“No, Vern, I just—” You stop, sucking in a breath, trying to steady yourself. “I said something I didn’t mean the other night.”

Vernon’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something in them—recognition, maybe? The way his lips part slightly, a mix of confusion and understanding. “You didn’t mean it?”

The words hit like a physical blow, and your stomach twists. You want to take them back, but instead, you find yourself retreating into yourself, avoiding his gaze. “I—what?”

“Did you mean it?” Vernon presses, and you swear you can feel his gaze like a weight on your skin. He’s not backing off, not letting this go.

You’re caught. You open your mouth, but no words come out, and the silence between you feels like it’s suffocating. You feel the heat rising to your face, your hands trembling by your sides.

“Mean what?” you finally manage, voice quieter than you’d like.

He steps even closer now, his body inches from yours, and his gaze doesn’t falter. His lips barely part as he speaks, the words lingering in the air between you. “Don’t play dumb with me, Y/N. You told me you loved me.”

The room spins, the ground beneath you feeling unsteady. You blink, your chest tightening as the memory of that night rushes back, sharp and overwhelming. Your hands move restlessly, clutching at the counter as if it’ll keep you from falling.

“But I was drunk—” You stumble over the words, desperate to explain, but his gaze doesn’t waver. His eyes are steady, unwavering, and you can’t escape them.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts,” Vernon says softly, his voice firm, but there’s no anger in it—only a certainty that rattles you.

“I just didn’t mean to put you on the spot—” You try again, but this time, he stops you, his tone more reassuring than you expect.

“You didn’t,” he says quietly, his hand reaching out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture. “You didn’t put me on the spot.”

“Okay?” you ask, your voice uncertain. You can’t tell if you’ve just misunderstood everything or if this moment has shifted entirely. You blink at him, still trying to catch up.

Vernon smiles then, a soft, almost affectionate smile, and the air between you shifts. The tension eases just a little, but it’s still thick, like something’s hanging in the balance. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“No…” you whisper, the words coming out almost too quietly, but Vernon just laughs.

“I said I loved you too, idiot.”

You freeze. The words crash into your chest, and you feel the ground tilt beneath you again. This time, it’s harder to recover from. “You—you WHAT?”

Vernon chuckles, his grin widening, and this time, it’s teasing, almost mischievous. “Come on,” he says, stepping closer. His chest is almost brushing yours now. “I love you too. Can you stop running away now?”

“I WASN’T!” you protest, but the words fall flat, not convincing even yourself. Your body is tense, but his proximity makes your heart race in a way you don’t quite understand.

“You were,” Vernon says, his smirk softening just enough to catch you off guard. You feel your knees go weak at the way his gaze softens, like he’s pulling you into something you’re not sure you’re ready for. “But it was kinda cute, y’know?”

Before you can even think of a response, he's right there, too close—like, uncomfortably close. His presence feels like it’s swallowing up all the space between you, and suddenly, you’re backed up against the counter, like he’s somehow managed to get you cornered without even trying. It’s all too familiar, too much like that night at the party. You can’t help but stiffen, but it’s not bad, just... intense.

You can feel the heat radiating off him now, like it’s pulling you in, and the way he’s leaning in just enough that you can’t help but tilt your head to meet his eyes—your heart starts hammering in your chest. Too close. Way too close. Your body wants to take a step back, but you don’t, mostly because you’re pretty sure you’re not even sure where to go from here.

And he knows it. You can see it in the way he’s standing, like he's completely unbothered, like it’s no big deal that he’s got you backed up into a corner. Your shoulders feel tense, but your feet just stay planted where they are, like they’ve been glued to the floor. His gaze locks with yours, and you can feel that pull, that thing that makes it hard to breathe—like your chest is getting tight and you’re not sure if you want to run or stay.

There’s this low buzz in the air between you two, and you don’t know how much of it is him or how much is just your heart freaking out. His breath is right there, close enough that you’re aware of the way it catches every time you look at him. And you can’t even tell if you’re annoyed at how close he’s gotten or if your mind is too distracted by how nice it feels to have him this near.

You’re trapped, but you’re not sure if you mind it. It’s like your chest is about to burst from the tension, or maybe it’s going to stop completely. Either way, you're not entirely sure which one you're hoping for.

“No more running,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, eyes never leaving yours. There’s no doubt in his tone, no hesitation, like he’s already made up his mind. The space between you two feels charged now, the air thick with the unspoken.

“No more running,” you echo, the words slipping out before you can stop them, and for the first time, they feel right. You’re not sure why, but you believe it.

And then, Vernon leans in, his lips brushing against yours.

The kiss is slow, soft at first, like he’s giving you space to catch up. His lips are warm and a little sweet, tasting faintly of mint from the gum he’s been chewing earlier. You inhale through your nose, catching the subtle scent of his cologne—fresh, with a hint of wood and citrus—that wraps around you like it’s always been there, like it’s familiar. Every part of him seems to make the world outside feel distant, unimportant. The tension, the uncertainty, the past few days—they don’t matter anymore.

The pressure of his lips increases, more certain now, and the warmth of his mouth sends a flutter through you. You lean in, responding, your hand instinctively finding the chain around his neck, pulling him closer, as if you can’t quite get enough of him. It’s slow, deliberate, like he wants to savor it just as much as you do. For the first time in days, everything feels like it’s in its right place.

When he pulls back, it’s just enough to speak, his lips still lingering on yours. “Y’know,” he says with a playful grin, “We could’ve been doing this two weeks ago if you weren’t so emotionally constipated.”

You laugh, breathless, pulling him closer by his chain. The heat creeping up your neck is almost unbearable. “Shut up,” you protest, half-smiling. “You can’t blame a girl for what she says when she’s drunk.”

“I won’t,” he agrees with a smirk, kissing you again, this time a little more urgently. “But I can’t make any promises about Seungkwan.”

From the hallway, you hear Seungkwan’s unmistakable voice, a triumphant cheer echoing from the door.

2K notes · View notes

thepinkpanther83 · 19 days ago

Note

Reader is sitting at the hellfire club table in the cafeteria when Eddie approaches with the intentions to make reader flustered but it backfires.

Please and thank you 😊

Error 404: Smoothness Not Found

One-Shot Request: “Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thanks to @meankenna for sending in this funny and adorable prompt, I had fun imagining Eddie getting absolutely wrecked by a smooth, unbothered Reader. You’re keeping the Hellfire chaos alive and I love ya for it. 💖 Hope this flirty lil romp makes you smile! 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

🎸 Summary: Eddie Munson doesn’t get nervous. He’s a Dungeon Master, a guitar god, a champion of cafeteria theatrics.

But when he sets out to fluster a cool, calm outsider at the Hellfire table with one of his classic lines, he gets hit with something he didn’t expect: his own game, turned on him.

A one-shot full of sharp banter, unexpected sparks, and the kind of lunchroom showdown that might just lead to love.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

The cafeteria was its usual midday jungle, linoleum floors sticky with mystery stains, the air thick with teenage body spray and tater tots, and the low roar of adolescent chaos echoing off the walls. But over in the far-left corner, where the Hellfire Club had permanently claimed their domain, the chaos took on a distinctly nerdy flavor.

Dustin was in full meltdown mode.

“I’m telling you, Jeff, if my d20 mysteriously lands on a one again, I’m invoking dice tampering and demanding a re-roll.”

“On what grounds?” Jeff snorted, clutching his carton of chocolate milk like it was a rare artifact. “Your own bad luck isn’t a war crime, Henderson.”

