#to not only reach out but hold on as long as possible...

[hottiesforhockey]

deal with the devil ⎜j.hughes

pairings: jack hughes x afab!reader genre: teammates sister⎜ friends with benefits ⎜secret relationship ⎜ warnings: vaginismus rep ⎜ fingering ⎜ fighting amongst friends :( ⎜ protective older brother curtis ⎜painful sex ⎜p in v ⎜public sex (...kinda) ⎜spitting ⎜curtis says some mean things about jack ⎜why do my jack fics always have him getting in a fight ⎜jack really is the kind to talk you through it ⎜ jack being oh so careful and gentle ⎜ synopsis: some things are private not secret - but your relationship with jack…oh that's definitely a secret. word count: 10k authors note: four nations jack has me feeling some type of way...this fic has some vaginismus rep in the smut scene with some mentions of painful sex so I hope everyone enjoys and let me know what you think!

(unedited)

You never pictured yourself as someone with a fuck buddy. 

You never pictured yourself having quickies in a supply closet. 

To be honest you never really pictured yourself doing anything other than sitting in a library studying … but here you are. 

 “You need to get up.” You hiss, smacking you pillow against the bare back in the bed next to you. You sigh, hitting the back one more time, before slumping against the mattress. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And yet you call me every weekend anyway.” The voice chuckles back, finally rolling onto his side facing you with a teasing grin on his face, his body lifting slightly as he reaches over you, turning off the alarm ringing on his phone. 

“Just admit that you like me.” He teases, his smile only growing as you shoot him a sharp glare. 

“I don’t like you, I just happen to get some satisfaction from your dick.” You mumble, finally smiling as his own expression drops. You’re not prepared to protect yourself and he launches forwards his arms wrapping around your waist pulling you down to a lying position as he wrestles to kneel above you, his hands gripping your arms as he pushes you into the bed. 

“Do you want to say that again, pretty girl?” He questions, his eyebrow quirked as you try to squirm in his hold. His grasp doesn’t falter for even a moment as you thrash beneath him, letting out soft chuckles every time you struggle a little too hard. 

“Fine, you win.” You whine, your body relaxing into the mattress as you stop your movements gazing up at the half naked man above you. “You look very handsome like this.” You comment, your eyes wandering over the man above you. His hair tousled, sharp eyes, his lips pulled back in a grin. His cheeks flush with heat and he watches you, watching him. 

You take the faltering in his grip to rip your arms from his hands, your thighs gripping onto his torso as you roll the two of you over, your hands taking the position his were in pushing his forearms into the mattress. His eyes trained on yours as you make yourself comfortable on his pelvis. 

“You win.” He mimics. You flash him a quick grin before leaning down to capture his lips with yours. It takes no more than five seconds for him to break free from your grip, his arms lifting off the mattress, his hands cupping either side of your jaw as he pulls you closer to him, one hand leaving your face to pull your hips down onto his. 

“Jack…” You mumble against his lips as you feel him smile against your lips, his own slowly trailing down your jaw as you drop your head to the side with a long sigh - Jacks hands making teasing motions against the edge of your panties, as the loud knock on your door startles you both. 

“Jack, dude we have to leave for practice in like fifteen minutes.” The voice of his roommate carries through the door, another sharp knock on the white wood pulling you away from the man below you. 

“You didn’t tell me he was here.” You hiss as quietly as possible, you’re quick to slide off the bed, reaching to the floor pulling your leggings on as quickly as possible before reaching over to Jack’s desk pulling on his hoodie. 

“I didn’t know he was.” Jack hisses back, making quick work of pulling on his own t-shirt just as the doorknob turns the two of you barely managing to get dressed as Jack’s brother steps into the room. 

“Dude, we have to leave — oh, sorry I didn’t know you were here.” Luke pushes open the door his gaze shooting to yours in surprise, you let your head fall in shame, the room falls silent as Luke looks between half naked Jack on the bed and then back to you - Luke had been the first one on the team to meet you through your older brother, when the youngest Hughes found himself abandoned to stay in jersey for all star weekend on his own - Curtis inviting him over for dinner so the young player would eat at least one home cooked meal that week. Luke had eventually introduced you to the rest of the team at events, insisting on you coming anytime your brother brought up inviting you, hence the awkward position you and Jack find yourself in now - Luke just sighs, shooting Jack a stern glare, “Look, I don’t even want to know.” Luke sighs, looking at both of you against with a shake of his head, “Curtis is gonna kill you, you know.” He remarks as he slips back out of the room, closing the door softly behind himself. 

This is not how things were meant to go. 

The silence that follows Luke’s departure is thick enough to suffocate. Jack runs a hand through his already messy hair, exhaling sharply as he swings off the side of his bed. “Well,” He says finally, dragging the word out as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, tucking it away into his pocket. “That went well.” Jack lets out an ‘oof’ as you shove at his shoulder, rolling your eyes as you gather your stuff into your tote bag. 

“I can’t believe we got caught like that.” Your voice is a harsh whispers, your hands gripping your bag in frustration as you frown - you should’ve never let your guard down - of course Luke would be here, this is his house too. Jack just grins, unfazed as ever as he walks towards you, his hands landing on your hips as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“I mean I’m surprised we didn’t get caught earlier if he was here the whole time,” Jack starts, and you shove him off you as you realise where his words are about to go. 

“Don’t say it.” 

“You were pretty loud last night, if I do say so myself.” 

“You said it.” You huff as his teasing words, unable to ignore the burning rising up your neck, you shoot him a glance over your shoulder, shoving the rest of your stuff into your bag before turning to face him - Jack still looking like he wants to do nothing more then drag you back into his bed - an easy smile on his face.  You scoff at his bright smile, shoving him again before spinning toward the door, your heart still pounding from the close call. “I need to leave before my brother finds out and buries your body under the ice at the rink.” Jack chuckles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression—something that makes you pause for half a second. 

Before you can place it, he speaks again, his voice softer than before. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if he knew— maybe we should tell him before things get out of hand.”

Your stomach tightens.

You shake your head, refusing to acknowledge the weight behind those words. That’s not what this is. This isn’t supposed to be complicated. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more.

“Tell him what,” you finally say, forcing a casual tone as you reach for the doorknob. “‘Hey curtis I’ve been fucking your sister for months and thought I should just let you know because I want to keep doing it just not in secret’.” You drop your voice in a bad impression of Jack, letting out a long sigh as you dismiss the idea, “It’s not going to happen, Jack.” Jack’s eyes darken slightly, but you don’t give him the chance to respond. You slip out of the room as quietly as possible, your pulse racing as you make your way down the hallway.

You send a quick nod to Luke who is perched by the kitchen counter sipping from his water bottle - “You’re continued silence is much appreciated.” You coo towards him as you slide into your shoes, the youngest Hughes brother shrugging. 

“He’d kill me too if he knew I knew - consider it for my own protection.” Luke hums, giving you a small wave as you slip out of the apartment. You let out an exhausted sigh as you get into the empty hallway - you shouldn’t be feeling like this—like you just barely escaped something dangerous. It’s just Jack. Just an ongoing mistake you keep making because, well…

You can’t seem to stop yourself. Something about Jack pulls you back each and every time you think of finishing things. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out, already knowing who it’ll be.

The Devil 😈: Next time, you should stay till I get back. We could ‘discuss’ things more

You roll your eyes, but your fingers hesitate over the keyboard.

Stay till I get back. 

Like it’s normal. 

Like everything about this is normal. 

You shove your phone back into your pocket without replying, picking up your pace as you head toward your car.

This has to end.

But deep down, you already know the truth: It won’t.

You don’t text him back.

Not that day. 

Not the next. 

Not for an entire week.

You tell yourself it’s for the best. That if you give yourself enough space, enough time, the pull toward him will lessen. That the way he makes you feel—like you’re skidding too close to the edge of something dangerous—will eventually fade.

But then Friday night rolls around, and you’re sitting on your bed, staring at your phone like an idiot, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re waiting for.

“Are you coming over after the game tonight, pretty girl?”  You mimic, your same bad impression coming to the surface as you glare at your blank home screen. 

“Hey, are you coming to the game tonight? Renee can’t make it any more and I have that ticket.” Your brother knocks on the door the your room - well the spare room - poking his head in as he takes in your body sprawled across the bed, your gaze shooting up at him in surprise, as you body jumps a little, your hands automatically tucking your phone under your pillow as he lets out a soft chuckle. 

“I assume she didn’t get a chance to ask you.” He jokes, he already has his game day suit on - making you look so much worse in your pizza stained pyjamas. 

“I haven’t seen her all day.” You respond, confirming his suspicions that his wife never got the chance to ask if you want to go. “But I’m down if you can wait fifteen minutes to give me a ride?’ You say hopefully, a smile lighting up your face to mimic your brothers, his head nodding quickly as he shoots you an unsure glance. 

“I’ll give you twenty - you look like a mess.” He says with a grimace. 

“Ha Ha, very funny Curtis.” You sneer, sliding off the bed and shutting the door in his face as you glance around the room at any available clothing that might be lying around, “I knew I should’ve done laundry.” You manage to find some relatively clean jeans, and a cozy red hoodie, tugging them both on as you comb your fingers through your hair before securing it to the back of your head with a claw clip just as Curtis calls for you by the front door. 

“Are you coming or should I just assume you’ve died in your own filth?” He calls, your eyes rolling as you yank your purse of the back of the door, bolting down the stairs to meet your brother by the car. 

“My filth has not overcome me, as you can see.” You hiss as you slide into the passenger seat, your brother sending you an amused glance before pulling out of the driveway - the ride to the arena being relatively silent aside from the kids bop covers Curtis refused to turn off - you’ve never been more glad to get out a car then you were as he pulled into his spot at the prudential centre. 

“You know Luke was asking about you earlier today…” Curtis starts as you both slide out of the car, your brows furrowing as you look towards him, “Yeah, he was asking if you were coming today - said there was something he wanted to talk to you about.” Curtis continues, a knowing grin spreading on his face. 

“I don’t know why.” You say quickly, hiking your bag further up your shoulder as you glance over at him, the two of you making your way into the building. 

“Neither, but he’s a good kid.” Curtis starts, “Wouldn’t be mad if there was something going on between you two.” He adds, your brows raising in surprise jack’s words slicing through your head. 

I wouldn’t mind if he knew. 

“At least he’s nothing like his brother Jack, god he’s a piece of work.” Curtis cuts through your thoughts, “Don’t get me wrong, I love the kid but don’t even bother with someone like him — all he’ll do is break your heart.” He says quickly, your thoughts deflating quickly as you just nod along. 

After your joyous heart to heart with your brother, you find yourself standing outside the locker room, shifting on your feet as you wait. The hallway is buzzing with players walking in and out, staff moving quickly through the space, and the occasional fan sneaking glances inside. You’re distracted, lost in thought, when a passing player jostles you, your feet losing their place as you stumble, trying to catch yourself before ultimately giving up and just bracing for impact. 

“Woah, gotcha.” a pair of large hands grip your waist, steadying you. You blink up at Luke holding you upright, his hands firm against your sides. His expression is amused as you steady yourself, your fingers lightly gripping his forearm for balance. 

“Timo you gotta be more careful, we’ve got precious cargo over here.” Luke shouts down the hallway - a murmured ’sorry’ shot your way as the large Swiss player continues on his way. 

“Thanks, I really thought I was gonna eat shit for a second there.” You joke, Luke’s hands still firm on your waist until he’s sure you’ve caught your balance again and quickly releases you. 

“No problem - I swear you’re clumsier than me.” 

“Only when hockey players shove past me like I’m invisible.” you reply dryly, Luke chuckles as he helps you dust of the invisible dirt all over your clothes, “So, my brother said you were asking about me today?” You start, crossing your arms over your chest as you raise a brow towards the youngest Hughes brother. 

“Oh, yeah.” Luke starts slowly, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh, “It’s just were trying to plan this congratulations party for Jack for making team USA and I was hoping you’d be able to make an appearance?” Luke explains, your eyes widening in surprise as your gaze shoots over where you are to look for signs of your brother - you grab hold of Lukes arm dragging him closer to the wall as you whisper. 

“I can’t go if Curtis is going to be there - it’s going to be too suspicious.” Luke lowers his head as the two of you continue your oh so secret conversation, not noticing the ever darkening presence coming up the hallway - their focus trained entirely on you and his younger brother huddled in the corner. 

“Curtis isn’t going - that’s the best part.” Luke starts, “He said he’s never support his teammates betrayal of Canda and to count him out.” He expands, your head nodding - it does sound exactly like something your brother would say - “Besides do you think I’m dumb enough to invite you and your brother, I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed but I know how to keep a secret.” You nod again, your grip releasing on Luke’s sleeve as you glance around the hallway, your eyes locking with Jack’s glaring blue ones as you step away from his brother. 

“Send me the details.” You say quickly, as you motion for Luke to glance over his shoulder, the boy jumping as his older brother slides up besides him. Jack’s grip on his duffel bag flexes before he steps forward, his movements deliberate. 

“You ready for the game?” Jack asks Luke, his voice even, but there’s a rough edge to it that wasn’t there before.

“Yeah, man, almost,” Luke replies casually, but even he seems to pick up on the change in Jack’s demeanour. Jack doesn’t acknowledge you at first, his gaze lingering on Luke for a second too long. Then, finally, his eyes flick to you, filled with something unreadable. “Just catching up with the littlest Lazar before the game.” He jokes, slinging his arm over your shoulder, definitely not catching the tension simmering off his older brother. 