Mike chimed in with a muttered, “You’re just mad your rogue keeps falling in love with NPCs,” while Gareth and Grant broke into a cackling duet, drumming out the Jaws theme on their trays.

Amid the storm of mockery and snacks, you sat calmly at the edge of the table, a quiet satellite in the Hellfire galaxy. You weren’t a member, but you’d been absorbed into the gravitational pull somehow, maybe through mutual classes, or shared disdain for cafeteria food. Either way, no one questioned your presence anymore. You didn’t play D&D, but you definitely watched it like a sociologist. Or a cat observing a very lively fish tank.

You balanced a crossword puzzle on one knee, methodically chewing through baby carrots and ignoring the shrieking over critical failures. Your pencil tapped a rhythm against the paper as you searched for a six-letter word meaning charming but doomed. You smirked to yourself. The answer was probably Munson.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

The cafeteria doors banged open like the prelude to a boss battle, and there he was, Eddie Munson, leather-jacketed menace, King of the Freaks, and current front-runner in your personal list of “People Who Flirt Like It’s a Performance Art.”

You didn’t even have to look up to know he’d clocked you. You could feel it, that strange static charge that always rolled in with him like thunder before a storm. Somewhere between his combat boots and his wild mop of curls, the man managed to manufacture drama like it was a bodily function.

And judging by the slow curl of his smirk, he was already planning an ambush.

Eddie didn’t walk. He made an entrance.

Combat boots hit tile like a drumline. His rings clicked with every exaggerated gesture, like punctuation marks to an invisible sentence. The cafeteria didn’t look up, most of them had learned to just let Eddie Munson exist in his own dimension, but the Hellfire table definitely noticed.

Grant leaned toward Gareth with a muttered, “He’s got that look again.”

“Uh-oh,” Gareth whispered, catching the target of Eddie’s laser-focused attention. “Incoming flirt assault.”

You didn’t flinch. Pencil still in hand, you marked another square on your crossword as Eddie approached like a lion on a catwalk.

He came to a dramatic halt just beside you, resting one hand on the back of your chair and the other over his heart like he was preparing to recite Shakespeare.

His voice dropped into that low, faux-sultry register he used when he was laying it on way too thick.

“So, how’s the prettiest person in the world doing today?”

You didn’t even blink.

From across the table, Dustin made a noise like someone stepping on a wet clarinet. “Oh god,” he groaned, slapping his forehead. “Here he goes again.”

Mike muttered, “Please crash and burn,” under his breath like a spell, while Jeff and Grant leaned forward in quiet anticipation.

The table was holding its collective breath. But you? You were still calm. Unbothered. Pencil still tapping gently against your knee.

Cool as a cucumber in the middle of a microwave, you finally glanced up, lazily. Sipped your drink. Eyebrows lifted just a touch. Expression unreadable, and said flatly-

“I don’t know. How are you?”

It hit him like a crit to the chest.

Record scratch. System failure. Reboot error.

Eddie.exe had stopped responding.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Mouth parted like a Windows update was about to install. His brain buffer wheel was visibly spinning behind those wide brown eyes. For one glorious moment, the man was entirely speechless.

And the table?

Dead silent.

Even Dustin was in awe.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

The confidence? Gone. Swagger? Missing in action. Leather jacket? Still fabulous, but definitely not helping him now.

He cleared his throat once, then again, like he could cough the embarrassment out of his lungs.

“I’m…”

He tried again. Voice pitched slightly higher, cracked on the last syllable like an untrained choirboy.

“I’m fine.”

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

Grant choked on his apple slice.

Gareth slapped both hands on the table like he was witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god. He short-circuited.”

Dustin leaned across the table with gleeful menace. “Are you blushing, dude? Did we just watch Eddie ‘Nothing Phases Me’ Munson malfunction over a one-liner?”

“Mark the date,” Mike added, eyes wide, like he was witnessing history. “We just witnessed the fall of a legend.”

Eddie raised both middle fingers without breaking eye contact with you, the picture of performative defiance… except for the faint pink flush creeping up his cheeks, giving him away entirely.

You just sipped your drink again, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly.

You were enjoying this. Too much.

And Eddie knew it.

He was in trouble.

You watched him flounder, savoring every second of it like the first sip of something fizzy and dangerous. Eddie Munson, master of theatrics, king of the underdogs, flirt extraordinaire, was currently melting like a record left too close to a heater.

And he knew it.

Finally, after dragging the silence out just long enough to make him squirm, you tilted your head and really looked at him, slow, deliberate, eyes scanning from his tangled curls to the panicked gleam in his eyes.

Then, you smiled.

Not wide. Not dramatic.

Just the faintest upward tug at the corner of your lips, small, sharp, smug.

“Gotcha,” that smirk said without needing a word.

Eddie visibly twitched. He’d been bested. Checkmated. Absolutely wrecked.

And the worst part?

He liked it.

Your pencil returned to your crossword, but before you started filling in the next clue, you shifted slightly, nudging your tray to the side with just enough space to make the invitation obvious.

“You gonna sit or just hover there short-circuiting?”

He blinked. You watched the moment his brain reconnected with his body.

“Y-Yeah,” he muttered, trying to inject some cool back into his voice and absolutely failing. “I can… yeah.”

He slid into the seat beside you like it was his idea, like he wasn’t internally screaming, like this wasn’t the first time someone had flipped his game upside down and laughed about it.

Grant gave him a slow clap. Dustin made the international L hand sign for “Loser.” Mike stage-whispered, “He’s already down bad.”

But Eddie barely heard them.

Because now he was sitting next to you, and you were still smirking.

And he had no idea what you were going to do next.

But suddenly…

He really, really wanted to find out.

The moment Eddie sat down, you went right back to your crossword like he hadn’t just face-planted into a flirt trap of his own making. But there was a smug, satisfied ease to your posture now, and it was driving him insane in the best way.

Eddie leaned in a little, elbows on the table, trying to recover some semblance of control. “So…” he started, flashing his signature grin, though it wobbled at the edges now, like his pride had a dent in it. “You always this dangerous during lunch?”

Without looking up, you replied dryly:

“Only when provoked.”

That grin faltered again. He pushed on anyway.

“Gotta say, sweetheart, you’ve got some serious nerve turning the tables on me.”

You circled a clue. “Was that your A-game just now? Because if it was…” You finally met his eyes, head tilting.

“Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Grant wheezed. Dustin slammed his tray in approval. “SOMEONE GIVE HER A TROPHY.”

Eddie put a hand to his chest like he’d been struck. “Ouch. I come over here offering my heart, and maybe a little of my lunch money, and I get roasted like a damn marshmallow.”

“You came over here with a pickup line you’ve probably used on half the marching band.”

He gasped. “Now that’s just… okay, that’s fair.”

You turned to face him more fully, one leg crossing over the other. “Don’t take it too hard, Munson. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

For a moment, Eddie just stared. Like that one sentence had detonated whatever was left of his dignity.

“I… uh-”

He blinked rapidly. “See, now that’s just cruel. You can’t just casually say something like that. I’m emotionally fragile.”

You smirked again. “Yeah? You seem really delicate.”

“Emotionally, not physically!” he said, flailing slightly. “I’m tough. I headbang. I do mosh pits.”

“You cried during The Last Unicorn, Eddie.”

“Dustin promised he wouldn’t tell anyone that!”

“Oh, he didn’t,” you said, quirking a brow. “You did. Last week when you got drunk. Very dramatically.”

Dustin nodded solemnly. “You reenacted the scene with full narration.”

Eddie sagged into the table. “This is bullying.”

You nudged his elbow with yours. “No. This is flirting. Try to keep up.”