Jack glances between the two of you again before marching off towards the locker rooms, Luke letting out a deep exhale as you push his arm off your shoulder. “Do you think he heard?” 

“Luke, I don’t think that’s your biggest problem.” 

+

+

The energy in the arena is electric. The crowd roars as the players hit the ice, the sharp scrape of skates against the surface sending a thrill through your spine. The Devils are locked in an intense battle against their rivals, the game fast and aggressive. You try not to focus too hard on Jack, but it’s impossible. Every time he’s on the ice, your eyes are drawn to him like a magnet.

He plays with the same recklessness he carries everywhere else in his life—fearless, fast, and a maybe little too confident. And for a while, it’s working. He’s everywhere, setting up plays, taking shots, chirping at the other team like he was born for it.

But then it happens.

It’s late in the second period when Jack takes a bad hit. You see it the second it unfolds—his body angled just slightly off balance when he gets checked hard into the boards, his body crumpling to the ice as he holds onto his side, his head pressing against the floor as he pulls himself on his knees. 

Your stomach lurches.

Jack stays down longer than he should, and the entire arena holds its breath. He shifts, attempting to push himself up, but it’s clear something’s off. Trainers rush onto the ice, helping him upright as he tries to shake them off, but you can tell from your seat—he’s rattled.

“Shit,” Nico mutters beside you - the captain still on the injury reserve after his own set back on the ice a few weeks ago - his jaw tight as he watches his teammate get escorted off the ice. You feel his eyes flick toward you, and you force yourself to stay still, to not react too obviously.

It doesn’t matter though, your pulse is hammering and all you can think about is whether Jack is okay. Everyone watches as Jack disappears down the tunnel, and you’re on your feet before you can think twice about it. “I’m gonna go grab some water,” you tell Nico hastily, ignoring the way his eyes narrow slightly at you.

You don’t give him a chance to question it before you slip into the crowd, heading straight for the hallway leading to the locker rooms. Security is tight, but you know enough people, recognise enough faces, that nobody stops you as you weave through the chaos. When you push past the door leading into the medical area, Jack is sitting on the exam table, his head down as a trainer checks him over. His jersey is half off, revealing the sheen of sweat on his skin, deep bruising already forming along his ribs. His hair is damp with sweat, and there’s a frustrated set to his jaw that tells you he’s pissed—at the hit, at himself, at the entire situation.

He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on whatever the trainer is saying. But when the door clicks shut behind you, his head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours. Something flickers across his face—surprise, then something softer, something unreadable.

“You checking in on me, pretty girl?” Jack’s voice is slightly hoarse, his usual cockiness tempered by the clear ache he’s feeling. You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room, ignoring the way your heart clenches at the sight of him like this. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, arms crossing over your chest. “Just making sure you’re not dead. Luke would be devastated.” Jack huffs out a laugh, wincing slightly as the trainer adjusts the ice pack. 

“Yeah, Luke would be torn up.” He tilts his head slightly, looking at you from under damp lashes. “But what about you?”

You scoff, shifting on your feet, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. “I’d be mildly inconvenienced.”

Jack grins, and despite the swelling starting on his cheek, he still somehow looks impossibly good. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

The trainer clears his throat, looking between the two of you before stepping back. “You need to sit out the rest of the game,” he tells Jack firmly. “I’ll let Coach know.” Jack groans but doesn’t argue, his gaze never leaving you. The trainer slips out, leaving you alone with him. The silence that settles is thick, charged with something you don’t want to acknowledge.

“You didn’t text me back.” Jack’s voice is quieter now, more serious.

“I panicked.” You shift your weight, your pulse quickening. “And I didn’t think there was anything to say.”

Jack studies you for a moment before shaking his head with a small, humourless chuckle. “Bullshit.”

Your stomach tightens. “Jack—”

“No,” he cuts you off, pushing himself up slightly, wincing but ignoring it. “You keep acting like this is just some stupid game, like none of this means anything, but we both know that’s not true.”

Your breath catches, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

Jack lets out a sharp exhale, his frustration evident. “Or maybe you’re making things easier then they actually are.”

“This has to end eventually, right?” you whisper, more to yourself than him.

Jack’s gaze darkens, his fingers flexing against his knee. “Do you want it to?” You don’t answer immediately, because the truth is, you don’t know. “Is this because of Luke?” His question surprises you, your head tilting in confusion as he shakes his head slowly, “Never mind.” He shifts slightly, wincing as he moves, but his eyes stay locked onto yours. “You can keep pretending you can’t feel what’s right in front of your face, you can keep telling yourself it’s just a mistake,” he says, voice low, steady. “But we both know you’ll be back.”

Your stomach twists because he’s right.

He always is.

+

+

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive - a chorus of cheers as you step through the door, each of the boys giving you a slight nod as you walk by them and into the Hughes brothers kitchen, the bottle of water in the cooler calling your name. 

“Oh, hey you made it.” Lukes voice carries through the kitchen, the lankiest Hughes shoving his way over to you, moving his teammates out of the way as he grabs his own drink from the cooler, leaning a hip against the counter as he smiles down at you. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come, Jack said it’s been a week or two since you two—” Luke hesitates, pursing his lip as he thinks for the right word, “talked.” He finishes, smiling as he takes a sip from his drink as you let out a low groan. 

“It felt wrong not to at least show my face.” You agree, rolling your eyes at looks teasing glance, his eyes locking on something over your shoulder, his face dropping quickly as he clears his throat. 

“Oh Curtis, what’re you doing here? I thought Canadians had no place in a team USA party.” Luke’s voice sends a shot of panic down your spine, a fake smile plastered on your face as you turn to face your older brother, who in return looks at you in confusion. 

“I wasn’t going to come to a filthy USA party but what kind of teammate would that make me?” Curtis teases, his arm slinging on your shoulder as he turns his attention down to you, questions in his gaze, “and it looks like I’m not the only Canadian here.” You let out a soft chuckle as you shuck your brothers arm off your shoulder, sending a pleading glance towards Luke. 

You hadn’t expected him to be here, and judging by the way Luke suddenly finds his drink fascinating, neither had he.

“Yeah, well,” you say, shrugging off his arm as casually as possible, “someone’s gotta get the inside scoop.” Curtis chuckles, but his gaze lingers on you a second too long, like he’s trying to piece something together. You don’t give him the chance, instead you decide that water’s just not going to cut it and reach to grab another drink from the cooler and twist the cap off, taking a slow sip as you scan the room.

You shouldn’t have.

Jack’s already looking at you.

He’s leaning against the far wall, a beer dangling from his fingertips, his darkened gaze locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin heat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact, and for a moment, everything else—the music, the bodies pressed together in the living room, the weight of your brother standing too close—fades away.