His head shot up, eyes wide.

Oh yeah, he was so down bad.

The banter didn’t stop, it just evolved. Sharper, brighter, like the two of you were passing jokes back and forth faster than the Hellfire boys could keep up. Eddie was grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. You were still smirking, but now there was a glint in your eyes, something softer, warmer.

It wasn’t a competition anymore.

It was a rhythm.

You reached for your juice box just as Eddie leaned over to grab a napkin, your fingers brushed.

Not full-on hand-holding. Just the tips. Just enough for his breath to catch.

And his heart? Yeah. That thing skipped like a scratched tape.

You didn’t flinch. But your eyes flicked up, met his. The faintest pulse, electric, unspoken.

He recovered fast, tossing you a wink. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cop a feel.”

“Eddie,” you said flatly, “your finger grazed mine. Settle down before you need a cigarette.”

“Oof. Brutal,” he grinned, tilting his head. “I’m just trying to build some romantic tension here. Let me live.”

“I’m still recovering from the Last Unicorn thing,” you teased, just as Eddie picked up Gareth’s half-finished can of grape soda for no reason at all.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was laughing too hard.

It came out of him in a loud, sudden honk bark, surprised and delighted by you. He threw his head back and bumped the can with the edge of his palm, sending purple fizz skittering across the table and directly into Jeff’s lap.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Jeff: “Dude.”

Eddie froze mid-cackle, still grinning like an idiot. “Oh my god. I swear that wasn’t planned.”

“I just washed these jeans!” Jeff wailed, jumping up.

But you were laughing now too.

Really laughing.

Head back, lips parted, one hand over your stomach. It hit you in a wave, sudden and genuine, the way good moments always do when you least expect them. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was just… joy.

And Eddie looked at you like someone had just turned the sun on.

For all the chaos, for all the fizzy embarrassment, he couldn’t stop staring.

“There it is,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

You glanced over, catching the look. “There what is?”

He blinked. Smile crooked. “Nothing. Just… I win.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you do, soda assassin.”

But your knee bumped against his under the table and neither of you moved away.

The table was still buzzing with secondhand embarrassment and grape soda residue, but Eddie had stopped noticing everything around him.

He was fully zeroed in on you now, watching the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way you kept nudging him like the two of you had done this a thousand times before. Like it was natural.

You teased him again about the soda, something about “friendly fire” and “reckless endangerment of cafeteria fashion,” and he just grinned, all teeth and dimples and overwhelmed brain cells.

And then-

“Oh my god,” Dustin groaned loudly. “You’re literally drooling. Just ask her out already.”

Eddie choked.

Mike, who hadn’t looked up from his peanut butter sandwich in minutes, casually added, “Seriously. You’re embarrassing yourself and the dice gods.”

Eddie whipped his head around, eyes wide, face flaming. “I am not drooling!”

Dustin raised his brows. “Your mouth’s open. You keep staring. You just spilled a drink because she laughed. That’s a rom-com trifecta, man.”

Eddie looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth out of sheer panic.

You, meanwhile, turned toward him slowly, resting your chin in your hand, eyes twinkling with dangerous amusement.

“Is that true?” you asked, voice light. “You planning to ask me out?”

The whole table went still.

Gareth’s spoon halfway to his mouth. Jeff frozen mid-blotting his jeans. Even Grant paused mid-sip of whatever mystery fluid he’d found in the vending machine.

Eddie swallowed hard.

You tilted your head. Not pushing. Not teasing this time.

Just… curious.

And flirtatious as hell.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like he was loading a save file from deep within his soul.

He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and, miraculously, dialed it down. Just a notch. Enough that the swagger melted into something real beneath the surface noise. Less Dungeon Master, more Eddie.

“So hey,” he said, rubbing his palms against his jeans like he wasn’t sweating bullets, “if you’re not busy Friday night…”

You raised a brow, waiting. Dangerous glint back in your eyes.

“Wanna grab a burger and shake with me or something? Nothing fancy. Just... you and me. Maybe I don’t trip over anything or knock drinks over this time.”

The table leaned in as one collective being, holding its breath.

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to make him squirm. Not cruelly. Just a moment of power. Of play.

And then, with the faintest smile tugging at your lips:

“Only if you promise not to start with another cheesy line.”

Eddie exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. Grin spreading again, lopsided and a little dazed.

“No promises,” he said, “but I’ll try my best.”

From across the table, Gareth let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “God, finally. I was about to start drawing hearts around your names on my character sheet.”

Dustin fist-pumped. “Hellfire matchmaking is real.”

You turned to Eddie one last time, eyes warm now, no teasing, just interested.

“Pick me up at seven, Munson.”

And just like that, you turned back to your crossword. Calm. Casual. Still in control.

Eddie sat there stunned for a second, watching you like you’d just cast a spell he didn’t know how to break.

“Holy shit,” he whispered to no one in particular.

“Did that just work?”

The moment you agreed to the date, all hell broke loose.

“WOOOOOO!” Dustin shot up from his seat like a firework. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Gareth banged a plastic fork against his tray like it was a gong. “Get it, Munson!”

Mike, ever the realist, just shook his head with a smirk. “She’s way out of your league, man.”

Jeff added dryly, “I think she just asked you out, technically.”

Eddie threw his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, calm down, you gremlins! You’re embarrassing me in front of my date.”

Dustin grinned. “You embarrassed yourself, dude. We’re just the backup dancers.”

You stood up slowly, collecting your tray with easy grace, as if you hadn’t just turned Eddie Munson into a walking heart-eye emoji in front of half the cafeteria.

As you passed behind him, you casually reached out, fingers threading through a few curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly, just enough to make him sit up straighter.

Your hand drifted forward, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw with the softest tease of a caress.

“See you at seven, Eddie.”

And just like that, you walked away, cool, unbothered, radiant.

Eddie was left blinking at the air you left behind, looking like he’d just astral projected. He turned slowly back to the table, eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Did that really just happen?” He looked around. “You guys saw that, right?”

Dustin patted his shoulder solemnly. “We saw, buddy. We all saw.”

Gareth nodded. “You okay? You look like you got hit with a charm spell.”

Eddie just stared into the distance, a soft, stunned smile curling on his lips.

“I think I’m in love.”

Part Two Follow Up: "Error 404: First Date Loading"

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially

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shouyuus · 7 months ago

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OH MY FUCKKK. college roomate!vi is fucking killing meeee. the last one made me literally squeal when i read about vi's vape 😩😩 i am a silly little smoker myself and i was wondering if you'd write something about vi introducing reader to smoking? like one night they're sitting and talking on the couch, maybe watching a movie or something and vi whips out her lost mary (i KNOW thats what she'd smoke) and reader asks kinda out of nowhere to have a hit, and vi laughs a little and then teaches her how to use it (it is an art form), and their faces keep getting closer and closer and they're basically kissing because they're hitting from the same vape, right? RAAAHHHHHH 😩

college roommate!vi cinematic universe not me having to google the brand but yES ur rite she woULD

+18, no sex but vape usage, mdni

"l-like that?"

"yeah, just like that -- breathe in -- hold it -- breathe out --"

you let out a soft groan, the "cherry peach lemonade" flavored smoke slipping from the corners of your lips in streams, vi's eyes flickering down and back up again, her own lips parted, her pupils dark.

"it's -- it's a good flavor," you say, blinking as you hand the vape back to vi, who grins and takes a long hit, leaning back slow, one hand on the vape, the other slung lazily across the sofa back, letting the smoke unfurl from her mouth. you watch, mesmerized as she rounds out her lips and blows out little smoke rings just to make you laugh.

"yeah, it's nice," vi says, her voice soft as she glances back at you, at the way your eyes have gone just a bit hazy. she leans forward, tugging your chin towards her with a thumb and forefinger, a mischievous grin sweeping across her face.

"open your mouth for me, pretty girl."

you do, letting your mouth fall slack as vi takes another long hit and blows the smoke into your mouth. like this, you can feel the cool of the smoke, the warmth of her breath, the strange duality sending tingles shooting down your back, a coil tightening in your gut as you breath in.

your lashes flutter as the high slips through your body, the weightlessness gathering in your loosening muscles.

"i-i've seen people do that before --" you say, grasping for something to fill the strange, ethereal silence, "at parties," you clarify, hoping for... you're not entirely sure what.

vi chuckles, "yeah? it's called shotgunning. it's... a bit gentler than just taking a hit straight from the vape so --"

she pulls you towards her again, this time, you lean in and your lips are so close you can feel the heat of her skin against yours.

you open your mouth without her prompting, and you don't miss the way her pupils dilate at the motion. and just for a second, you can taste your own heartbeat -- the sweet cherry peach lemonade tang of it at the back of your throat -- before vi's blowing another steady stream of smoke into you and you're breathing it in, tasting her -- wondering if her lips would be just as sweet without all the flavored smoke --

"there... think that's enough for you for tonight?" vi asks, pulling back with a grin.

you lick your lips, glancing at the tv screen.

"we've missed like... half the movie."

vi laughs, grabbing for the remote, "yeah well. we were busy. luckily, there's a rewind button."

you keep quiet as she rewinds through the parts of the movie the both of you missed, your mind a berry-tinted haze of half-formed thoughts. you inch closer to her, pressing your thigh to hers, letting your head drop onto her shoulder.

"thanks, vi," you say, your eyes cast towards the tv but not really seeing it at all.

she stills beneath your touch.

"what for, princess?"

you nuzzle your head deeper into her neck, "nothing just... glad you're here."

after a beat, vi curls an arm around your shoulder and gives you a squeeze.

"i'll always be here, princess. whenever you need me. and even if you don't. got it?"

you giggle, closing your eyes and letting the bright neons of the movie play out behind your eyelids like the passing of so many days and nights.

"i'll always need you, vi... even if you think i don't." and your voice is so, slow, honest. so honest that vi feels her chest squeeze. she settles for brushing her lips along the seam of your hair.

"then i guess we're stuck with each other for the long haul, aren't we princess?"

you let out a sleepy little laugh, nodding.

"yeah. guess we are."

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jamminvroomvroom · 1 year ago

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Hey girlll I love your blog so so so much! Congrats on the 4k bc you absolutely deserve it🫶🏼

I just had a little angsty request for Charles lando or Oscar (you can pick any you’re feeling more atm, I eat up anything ab my boys)

I saw this prompt maybe you could use - - "I can be there when you need me!" "But I did, and you weren't."

late night talking.

op x fem norris!reader

in which lando’s little sister has been sneaking around with his teammate, but it’s starting to have its challenges…

hiiiii thank u sm anon! love this request love you MWAH! so appreciative of this request and all of the others and that y’all trust me to bring your ideas to life!! i hope this hits the way you wanted it to! let me know what you think, big love 🤍

songs to set the mood: late night talking by harry styles, i love you by billie eilish, over my head by james marriott, if these walls could talk by 5sos

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, angst, fluff, a bit of hurt/comfort, secret relationship, brothers teammate trope (r is lando’s sister), fingering, morning sex, angsty needy sex, lando being an embarrassing little shit

4.1k words

sex and talking. sex and talking. sex and talking.

that’s what you do, oscar and you.

you watch him all weekend, eyes trailing his lean frame, the way his body moves under papaya fabric. then, when your brother finally leaves you alone, you sneak into oscar’s arms, room, bed, whatever’s closest.

you have your way with one another, nothing untouched, unexplored, and then you talk and talk until your lips hurt from stretched out grins and a satisfying ache sets into your spent limbs. you sneak out when the sun comes up the next day and join lando for breakfast in whatever hotel you’re in that weekend.

rinse, repeat.

you can remember the first time you saw him in real life, way back in early 2023, clear as day. you were in bahrain with your brother for testing, the sun in your eyes, and there he was. awkward, stocky, hands buried deep in his mclaren administered slacks. he was littered with moles, mousey brown hair catching the rays of light, chocolate eyes conveying cool confidence that didn’t at all match up with his uncomfortable stance. you could kiss over those moles like a game of dot to dot, tug on his strands that looked like smooth chocolate frosting, sink into his brown irises until you drowned.

lando had caught you staring, sending his elbow into your ribs, and when you turned to glare at him, cuss him out, you saw a look of warning. his eyes said: don’t you fucking dare.

and you didn’t dare, not for a while at least.

“o-osc.” you whine, panting through the waves of eye-watering pleasure.

he’s got you laid out across his massage table, two fingers scissoring into your sodden cunt as his thumb bumps your clit in messy circles.

it’s rare that you sneak away so brazenly like this during a race weekend.

“you gotta be quiet.” oscar shushes you, eyes flitting between your own watery pair and his fingers where they’re working you open.

“trying.” you breathe, slapping your own hand over your mouth when your belly tightens one last time. one wrong move and the entirety of the hospitality suite will know. lando will know. perhaps all of china will know. that’s how good he fucking feels.

you sob into your palm, bucking your hips wildly as you fall apart, spilling all around his relentless fingers. he fucks you through it, grinning coyly as your muffled cries subside.

“c’mere.” oscar lulls, pulling you back towards him. he kisses you deeply, smiling against your lips.

“i should go.” you mumble, pushing his hair back and raking your fingers through his hair.

oscar nods apathetically, reserved all of the sudden. you frown, stealing another quick kiss. you stumble to your feet fixing your underwear and your skirt, and grab your bag from the small sofa.

“we need to be more careful.” his words make your blood run cold.

“more careful?”

you sneak in and out of hotel rooms under the cover of night, you have his name disguised in your phone, you never speak to him in public.

“this was risky.” oscar shrugs. he looks antsy, his entire demeanour changing in a matter of minutes, the ecstasy of watching you writhe all for him worn off.

“this- i- you’re the one who dragged me in here, piastri.” you accuse. ‘piastri’ is reserved for when you’re pissed off, a cagey step back from the affection ‘osc’ that you usually called him. “whatever, i’ve got to go.”

“i’ll see you later?” he poses it as a question, uncertain that you’ll show. he has never been uncertain before, not with you, not with a lot of things. bile rises in your throat, and you scoff.

you can’t reply. the door slams behind you.

“where’ve you been?” lando ruffles your hair, a single eyebrow raised suspiciously.

“got bored with watching you look at data so i went for a walk.” you reply nonchalantly, pushing his hand away.

he hums in response, nodding slowly. it’s like he doesn’t quite believe you but he quickly moves on.

“you coming out with us after the race tomorrow?” lando asks.

“depends on who ‘us’ is.” you reply curtly. you don’t wanna look at oscar’s stupid, handsome face for a second longer than you have to. a familiar sadness sinks into your bones.

“couple of the drivers, alex, carlos, oh and oscar might even be swayed.” you grit your teeth, suddenly frustrated. “anyway, since when do you have beef with drivers? little miss sunshine fallen out with someone?” lando sounds confused, accusatory.

you stay silent, walking into the back of the garage, praying someone will come and steal your brother away.

“hey, you gonna tell me what the problem i-?”