You swallow hard, willing your pulse to settle, but the way Jack’s lips twitch, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, only makes it worse.

“Hey, you good?” Curtis’ voice pulls you back, his brows drawn together in concern. “You disappeared for a second there.” 

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away. “Yeah, just tired from all my spying.” He doesn’t look convinced, but before he can push, a few of his teammates call his name, giving you the perfect excuse to step back. “I’m gonna grab some air,” you say, already moving. The night air is cool against your skin as you step outside onto the back deck, inhaling deeply as you press your palms against the railing. The music inside is muffled, just a low thrum beneath the distant hum of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from the party still raging inside. But out here, it’s quieter—easier to breathe.

At least, it should be.

You can still feel the weight of Jack’s gaze from across the room, the way he looked at you like he already knew you’d end up here. Like he knew you’d run.

You close your eyes for a moment, tilting your head back as you exhale slowly, trying to shake the tension coiling in your chest. You shouldn’t have come tonight. You knew that coming would make things so much harder to avoid, to pretend like nothing was going on and yet here you were, standing outside during the congratulations for your achievement party of your fuck buddy.The door creaks open behind you, your thought spiral pausing as you take a long sip for your drink and even before he speaks, you know who it is.

“What are you doing here?” Jack’s voice is rough, edged with something you can’t quite place.

“It was too noisy in there.” You comment, not missing the way Jack lets out a soft chuckle. 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” 

You straighten but don’t turn around, keeping your hands braced against the railing. “I was invited.”

“That’s still not what I meant, I know you were invited. ” His footsteps are slow, deliberate, and then he’s next to you, close enough that the heat of his body seeps into yours despite the cool air. “So why did you come?”

You huff out a breath, finally turning to face him. “Does it matter?” Jack lets out a quiet, humourless laugh, shaking his head as he drags a hand through his already-messy hair. He looks frustrated, but more than that—he looks desperate.

“It matters,” he says, voice quieter now, like he’s afraid of what you might say. “It fucking matters to me.”

Your stomach twists, fingers tightening against the railing as you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Jack, don’t do this.”

His jaw flexes, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Do what?”

“I didn’t come here to fight with you.” You can’t help the sigh that falls from your lips, “don’t make this into something it’s not meant to be.” 

Jack exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“Bullshit,” he repeats, stepping closer. “You’re acting like you didn’t come here for the same reason I asked Luke to invite you—you think you can just pretend like there is nothing between us and I can tell that it’s killing you inside” He scoffs, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “You really think we can just go back to pretending like we were nothing after this?”

You swallow hard, your pulse pounding against your ribs. “I never thought we were nothing.” Jack’s expression falters for a split second before he recovers, stepping in even closer until there’s barely any space left between you. 

“Then what are we?” You don’t answer, because you don’t know how. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Jack studies you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, looking for something—anything. And then, so quietly you almost don’t hear it—

“I want us to be something real.”

Your breath catches, your fingers digging into the railing behind you.

Jack takes a shaky breath, his voice lower now, raw. “I know what we agreed to in the beginning but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be just some guy you used to sleep with. I don’t want to be the mistake you try to forget.”

Your throat feels tight, your chest aching with something you don’t know how to name. “Jack—”

“No,” he interrupts, his hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to. “Just tell me. If you really don’t feel anything—if this really was just some casual thing to you—tell me, and I’ll walk away.”His voice drops even lower, barely more than a whisper. “But if there’s even a chance—” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “If there’s even a part of you that feels the same way, just—don’t lie to me.” You look away, staring at the ground, because it’s easier than looking at him. 

Because if you meet his eyes, you’ll break.

Jack lets out a slow breath, nodding like he’s already bracing for the worst. “Okay,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I get it.”

He turns like he’s about to walk away, and something in you panics. Before you can stop yourself, your fingers curl around his wrist. Jack freezes. His breath is uneven when he turns back to you, his gaze darting from your hand on his skin to your face. Your heart is in your throat, pounding so hard you think he might be able to hear it.

And then, finally— “I don’t want you to walk away.” Jack exhales, his eyes closing for a brief moment, like he’s trying to keep himself together. When he opens them again, they’re filled with something so intense, so devastatingly real, it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

He steps closer, his free hand hesitating for only a second before he cups your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Then don’t make me.” His voice is barely a whisper now, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “Just let me in.” Jack’s breath hitches when you don’t pull away. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest against your jaw, like he’s grounding himself, like he can’t quite believe you’re here, letting this happen. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, your hand still curled around his wrist, keeping him close. For once, you don’t have the energy to fight it—to fight him. Jack shifts slightly, tilting his head just enough that his nose brushes against yours. His lips part, his breath warm against your skin. He’s so close.

 Just a little more and—

“What the fuck is this?” The sharp voice shatters the moment like glass. You jolt back, your pulse spiking as your head snaps toward the open doorway.

Curtis.

Your brother stands just inside the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of shock and pure, unfiltered anger. His dark eyes are locked onto Jack, his posture stiff, radiating hostility.

Shit.

Jack straightens but doesn’t step away from you. His jaw clenches as he meets Curtis’ glare, his whole body suddenly tense, like he’s already preparing for whatever’s coming — his body covering most of you as he lets out a soft groan.

“Curtis,” you start, stepping around Jack, but he shakes his head sharply, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

“Oh, don’t fucking ‘Curtis’ me,” he snaps, his gaze flicking between you and Jack. “What the hell is going on here?” You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. 

“It’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Curtis’ voice is tight, low with barely restrained anger. His eyes burn into yours, waiting for an answer, for some kind of explanation that won’t make him want to deck Jack right here and now.

Jack exhales sharply, finally turning to face your brother, stepping forwards and putting himself slightly in front of you. “It’s not exactly what you think.”

Curtis scoffs, his expression twisting. “Oh, really? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re messing around with my sister.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “It’s not like that.”

Curtis lets out a cold laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Because you’re such a committed guy, huh, Hughes? Never had a casual thing in your life?” He takes a step forward, his body language shifting from disbelief to outright anger. “Are you fucking serious?My sister?”

“Curtis—” you try, but he barely even spares you a glance.

“This is what you’ve been sneaking around for?” His voice rises, his gaze locked on you now, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Jack fucking Hughes?” He shakes his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack takes another step closer, his voice firm. “Neither of us is sneaking around.”

Curtis’ head snaps toward him, his expression thunderous. “No? Then what the fuck do you call this?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “I care about her.”

Curtis lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. “You care about her?” He gestures between the two of you, his voice laced with disbelief. “What, like you care about all the other girls you’ve been with?”

Jack’s nostrils flare, his whole body going rigid. “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Curtis glares at him, stepping in close enough that they’re nearly chest to chest. “What’s not fair is you treating my little sister like she’s just another one of your hookups.”

Jack’s eyes darken, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s forcing himself to stay still. His voice is low when he speaks, steady but sharp. “She’s not.”

Curtis scoffs. “Yeah? Then what the hell is she?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “She’s everything.” The air between them crackles with tension.

Curtis’ expression falters for half a second before his hands curl into fists, his whole body coiled like a spring. His gaze flickers to you, his jaw tight. “You actually believe this shit?”

You exhale slowly, meeting his eyes. “I—” You hesitate, your throat tightening. “It’s not that simple.” 

Curtis barks out a laugh, taking a step back and raking a hand through his hair. “Not that simple,” he repeats, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Jack shakes his head, his voice edged with frustration. “Look, man, I know this isn’t what you wanted—”

“No, you don’t know,” Curtis snaps, turning back toward him. “You don’t get it, Jack. She’s not—” He cuts himself off, his eyes flickering toward you for the briefest moment before he shakes his head. “She’s not one of them.���

Jack’s expression hardens. “I know that.”

Curtis lets out a bitter laugh. “Do you?”

Jack steps closer again, his voice rough, his whole body radiating tension. “I’m not playing games with her.”

Curtis narrows his eyes. “You really think you’re good enough for her?”

Jack’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t back down. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice tight. “But I know I’m not gonna walk away just because you don’t like it.”

Curtis stares at him, something unreadable flashing across his face. Then, suddenly, his shoulders shift, and before you can react, he’s moving.

“Curtis—!” you shout, but it’s too late.

His fist flies before either of you can stop it. It connects with Jack’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending his head whipping to the side, Jack barely reacting beyond a sharp inhale. He exhales, his jaw tightening as he lifts a hand to his face, his fingers brushing over the fresh bruise forming just below his cheekbone, a small cut on his cheek from Curtis’s wedding band.

He lets out a slow, steady breath before straightening.

He doesn’t hit back.

Curtis shakes out his hand, his breaths heavy. “Stay the fuck away from her,” he grits out.

Jack wipes at his lip, where a small bead of blood is forming, then lifts his gaze to Curtis—calm, steady. “That’s not your call to make.”

Curtis’ jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring. His gaze flicks toward you, his expression still tight with anger. “Come on. We’re leaving.” You hesitate, glancing at Jack. He’s already looking at you, his eyes soft despite the tension still simmering in the air. And that’s when you realise—he’s waiting for you to decide.

Curtis sees it, too.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “You can’t be serious.” Your pulse pounds. Jack doesn’t say anything, just watches you, his face unreadable but open, waiting, he wants you to make the choice. 

Leave now with your brother and this whole thing is over or stay. 

“You should go, Curtis.” You finally say, a glare focused on your brother as you slip your hand into Jacks, his fingers gripping yours for dear life, “You’ve done enough damage for one day, we can talk about this later.” You conclude tugging Jack behind you as you both slip inside, your hand guiding him through the crowd as you avoid his teammates questioning stares as you shove open the bathroom door slamming it behind the both of you with a click of the lock. 

Jack leans against the bathroom door, exhaling sharply, his fingers still wrapped tightly around yours, his jaw tight. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths, though the slight tremor in his hands betrays just how hard he’s trying to keep himself together.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

You shake your head, your heart still pounding against your ribs. “Yes, I did.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he exhales, running a hand through his constantly messy hair. “Curtis might actually fucking kill me.”

You huff out a short, humourless laugh. “Well, considering he already got one good shot in, I’d say he’s off to a great start.” Jack winces as he touches his jaw, the skin already bruising from the hit. You step closer without thinking, your fingers reaching out before you can stop yourself. Jack stills, his gaze locking onto yours as your fingertips ghost over the tender skin.

“You should put some ice on it,” you murmur.

Jack doesn’t move. His breath is warm against your skin, his body still tense but rooted in place. “You don’t have to do this,” he says again, but this time, there’s something else in his voice. Something almost vulnerable.

“I know.” Your fingers trace lightly along the forming bruise, and Jack exhales, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second before they snap open again, pinning you in place.

A beat of silence stretches between you, heavy and electric.

Then, suddenly, he moves. One second, he’s standing there, looking at you like he’s fighting every instinct screaming at him to touch you, and the next, his hands are on your waist, his fingers gripping you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath fanning over your skin. “Please tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. Instead, you reach up, your fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair as you tug him down to you. Jack doesn’t hesitate. He crashes into you, his lips slanting over yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak.

The kiss is anything but gentle. It’s raw, urgent—like he’s been holding himself back for too long and he can’t anymore. His hands slide up your sides, pressing you against the door, pinning you between him and the cool wood as his lips move against yours like he’s trying to memorise the way you taste, the way you feel beneath his hands.

You gasp against his mouth, and Jack takes full advantage, his tongue sliding against yours, deepening the kiss until you feel dizzy from it. One of his hands moves up, fingers tangling in your hair as he tilts your head just right, devouring every sound you make like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, his voice hoarse, almost wrecked. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you.”

You do. Because you’ve wanted him just as much.

Jack groans softly as you tug at his shirt, your fingers slipping beneath the hem, pressing against the warm skin of his stomach.

His muscles flex under your touch, and he leans into you more, like he can’t get close enough.

Someone bangs on the door. “Occupied,” Jack snaps, barely breaking away from your lips before kissing you again, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting you slightly as he presses you tighter against the door.

Your head is spinning, your skin buzzing, and you know you should stop—should at least slow down—but then Jack pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours.

“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming out in uneven pants. “Tell me I’m not making a fucking idiot of myself here.”

Your chest tightens. “Jack—”

“Tell me you want this as much as I do.” His voice is barely a whisper now, but the weight of it crashes into you like a tidal wave.

You reach up, cupping his face gently, your thumbs brushing over the bruise already forming on his cheekbone.

“I do,” you admit, your voice steady despite the way your heart hammers in your chest. “I do, Jack.”

The relief that washes over his face is immediate. He lets out a breath he must have been holding, his grip on you softening just slightly before he kisses you again—slower this time, but just as intense, just as desperate. Like he’s trying to make up for all the time you’ve wasted pretending this wasn’t inevitable. 

Jack’s hands move lower, fingers brushing the hem of your dress before slipping beneath, calloused fingertips dragging along the sensitive skin of your thighs. The touch is light at first, almost hesitant, but when you let out a soft gasp, pressing closer, he groans.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping at the skin just beneath your ear. “You’re gonna kill me.”

His hand slides higher, knuckles teasing along the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and you shudder at the contact. Jack tilts his head, watching your face as his fingers move, testing, teasing, until he finally slips them beneath the fabric of your underwear.

You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans at the feeling. “Already so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, full of something that makes heat pool low in your stomach. “God, you’re perfect.”