“lando, we need you to look at this.” your brother gets cut off by a frantic engineer, your prayers answered, and is quickly lost to the chaos of the garage.

a pair of warm eyes burn into the side of your head. you turn to see oscar watching you, his eyebrows furrowed as if he’s studying you. he’s fidgeting, playing with his fingers, something strange for the man as cool as a cucumber. you look away as quickly as you can, managing to tear your eyes away from him, a lump forming in your throat which you swallow down.

it’s painful, really. sex and talking, it’s not enough, never has been for even a second. oscar piastri, australian f1 driver, number 81, quickly became your oscar, somewhat against your will.

somewhere in hungary, about 8 months ago

“are we really doing this, piastri?” you giggle, throwing your head back as his lips work your neck.

“need you.” he groans into your skin, low and needy. you’ve never heard him sound so disheveled, so desperate, a far cry from his usual, monotonous self.

“want you, osc.” you pant when his lips find your sweet spot, the feeling of him so delicious on your body.

“have me.” he whispers, falling into bed with you in his lap.

you lay there basking in stunned silence afterwards, a layer of sweat coating your knackered body. your shoulder is pressed flush with oscar’s, not an inch of space between you while you both stare at the ceiling, sporting matching lazy grins.

“i can’t believe we did that.” oscar mutters, a layer of disbelief in his voice.

“i think we should do it again.” you tease, except you are deadly serious.

“agreed.” he breathes.

“this stays between us, right?” you whisper, shyly.

“always.”

always makes your skin crawl now. you’re sick of having him in the dark, of having to avoid him in public for fear of turning into a lovesick fool. it’s embarrassing, really, unrequited love.

you can barely follow qualifying, staring blankly at the empty space in the garage where oscar’s car resides. you manage to catch the radio message through the headset you have on, the one where oscar’s muttering about a stupid mistake that’s just knocked him out. he’s limping back to the pits, licking his wounds.

you feel a pang in your chest, sympathetic and disappointed for him. you wonder what his mistake was, where his mind was. you’ll wait for the right moment, swallow the ache in your heart and your pride, and you’ll comfort him. he gets led away by frustrated engineers immediately, studying lines of data with furrowed eyebrows. you watch from afar, but then your heart sinks to your feet when four words sound through your headphones.

“lando, are you okay?”

will sounds stressed, repeating the four words that make your world stop spinning on its axis. everyone in the garage is staring at the tv screen, breaths held, stomachs tight.

your brothers car sits in tatters, carbon fibre littering the track. you can see the fluorescents of his helmet burrowed in the cockpit, still. your mouth hangs open, one hand clutching your chest, the other covering your quivering lips. you’re numb.

that feeling returns, the one of eyes burning into your weathered features. your wide eyes flit to the australian boy watching you from across the garage, and you beg silently for him to just come to you, pull you close, tell you that lando is okay and that he loves you back.

and lando is okay, his winded voice reassuring you over the radio.

but you stand there alone.

just like always.

somewhere in brazil, about 5 months ago

“what’s your favourite colour?” oscar mumbles lazily, lips bumping your cheekbone.

you’re curled up on his lap watching the sunset from his balcony. he was well behind lando after qualifying, and he’d craved a moment alone with you all day.

the air was thick, humid, the hot orange sun sinking far off in the horizon. you turn to face him, his features illuminated by the hazy glow. the sunlight makes his chocolate eyes sparkle warmly, so pretty.

“brown.” you whisper, scanning his face.

he laughs lowly, his chest rumbling.

“brown?” he questions teasingly.

“yep.” you grin, pecking his lips softly.

“why?”

“go look at those pretty eyes of yours in the mirror.” you retort smoothly, threading your fingers through his shower-damp strands.

“you flirting with me?”

“you bet i am.”

you twist back around, facing the view once more, moulding into his body. he kisses over your shoulder, resting his chin. you stay there content until the sun is gone and the stars twinkle.

the air in the room is thick, awkwardly silent.

he stands leaning against the desk, opposite where you sit on your bed. the lights are low in your hotel room, the imprint of your body still fresh against the mattress. you’d been crying when he knocked, eyes rimmed red, skin flushed raw.

“you just stood there.” you croak.

“love, i-“

“don’t call me that. please.”

hurt flashes across his features, but like he knows it’s not fair of him to complain, he buries it immediately.

“i just… will you hear me out?” oscar pleads quietly.

you nod feebly.

“it’s impossible. this, us. i wanted to go to you but i- i couldn’t, i didn’t know how that would look and i didn’t want to jeopardise this.”

“but you did.” you whisper. his face shatters, falling fast.

“no, no, i can be there when you need me-“

“but you weren’t!” you cry, your body physically sinking, your shoulders drooping.

“i can fix this, i will.”

“i think we need to stop this, osc. it’s too painful for me. i’ve tried to move past the hurt but after today…” your voice shakes and you crumble, the first tear falling.

“i’m not trying to hurt you.” he crosses the space between you in two rushed steps, collapsing to his knees before you.

“that’s not good enough.” you bite back. “i’m not going to be some guys dirty little secret. i won’t do it anymore oscar.”

“i was trying to protect you… this.” he gestures between you desperately

“i know, oscar. i know! but i never asked you to do that. i can’t love you in a hotel room for the rest of my life.” the words slip from your tongue, abrasive and messy, before your brain can catch up.

you grimace, biting your tongue, but oscar’s reaction couldn’t be further from your own. his watery eyes widen, pink lips pulling into a boyish grin.

“i don’t want to love you in a hotel room for the rest of my life either.” oscar whispers, tentatively taking your hands. you stare down at your slowly intertwining fingers, a familiar warmth oozing through your body. “i wanna love you everywhere.”

“show me.” you murmur through shaky breath.

“i will.” he leans in, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “for as long as you let me, i will.”

“just come here.” your fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him into a kiss, one born of frustration, and longing, and a year of late night talking about everything except how much you love each other.

oscar pushes you back onto the bed, crawling over you, starving. you pull him flush against you, leaving no room between your bodies. you crave the feel of his entire weight pressing you into the mattress and as he does, you feel at home. when you pull apart, catching your breaths, he says it properly, for the first time, and the world gets lighter.

“i love you.” oscar cups your jaw, those chocolate eyes boring into yours, the intensity of it knocking you for six. “always.” he adds.

the meaning of the word changes. always doesn’t mean a shameful, taboo secret anymore. life is breathed into the six lettered word; always means you and him, together, finally out of the shadows.

“i love you, osc.” you whisper.

he’s smiling when he kisses you again, unbuttoning your blouse like he’ll die if he doesn’t get the offending item off of your frame. you retaliate by shoving his t-shirt up his back, tugging greedily at it to strip him bare. the material comes off easily and as he sits up to throw it away, you shrug off your blouse and it meets his shirt on the floor. his hands smooth over your curves, brushing the pudge of your belly as he finds the zip of your skirt, ruining the fasten in his state of haste. you barely notice the way he’s ruined the item of clothing, urgently unbuttoning his jeans. your underwear is gone too, nothing separating you but your bra, restless hands on heated skin.

“we need to be quiet.” you breathe. “lando’s next door.” oscar giggles, tinged pink.

“get on top, love.” he drawls, flipping onto his back and taking you with him.

he sits up with you in his lap, nothing anchoring either of you in the middle of the bed. the imprint of your devastated form is gone, replaced by the shape of him. you can feel the head of his cock nudging through your folds, slicking him up so that he can slide nice and deep. he trails his fingers between your legs, thumbing at your clit in deft circles, just the way he knows you like it. you’re mewling in his lap, grinding down on the pad of his thumb; it’s so good but it’s not enough.