His fingers find your clit, circling in slow, deliberate strokes, sending sparks of pleasure racing through you. Your head tips back against the door, a soft moan slipping from your lips, and Jack swallows the sound with a heated kiss, his movements never stopping, never slowing.

He presses against you, his free hand gripping your waist to keep you steady as he works against your clit, firmer this time. “We don’t have our supplies.” He whispers against the skin of your neck, pulling his fingers away as you let out a whine at the loss of sensation. 

“Jack—” Your voice is breathless, needy, and he shushes you with another kiss, his lips curling into a smirk against yours.

“I know, but it’s going to hurt you.” He grumbles, distracting you by sucking on your neck, sliding your underwear back into place as you shake your head. 

“It’s okay.” You coo, pulling his face away from your skin to look in his eyes. “It’ll only hurt for a little bit.” 

Jack’s expression shifts the moment the words leave your lips. That heat, that hunger—it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface—but something softer overtakes it. Concern. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles on your thigh, grounding you.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice gentler now, “I know you’re saying that, but I don’t want you hurting just to give me something.” Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat. He knows. Of course he does. You’d told him before, in hushed conversations that never felt like they mattered as much as they do now.

“I want this, Jack,” you say, and it’s the truth. But still, your body hums with the familiar tension of anticipation—of wanting and fearing in equal measure.

Jack tilts his head, watching you like he’s searching for something. Then, slowly, he leans in, pressing the softest of kisses to your lips. “Let me help, okay?” Your breath shudders out of you as he kisses a slow path down your jaw, his hands shifting—one pressing against the small of your back, the other slipping between your thighs again, fingers teasing along the damp fabric of your underwear.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, but there’s no rush in his movements now. “That’s good, baby. That’s gonna help.”

You nod, exhaling shakily. Jack hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down carefully, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. When you don’t, he kneels slightly, lifting one of your thighs over his so he can settle between your legs.

Then you watch as he brings his fingers to his lips, tongue flicking out to wet them before lowering his hand back down, dragging the slick digits along your entrance. The difference is immediate. Where tension had been bracing you for pain, Jack’s touch eases the worst of it, slick warmth helping him slide against you with more ease.

You whimper as his fingers stroke slow, deliberate circles around your entrance, never pushing, never rushing. Jack groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “That feel better?”

You nod, breathless.

“Good,” he rasps, lips brushing against yours as he moves again, teasing at your opening until, finally, he slides one finger inside. The stretch is there—but it’s different this time. Less sting, more pressure, more of the sweet, aching fullness you’d always wanted to enjoy without the pain. Jack watches your face the entire time, eyes dark and careful, his free hand stroking soothingly over your side. 

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” You exhale, body relaxing a little more, and Jack presses a kiss to your temple. 

“We don’t have to rush,” he murmurs. “I just want to make you feel good. You tell me if anything doesn’t.” His words pull a soft laugh from your throat as you glance around the small bathroom, the sound of music playing just outside reminding you exactly where you are.  Jack keeps his pace slow, his touch deliberate. He watches every shift in your expression, every shudder of your breath, like you’re the most important thing in the world.

And to him, maybe you are.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth as he moves his finger inside you, testing, gauging your reaction. “You’re doing so good for me.”

The praise sends a different kind of warmth through you, pooling in your stomach. You exhale shakily, fingers curling into his shoulders. “Jack…”

He groans at the way you say his name, tilting his head to capture your lips again. This kiss is different—deeper, slower, laced with the same patience he’s giving the rest of you. His free hand strokes up your side, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. After a moment, his movements pause. “Can I try another?” His voice is hushed, full of care, and he doesn’t move until you give him a small nod. Jack swears under his breath when he slides another finger in, moving with even more caution now, waiting for any sign of discomfort. There’s a stretch, a pressure—but not the sharp, stinging pain you were bracing for.

“Still okay?” he asks, his forehead pressed to yours.

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Mhm.” Jack exhales like he’s been holding his breath, kissing you again, his fingers moving in slow, careful strokes, coaxing pleasure from you with practiced patience.

 “That’s my girl,” he breathes against your lips. The words make your stomach tighten, pleasure curling low as he works you open, his touch easing some of the tension you didn’t realise you were still holding. Jack shifts, dragging his fingers back just enough to tease at your entrance before pushing in again, curling just right, and a soft moan escapes you before you can stop it.

His lips curl into a smirk against your skin. “There we go,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with approval. “That’s what I wanna hear.” Your cheeks burn, but Jack just kisses you again, deeper this time, like he wants to pull every sound from your lips.

“See?” he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek. “We’ll take our time. I’ll take care of you.” And with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s watching you so intently, so carefully—

You believe him.

Jack’s fingers work you open with slow, careful precision, never pushing too far, never rushing. His lips brush against your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—small, grounding touches that keep you from slipping too far into your own head.

And it’s working.

The usual tension, the worry that pain will creep in and ruin the moment, is fading. Replaced by something warmer, something sweeter. Pleasure unfurls in slow, steady waves as Jack curls his fingers inside you just right, stroking against that sensitive spot that has your breath catching in your throat.

“Jack—” His name slips out, breathless, needy, and he groans like the sound alone could undo him.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his thumb circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. “You feel okay?”

You nod, your fingers digging into his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him. “Better then okay.” You hum.

Jack smiles, tilting his head so his nose brushes yours. “I want you to let go for me,” he whispers. “Don’t hold back.” You exhale shakily, thighs trembling as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach. Jack keeps his pace steady, keeps his lips moving against yours, swallowing every little gasp, every whimper, every soft moan like they belong to him.

“You’re so perfect,” he breathes, his voice rough with want. “So beautiful when you fall apart for me.” His words, his touch, the way he’s looking at you—it’s too much. The coil in your stomach snaps, pleasure crashing over you in warm, shuddering waves. Jack groans as he feels you tighten around his fingers, his movements slowing but never stopping, working you through it, letting you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, kissing you slow, deep, reverent. “Such a pretty girl.” Your body trembles against him, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as the aftershocks leave you warm, pliant in his arms. Jack pulls his fingers from you carefully, bringing them to his lips without breaking eye contact, sucking them clean with a low groan.

The sight sends another shiver through you.

Jack smirks, kissing you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Told you I’d take care of you.” Jack doesn’t let go of you. Even as you tremble, breathless from the high he just pulled from you, he keeps his hands on your hips, grounding you, stroking soft, soothing circles into your skin.

“You still with me, baby?” His voice is rough, but there’s nothing but tenderness in the way he presses a kiss to the side of your neck.

You nod, exhaling shakily. “Yeah.”

Jack hums in approval, his lips curling into a grin against your skin. “Good.” His hands skim down, gripping your thighs, your waist, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he still is.

Your breath catches.