“please, osc.” you pant, urging him to let you sink down on his cock. you can see how red it is, feel the way it throbs for you, and the need to be full of him is almost paralysing.

“come on, pretty girl. fill yourself up.” oscar mutters against the shell of your ear.

he kisses down your throat as you slide down on him, dropping your hips firm against his.

“fuck.” you cry, your forehead falling against his shoulder.

“you okay, sweetheart? feel so good for me.” oscar coos, his fingertips digging hard into your hips.

“so good, baby.” your head rolls back, feeling him hit that spot tucked away within your walls.

your breaths mingle, your breasts flush against his chest, and as if he realises that he never stripped you of your pesky bra, he grunts, unclasping the black lace and flinging it somewhere far away. he gently mumbles an awestruck “fuck”, as if he hasn’t seen your tits a million and one times before, and latches onto your nipple. his tongue works in slow circles, matching the pace of your hips working languidly on his cock, and you keen further into his body.

“prettiest girl for me.” oscar grits out, his eyes squeezing shut when you clamp down on him, hard.

you’re both trying so hard to be quiet, overwhelmed by touch and taste, love. you’re growing tired, hurtling towards a desperate release, and oscar can sense it, the feel of your quivering thighs tightening around his hips spurring him on. he grinds up into you, maintaining your pace, but he’s fucking you harder now, the anticipation of your release sending shivers down his spine.

“you gonna cum for me?” oscar grunts, holding your hips down against him. you can’t move, his hold too tight and your body too tired, all you can do is wait for your orgasm to hit like a ton of bricks. you nod frantically.

“yes, oscar, please baby.” you beg for it, and like the true gentleman he is, the calloused pad of his pointer finger finds its home on your clit, sending you into an upwards spiral.

it’s as if you’re levitating when you let go, in a dreamlike state, your teeth sinking hard into his pale shoulder to muffle a surefire whine of his name. he’s rutting into you, prolonging the bliss.

“cum inside of me.” you urge, voice barely above a whisper. well, you’ve certainly never done this before.

oscar’s eyes roll into the back of his head, tears pricking his lash line. a guttural gasp of your name spills from his lips when he lets go, painting your insides warm and white. you stare at the tiny indents your teeth had left on his thick shoulder, his breath hitting the crook of your neck warm and wet as he comes down.

“‘m yours, and i’m here. i’m always gonna be here, i promise.” oscar speaks so quietly that you wonder if you’ve imagined it.

“when i made that mistake today, i was thinking about you.”

you’ve been laying there in silence for a while now, tucked under his arm when he speaks. you turn to look at him, perplexed.

“what?”

“i felt so awful about what i said after we, you know. you looked so upset with me, and i don’t blame you.” oscar sighs.

“i just don’t want to feel like a shameful secret, osc.” you tell him quietly, the words heavy on your tongue.

“you won’t, not anymore. ‘m so sorry, sweetheart.” he lulls, kissing over your hairline.

“how do we make this work? and how are we ever gonna explain this to-“

“lando.” oscar cuts you off, shifting uncomfortable. “he’s going to murder me and my entire bloodline.” he chuckles nervously.

“he won’t murder you. he might put you in a gravel trap, though.” you roll onto your side, smiling teasingly up at him and he rolls his eyes.

“i’ll take the heat. you’re worth it.”

“promise me.” you pant, his hips grinding into you. you’re curled into his chest, still spooning and barely awake. he’d woken up needy, and you were even needier, the faint glow of early morning sunshine washing over you through a crack in the beige curtains.

“anything.” oscar stutters, his breath warm against the back of your neck. his nose bumps your skin, teeth scraping the shell of your ear.

you stop meeting his thrusts. he whines low, wordlessly pleading for you to resume. he ruts his hips against your ass, chasing friction.

“tell me it’s all gonna be different now.”

“i already told you, i-“ oscar grunts.

“promise me.” you purposely clamp down on him, a hiss sounding from between his gritted teeth.

“promise, i promise, i love you.”

you giggle, rocking your hips again, fucking yourself onto him once more.

“i know.”

“you gonna let me off the hook?” oscar pants in your ear, tugging on your earlobe with his teeth.

“still gotta prove yourself, piastri.” you moan.

he feels deeper like this and he knows it, revelling in the way he’s filled you up so perfectly. he rolls into you slowly, sliding against each and every spot that makes you squirm. you drop your guard, going limp in his arms to let him finish you off.

“you nearly there, sweetheart? you gonna cum for me, love?” his accents thickens in the mornings, husky and intoxicating. you fall apart, then, and he stays buried inside of you, the only sounds in the room your matching heavy breathing.

“i need you to get dressed.” oscar kisses your cheek.

“kicking me out already?” you feign offence, looking at him over your shoulder.

his fingers come to cup your chin, his forehead resting against yours.

“there’s something we gotta do.”

you’re wearing your skirt from the day before, the waistband rolled over to make up for the oscar-destroyed zipper. his hoodie that you’ve stolen almost completely covers the short skirt, and your messy hair and poorly removed makeup don’t do much to convince anyone that you’d actually slept in your own room last night.

still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you don’t really comprehend where oscar is leading you, but when the elevator dings, signalling that you’ve reached the restaurant floor, you’re suddenly painfully awake. time seems to move in slow motion, your tummy twisting as you realise what’s about to happen.

ahead of you, tucked into the corner of the restaurant is your brother, jon, and ashley. lando is already draped in team kit, the papaya of his hoodie blaring obnoxiously for once, a warning sign.

“oscar, what-“

“i’m doing this.” he affirms, speeding up his stride.

oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god.

your heart speeds up, dropping to the pit in your belly when lando notices you, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched, eyes taking in the bewildering sight before him. his baby sister, disheveled and wide-eyed, and his teammate holding her hand, on a mission.

“what the fuck am i looking at?” lando doesn’t sound angry, per say, more perplexed than anything. there is an edge to his voice that you don’t particularly like, but he hasn’t started swinging yet, you suppose.

“i’m in love with your sister. like, for real. you deserve to know that.” oscar says confidently, somewhat monotonously.

lando opens his mouth, closes it. opens it again, closes it. he repeats the process a few more times, going through the motions of an emotional rollercoaster.

but then, he sighs deeply, a grin of disbelief stretching across his face. jon bangs on the table excitedly, and ash is shaking his head.

“you owe us so much money.” jon laughs, his head tipping back.

“pay up, boss.” ash sticks his hand out expectantly, smirking across the table.

“what… what?” you exclaim, narrowing your eyes in confusion.

“i didn’t wanna believe them.” lando shrugs.

“don’t blame you.” oscar chimes in, and you stare between the two mclaren drivers in bewilderment.

“are you okay with this?” you question, staring your brother in the eyes, still a bit disoriented by the entire situation. his face softens, a genuine smile lingering small on his lips.

“if you’re happy, i’ll make my peace with it.” lando’s eyes flit between you and oscar.

all of the sudden, a look of horror crosses his face, and his voice turns stern.

“but,” he inhales shakily. “if i ever, ever, hear again what i think i heard last night,” he glares at oscar, pointing one firm finger at the australian, who stands up a bit straighter. “you’re dead, piastri.”

jon and ash bite back giggles at the empty threat, and you take it upon yourself to put an end to the situation before it gets any more awkward.

“well, on that note!” you sing-song, dragging oscar away.

“and make sure you’re using protection!” lando calls out, panic stricken, big brother mode activated.

“oh my god.” you blush dark pink, speeding up, the elevator in your sights.