Jack groans at the way your body reacts, his fingers flexing on your skin. “Fuck,” he mutters. “We need to leave— I don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.” He mumbles, his pupils blown as he looks down at you, the anxiety in your chest easing as you place your hands gently on the sides of his face, shooting him the most reassuring smile you can muster. 

“I want you inside of me.” You almost laugh at the way Jack chokes a little, his mouth falling open as he tries to shake his head, “I’m serious, Jack. I trust you.” His mouth opens and closes, the words failing him as he moves to pull away, your hands holding him steadily, “Please fuck me, Jack.” He doesn’t need you to say anything else before he’s positioning you in front of the mirror with practiced ease. He stands behind you, his body pressed against yours, his hands roaming slow and deliberate.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over the shell of your ear. “Look how perfect you are for me.”

Your cheeks burn, but Jack doesn’t let you turn away. His hands slip beneath the hem of your dress, pushing it up inch by inch until he can pull it over your head, leaving you bare.

“Fuck,” he groans, eyes raking over you in the reflection. His hands slide over your stomach, your thighs, possessive and reverent all at once. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

One hand drifts lower, between your legs, teasing, testing. His breath shudders as he feels how wet you still are.

“You still want this?” His voice is hoarse, strained with restraint.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, your own breath coming in uneven pants. “Yes.” Jack lets out a shaky exhale, his forehead pressing against yours for a moment before he steps back just enough to push his jeans down, kicking them aside. Then, he does something that has your stomach twisting with anticipation.

He lifts his hand, palm up, and looks at you through the mirror, his lips curving into a lazy, knowing smirk. “Spit in my hand, baby.” Heat floods through you at the request, at the rasp of his voice, dark and needy. You hesitate for only a second before doing as he asks, watching as your spit pools in his palm. Jack groans, eyes darkening as he brings his hand down, slicking himself up with slow, teasing strokes. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he mutters, squeezing the base of his cock before lining himself up behind you.

His free hand returns to your waist, gripping you firmly as he leans in, lips brushing against your ear. “Keep watching,” he murmurs, voice thick with need.

Then, he pushes in.

The stretch is slow, careful, but still enough to steal the breath from your lungs, your eyes squeezing shut as he rubs a soft hand over your back. Jack groans, his fingers tightening on your waist as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you.

“Fuck, I’m sorry” he breathes, forehead pressing to the back of your shoulder.  You whimper, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as your body adjusts, the fullness almost overwhelming. Jack stills, holding himself back, his other hand continuing to rub slow, soothing circles against your skin.

“You okay?” His voice is softer now, laced with patience, with care.

You swallow, exhaling a shaky breath before nodding. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Move, Jack.” 

Jack pulls back slightly before thrusting in again, setting a slow, deliberate pace, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Look at how good you take me.” And when you do—when you see the way your bodies fit together, the way he holds you so tightly, like he never wants to let go—

Jack's thrusts become deeper, more urgent, his fingers digging into your hips as he chases his own release, and you can feel the tension building again—an undeniable pull, something that tells you this is where everything is supposed to fall into place. Your breath quickens, your hands gripping the counter so tightly you think your knuckles might crack, but you don’t care. It’s all heat and friction, and the way he fills you, the way his body presses against yours—it’s all so perfect, so desperate.

And then, suddenly, a sharp knock on the door breaks through the haze of desire.

"Hey," a voice calls from the other side, cutting through the charged silence like a knife. "Can you guys not fuck in the bathroom?"

Your body freezes, Jack’s movements halting just as quickly. You both stare at the door, eyes wide, hearts still racing, but now, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief swirling inside you.

"Luke," Jack groans, his voice thick with frustration, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

The voice on the other side of the door doesn't sound particularly concerned. "I’m just saying," Luke continues, "there’s a whole party out here. The bathroom's not your private fuck zone."

You can't help it. You burst into a laugh, your body shaking with the absurdity of it all. Jack lets out a low groan, pulling out slowly and backing away from you, frustration and amusement both warring on his face.

"Alright," Jack says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "We’ll wrap it up, Luke, just give us a damn second." You turn to face Jack, both of you still catching your breath, and you share a look, the tension from the moment still hanging thick in the air—but now, at least, it’s softened by the ridiculousness of Luke’s timing.

"Can you believe that?" you laugh, wiping a tear from your eye.

Jack shakes his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Only you and I would get interrupted in the middle of something like this."

Another knock.

"Seriously, guys! The party’s waiting. Come on!"

You both laugh again, the situation breaking the heavy atmosphere as you gather yourselves, still breathless but with a grin. “Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, reaching for your clothes. “We’ll be out in a minute, Luke. Don’t start a riot.”

As you both adjust yourselves, Jack leans in for one last kiss, soft and full of promise.

"I guess we’ll just have to finish this later," he murmurs against your lips.

You smile, a playful glint in your eyes. "You better believe it." Jack pauses for a moment his eyes catching his own reflection in the mirror as he winces lightly. 

“I really hope your brother isn’t still here.” 

[bewaryofpity]

please can I request fluff prompt 16: “Move in with me.” with quinn hughes 💛

thank you for requesting ! 🤍

16. “Move in with me.”

.

Quinn liked his own space, his own quiet, his own routine — so much so that, right now, he found himself forced to reconsider. 

It had been one of those days he couldn’t wait to see end. Bad games, bad practices on the road and he was beating himself up more than he had to because he was part of a team, he wasn’t alone in this. Or at least that was what you told him over the phone. They were simple words, nothing out of the ordinary and nothing you had never said before, but somehow this time it was different. He missed you —your touch, your comfort, his side of your bed, the small space in your closet just for him, his toothbrush next to yours. He missed you.

And when he landed back in Vancouver in the middle of the night, the last thing he wanted was to come back to an empty apartment. A cold bed without you to wrap himself around for warmth, without you kissing his face good morning, a lonely breakfast without you hugging his side— he couldn’t bear that.

Before he could think twice, he was already driving to your place. It was nearly two in the morning, and you were surely asleep, but he couldn’t wait for tomorrow, his heart could never wait for you. 

As quiet as possible, he moved around your apartment with ease, scared of waking you up. He was quick, not wasting any more minutes to be close to you and changed into the spare pajamas he kept at your place. Quinn slid between the warm sheets, pulling the comforter up to his chin with a contented sigh. He reached for you, his hand combing through your hair and you nuzzled into him in your sleep. 

“Quinn? What time is it?” You hummed, confused and drowsy from sleep.

“It’s me baby, don’t worry.” He whispered. 

He lightly traced his fingers down your cheek, watching the way you leaned into his palm, the moonlight casting a delicate glow on you through the blinds. Your eyes fluttered open as he ran his thumb along your lower lip, his fingers trembling slightly, almost hesitant, almost apologetic for waking you up. 

“Why’re you here?”

“I missed you.” He said, his voice soft. His hand rubbed soothing circles into the small of your back, so softly, so gentle and so sweet, while you pressed a kiss in the middle of his chest.