“that went well.” oscar quips sarcastically. he looks rather happy with himself.

you kiss him as soon as the metal doors shut.

you do go out after the race, but for once it’s not to drink away the memories of a weekend in oscar’s arms. this time, it’s to celebrate the fact that you can love him out loud, and he’ll do the same right back.

you’re dancing in his arms, bright lights in shades of blues and purples streaming over your bodies. oscar holds you close, keeps you wrapped in his arms, despite the shock on the faces of others at the sight of lando norris’s baby sister publicly besotted with his teammate.

when oscar kisses you deep, smiling against your lips that taste like cherry liquor, you know that this last year of your life wasn’t in vain.

you and oscar, you’re built to last.

“how did you not see it, mate?” charles beams, crinkles by his eyes from the wide smile he’s sporting. he’s clearly drunk, but lando is too.

it appears he’s clocked the brits sister and her australian suitor on the dance floor.

the monagasque has rocked up to the bar with alex and pierre in tow, the three of them slapping lando on the back as they arrive.

“i guess there were signs.” lando shrugs, dragging his finger over the rim of the crystal glass.

“signs? mate it was obvious.” pierre chuckles, pushing lando’s shoulder.

“wait, you all knew?” lando splutters.

yeah. duh. come on, man.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“it’s funnier.” charles… winks? it’s hard to tell with him.

lando finds you in the crowd, grinning up at oscar like he hung the stars in the sky. the younger mclaren driver returns your look, and it sparks warmth in lando’s chest.

you’re gonna be okay.

hehe

taglist

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chevroletdean · 3 months ago

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PAIRING: Dean x Fem!Reader GENRE: Smut (18+ CONTENT) TO NOTE/WARNINGS: mentions of (healed) injuries, PWP, established relationship, (guided) masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, fingering, not proofread WORD COUNT: 2.8k PROMPT: 10) finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them A/N: based on an anon's request, ty! CREDIT & LINKS: dividers by cafekitsune ─〃★ join the taglist ─〃★ Dean Masterlist

You were sitting on the bed, legs crossed, compact mirror in one hand, mascara wand in the other. Maybe it was a little silly, but you wanted to doll yourself up extra nicely today.

Dean’s been away for two whole weeks, working on this super complicated case several states over. You, on the other hand, had been stuck at the Bunker thanks to an annoying injury for the whole duration of his absence. A busted ankle rendered you bed-ridden for a while and Dean, ever the worried boyfriend, was strict about your healing process.

Thus, you stayed behind, unable to do much except twirling your thumbs and calling him every day.

Fourteen lonely days, every single one feeling like torture.

Even though your leg’s been fully healed since a couple of days, Dean insisted that you should take it easy. Restless as you were, however, you offered to tag along, join him after all.

His response you couldn’t have anticipated.

“I’m on my way home already,” he said through the phone, the curl of his lips audible. “Surprise, sweetheart.”

You immediately dropped everything.

That thick novel you’ve been reading? Shoved back onto the shelves. Your warm cup of tea to comfort that empty feeling in your chest? Left behind to cool entirely. Blanket? Who needed that when soon you would have your boyfriend’s arms back around you!

You nearly tripped over your own two feet as you rushed to your wardrobe. If you’d manage to break another bone in the process of exchanging your pyjamas for something nicer, Dean wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

However, in your giddiness you could not be bothered to care.

Dean informed you that he’d be at the Bunker in an hour or two, which was just enough time to prepare everything. Like cleaning your room and making yourself presentable.

Absorbed in your own world, you hummed along to your playlist as you did the finishing touches of your makeup. Though, when your door creaked open, you squealed— half surprised, half flustered.

“You’re early,” you huffed, though the wide smile and the brightness in your eyes belied your attempt at scolding him.

You jumped up from the bed, practically flinging yourself into his arms. His eyes almost appeared greener than you remembered, or maybe you just missed the color so badly that seeing it again made your heart flutter even more than usual.

“My bad,” he played along with a chuckle and the deep rumble of his voice sent your pulse skyrocketing, “Want me to leave again and come back later?”

“Don’t you dare, Winchester,” you retorted, grin still wide on your tinted lips. Before he could even think about abandoning you again, whether in jest or not, you pulled him into a kiss, the familiar taste of him melting your heart right away.

Despite being worn down after a long drive and an even longer hunt, Dean soaked up your excited welcome, mimicking the effortless smile you wore.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against your mouth with a relieved sigh.

“Missed you too,” you whispered back, connecting your lips with his in another chaste kiss.

“I can tell,” he grinned, leaning back only to scan you up and down. You had picked one of his old Metallica shirts, paired with a denim mini-skirt. One that left him no choice but to whistle.

“Two weeks without me and you turn into a caveman,” you quipped teasingly. Still, that look of approval and desire caused your skin to tingle.

“Can’t blame a guy for appreciating his pretty girl,” Dean shrugged, boyish grin plastered across his face. “You look like a work of art.”

“And the canvas isn’t even done yet,” you chuckled. “Can you grab my lipgloss from the bathroom real quick?”

Dean didn’t respond for a second, too busy taking in the sight of you. His hands lazily trailed up and down your sides, testing the material of his shirt, the fabric old and worn and falling softly over those irresistble curves of yours. You were asking the impossible of him—no way did he want to pull away from you for even just another minute.

“What’s the point if I’m gonna kiss it off that pretty mouth anyway?,” Dean tested, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

“Hold your horses, Cassanova,” you clicked your tongue with that flustered grin of yours, shyly shoving at his shoulder to nudge him towards the bathroom. “It’s the cherry flavored one, your favorite.”

Dean’s eyes lit up to match the flirtatious sparkle in yours, both thanks to the heavenly sound of your laugh and your little promise.

“Should’ve said so sooner, sweetheart,” he hummed with that wide, giddy grin of his. Though he did not let you off the hook that easily — giving you another peck, along with a well measured squeeze of your ass that had you yelp and giggle again — he turned on his heel and retreated to the bathroom.

“Gotta freshen up a bit anyway,” was the last thing you heard him mumble.

As for you, you swiftly finished the last bits of preparations. The moment you learned he’d finally come home, you knew just how to welcome him back properly. Microwaved popcorn, some slices of greasy pizza, one or two of Dean’s favorite old Western classics.

“Steve McQueen or John Wayne?,” you called as you were shuffling through the DVD collection in the box, which usually sat under your bed. You’d found it pulled out already and, what can you say, sometime’s not tidying up immediately has its perks.

And sometimes it’s a bulletproof set-up for failure.

Dean returned just then, though it’s the rasp of his voice that grabs your attention rather than the steps of heavy boots you expected to appear behind you.

“Wanna tell me what this is?”

Curious, your head turned to him. Your gaze fell on his frame first, much closer than you thought he’d be and half-naked. He’s washed the grime off his skin, which thus was slightly damp and smelled like the perfect blend of citrus and spice.

Once finally managing to peel your eyes off his broad chest, your eyelashes flickered upwards. Though your heart sank right to the bottom of your stomach as you realized what he was holding might’ve been pink, but it definitely wasn’t your lipgloss. Instantly the shade of your cheeks matched the silicone toy he waved around.

Your Satisfyer. Of course, you’d just cleaned it in the bathroom and forgot to put it away. Hence that box not being stashed away yet either.

“I can explain,” you muttered shyly, almost timidly and tense, though your defensive response earned you just a smirk from Dean.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he hummed. “Didn’t say I was mad.”

He turned the small vibrator in his hands, once, twice, eyeing it with curiosity. Not anger. Not disgust or any of that.

“Didn’t know you owned one of these,” he spoke, casually, as if he didn’t just jumpscare the shit out of you by wiggling your sex toy in front of your face.

You’re not sure what prompted you to even attempt defending yourself: “I only use it when I miss you too much…” While justifying why you had it, that explanation certainly didn’t make you feel any less exposed.

A thick silence followed, so heavy between you you could hear your own blood rush through your ears. The blush crept from your face to your neck, darkening into a tomato-red.

Dean stared at you as if you’d grown a second head, and you couldn’t possibly maintain eyecontact with him anymore. Although, when you averted your gaze, he lifted your chin up again, looking down at you with an intensity that overwhelmed you.

“When you miss me,” Dean echoed, voice low and laced with something dangerous. Something proud. Like the secret you just revealed equated to you handing him a trophy.

Shyly, you nodded. Barely.

“You’re thinking of me when you’re touching yourself, sweetheart?” His words had you shudder. And swallow. Thickly. Though your throat remained dry and you didn’t trust yourself to speak up just yet.

“Hmhm,” you hummed quietly, nodding again. Wasn’t it self-explanatory? Of course you were. It was always him you imagined in those moments. It was always his touch you wished would explore you. His hands, mouth, thick cock—

“Show me,” Dean spoke, holding the item out for you.

Bewildered, you blinked at him, unsure if you understood correctly.

“Wh-what?”

He took a step forward, towering over you in a way that made you feel small, but desired all the same. Instinctively, you staggered backwards, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, causing you to sit down.

“Show me what happens when you miss me, sweetheart,” Dean elaborated, placing the toy in your lap and then pulling back.

Your eyes, wide with shock, never left him as he pushed a chair over to the bed and made himself comfortable, sitting there leaned back and ready to enjoy the show.

“But I— You…”

Dean tilted his head, one hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “What? I wanna see my girl make herself feel good. Just do it like you normally would.”

It’s not that you were uncomfortable with the idea, knowing he’d never push you to anything you don’t want. It’s rather that his request made heat pool at your core, so fast that it made you dizzy. He couldn’t possibly hold you getting so flustered against you.

This felt like a damn ambush, one that made your brain short circuit.

Hearing the gears turn in your head, Dean leaned forward, supporting his elbows on his knees and tilting his head. “Not your cup of tea, sugar?”

Damn bastard knew what he was doing, letting his wolfish eyes roam your body like you were some frozen-in-the-headlights deer. The low rumble of his voice was enough to make you instinctively squeeze your thighs together.

“No— I mean yes? Just…,” you stuttered, making a complete fool of yourself. This was uncharted territory. You knew your body and how to explore it. Dean knew your body and how to explore it. But in this constellation, the alignment of stars painted a new picture.

While you didn’t want to admit how awkward you felt, not wanting to sound lame, Dean understood without you having to spell it out for him. He got up from the chair and settled on the bed instead, making himself comfortable right behind you.

Biting your lower lip, you let his arms circle around your waist and pull you closer until your back was pressed flush against his chest. The heat of his skin seeped through your clothes and you relaxed into his embrace right away.

“This okay?,” he whispered, the gentleness of his voice contrasted only by the brush of his stubble against your cheek. As his fingertips slipped under your shirt, erasing the tension from your middle, you leaned back into him even further.

“More than okay,” you answered, voice soft but sure.

You felt the smile tugging at his lips against your neck, along with the kiss he placed there. Slow and deliberate. Reassuring you while his fingers made quick work of your skirt’s button. He unfastened it, helping you lift your lower half to slip the denim down and taking your panties right with them.

Both items discarded onto the floor, you shifted into a more comfortable position. You settled between Dean’s legs and slowly spread your own, following the guide of his palms that stroked the plush of your thighs.

“Show me, please?”

The way he asked for it had your heart and pussy flutter in tandem. That desperate edge to his tone, the subtle twitch of his fingers against your inner thighs — as if he was itching to touch you himself, but wanting you to do it instead.

You bit your lower lip and pressed the toy’s switch, its soft buzz making both yours and Dean’s breath hitch.

You guided the vibrator to your slick folds, your center already throbbing with anticipation. Dean’s chin settled on your shoulder, eyes glued to your ministrations. Having him watch you at your most vulnerable, such a private moment suddenly so intimate, it drove you to the brink of insanity.

“You’re tellin’ me this is what I’m missing every time I’m gone?,” Dean huffed through a clenched jaw, absolutely mesmerized by the sight in front of him. You, all splayed out for him, letting yourself fall apart, unwavering trust behind your actions.

A whine left your lips as you shook your head shyly.

“No?,” he hummed, hands still tracing lazy circles over your thighs, occasionally lifting your oversized shirt out of the way.

“Mmh, ‘s different when you’re here,” you replied in between ragged panting.

“Different how?”

“Better.”

You had no idea what those words did to him. Or maybe you did, judging by the way you arched your back and pushed your hips back, just to feel the tent in his boxers.

“What’s it like when I’m not here?” Maybe Dean was pushing his luck, asking you to share the most scandalous of your thoughts, wanting a glimpse of your fantasies. Or maybe he was pushing your buttons in just the right way, relishing in the flush of your cheeks and the tremble of your lips. “What’re you imagining then, baby? Bet you wish it was me touching you, right?”

The moan bubbling from you was broken but beautiful, accompanied by another nod of yours.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You angled the toy up slightly until the ring suctioned right over your clit, pressure and friction so delicious you sobbed softly.

“Wish you’d fuck me, keep thinking ‘bout your cock filling me,” you rambled to your own surprise.

“Keep it up, and I might,” Dean chuckled lightly behind you, his only reward for now another kiss to your flushed skin.

Eager to please him, more than pleasuring yourself at this point, you turned up the setting. Though your thighs twitched, you kept chasing the feeling. Your hips automatically bucked into the smooth surface of your toy. It was practically drenched already, glistening with your essence.

“So fucking pretty,” Dean rasped, large hands holding your legs open from behind.

You whimpered, throwing your head back against his shoulder as the pressure between your thighs became nearly unbearable. Dean used the opportunity to plant wet, hot kisses across your neck, burying his nose in the curve of your shoulder.

“Doing so good, baby,” he whispered. “Just a little longer, can you do that for me?”

“Dunno, ‘m so close,” you cried, coil in your lower stomach so damn tight, so damn close to snapping.

“’s alright,” Dean purred, his own hand maneuvering their way between your legs. You yelped softly as you felt his fingers collect your wetness and run right through your slit. “Almost there.”

Overwhelmed, you almost squirmed away, but his grip on you was iron, his words whispering sweet affirmations into your ear. How pretty you looked. How good you felt. How perfect you were. And the best part about it? He was actually, really, right there—not some flicker of your imagination, not the ghost of his touch or the memory of his voice.

Dean slipped one finger inside of you, then added a second one. His thrusts were steady, a welcome scratch to the itch you could never quite manage on your own. A soothe to your nerves only Dean was able to accomplish. He was making you sing and curse and worship his name with your voice.

“Let go for me,” Dean spoke, talking you through it as all that you managed were moans and slight thrashes.

He pushed you over the edge with ease, catching you all the same in the storm of your orgasm. The intense crash of heat washing over you caused one of your hands to grasp his wrist—you weren’t entirely sure whether you were trying to make him slow down or asking him to keep going.

Dean slowed his movement, the pulsating of your heat subsiding gently until all that was left was you, sweaty and shaking in his embrace.

“Good to be back,” Dean quipped jokingly, sealing your long awaited reunion with another lock of your lips.

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