“And you couldn’t wait for tomorrow?”

“Nope.” 

You let out a breathy laugh as he dragged out the p. “I have the day off tomorrow, well today, we could—”

“Move in with me.” He interrupted. You were wide awake now, taken aback by his words.

You and Quinn haven’t been dating for that long to be thinking about moving in, but it wasn’t something you hadn’t thought about before. You missed him when he was away, not only during roadies, but also when he went to practice or a game or when both of your schedules didn’t align. You thought that the idea of moving in so soon in the relationship was a bold move, but you felt so much better, so much lighter when he was with you. “Yeah, okay.” 

You sealed your promise with a small kiss to his lips and, cupping your cheek, he leaned down to kiss you again when you parted, lips curling in a smile. He will get to do this everyday, kiss you, hold you, love you, finally come home to you.

[wizard-of-interesting-failure]

"I was planning to test all the possible divergence points rigorously and in order, but I'm sick of playing this out the same way. Let's just do this one now."

"I- what? No you haven't, nothing else has been changing."

"Not for you, maybe- wait. How do you know I'm in a time loop?"

"You're in a time loop?"

"YOU'RE in a time loop?"

The space between you begins to crackle. Her face seems to fuzz into static white noise, as does the scenery behind her. You think you can see her mouth move, but no sound reaches your ears. Your senses are overtaken, and you black out.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

"You're in a time loop!"

"...what on Earth are you talking about?"

So much for that, you suppose.

---TOO MANY LOOPS LATER---

Your routine has changed from asking her out again to yelling that at her and leaving. It's a crowded park, so you get a few funny looks, but your sense of embarrassment has long since evaporated.

"How the hell did you know that??"

Your heart skips a beat. She stands there looking confused. It takes you a moment to realise it wasn't her that spoke; a stranger, someone you've never bothered paying any attention to, runs up to the two of you with a look of incredulity on her face.

The space between you begins to crackle. Her face seems to fuzz into static white noise, as does the scenery behind her. This time, you run.

It doesn't help.

---TOO MANY LOOPS LATER, AGAIN---

Paranoia has consumed you. You obsessively chart every movement of every person in the city you can, looking for the slightest deviations.

Finally, you find one. An old lady is running late for her doctor's appointment.

You tail her for the rest of the day. Almost no other changes occur. She still gets home and realises she's forgotten her keys, albeit slightly later. She spends slightly less time reading hunky magazines. She has dinner at the same time, goes to bed at the same time.

You never find out whether she doesn't realise she's in a time loop or her delay was caused by something else you missed.

---TOO MANY LOOPS LATER, YET AGAIN---

There's a car crash on the morning news.

There's never a car crash on the morning news.

The driver of the car died instantly on impact. The driver of the truck he swerved into head-on is baffled and traumatised. The whole day is a wash; everything changes, and you're pretty sure you know who the other looper was. Not much you can do about it now.

You sneak into the morgue anyway.

The man's body is in bad shape, but otherwise normal. What else did you expect? Yours doesn't hold changes either; only memories remain.

A thought strikes you. You grab a handsaw from a nearby table.

There's something in his brain.

You don't get a good look. The space between you begins to crackle. You swing your arm through it in frustration. Nothing happens. Another thought strikes you. You dunk your head into the still-forming static and black out.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

The hospital turns you away at the door. You start researching how to fake a cerebral hemorrhage.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

The ambulance quickly determines that you are not unconscious and show no current symptoms. You are held for observation and scheduled for further testing tomorrow.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You start researching how to fake a concussion.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You are not a good actor. You start researching how to safely give yourself a concussion.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

Ow. You start taking acting classes.

---TOO MANY LOOPS LATER; YOU WERE A REALLY BAD ACTOR---

They turn on the MRI machine. A searing pain pierces your skull and you black out.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You tell them you have a pacemaker this time.

A doctor shows you the CT scan results. You're ready this time, just in case, so you make out something large and octahedral before the static takes you.

The doctor doesn't seem to notice.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You ask not to see the scan yourself. The doctor describes it to you. She says there's a foreign object in your skull, but no sign of how it could have gotten there. She sounds baffled.

You ask what it looks like. She says she can't tell much, but it looks large and octahedral.

A beat passes. She asks if you're okay. She sounds sympathetic underneath the confusion.

You grab the scan and stare at it out of sheer spite.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You spend the whole loop in bed with a splitting headache.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You spend the whole loop at home with a slightly less splitting headache.

---TEN LOOPS LATER---

You ask if it would be possible to have it removed. They say no; your brain tissue has grown around it and removal would be lethal. You ask if it would be possible to just open you up and take a look at it. They look suitably appalled.

They keep you for observation overnight, for lack of anything else to do. You show no symptoms; why would you? They're still scratching their heads when you black out for the night.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You start looking for doctors who are less scrupulous.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You wake up in a back alley with all your possessions missing. You start looking for doctors in a scrupulousness sweet spot.

---FOUR LOOPS LATER---

You've finally found someone who won't ask too many questions when presented with enough cash. They tell you they can get a procedure room booked under false pretences no earlier than tomorrow. You start casing the hospital.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

Digging through the hospital's logs late at night, you find that someone was brought in mid-morning with a piece of rebar through their leg.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You track them down and set their house on fire at 6AM. The doctor says they can get a procedure room booked under false pretences no earlier than tomorrow. Digging through the hospital's logs late at night, you find that someone was brought in mid-morning with third-degree burns and smoke inhalation. You're not sure why you thought this was a good idea.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You leave a package full of money on their doorstep with a note promising more if they stay home today. The doctor says they can get a procedure room booked under false pretences no earlier than tomorrow. Digging through the hospital's logs late at night, you find that a kidney transplant was performed in the procedure room instead.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

Digging through the hospital's logs late at night, you find that a kidney transplant was delayed due to a lack of facilities. You find that seven other surgeries were also delayed or transferred to hospitals in other cities due to a lack of facilities. You find that no less than ten people were brought in mid-morning with various construction-related injuries.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You follow Rebar Guy to his place of work. It is an absolute mockery of safety standards. You watch as a crane malfunctions and collapses onto the half-constructed building. You finally dimly recall seeing a whole fleet of ambulances on one of your further-ranging walks, before you settled into a routine to give yourself something to cling to.

You sneak in amidst the chaos in an attempt to inspect the crane. It is buried and you cannot reach it.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You set the construction site on fire at 6AM. The doctor says they can get a procedure room booked under false pretences today. You knew this was a good idea.

Laying on the operating table with your skull cut open, the doctor describes the object. It is large and octahedral. You restrain yourself from commenting. It is metallic and smooth with no signs of joinery or any indication of assemblage. It is featureless save for one thing: A minutely raised circular portion just on the border where the object disappears into your brain tissue. He says it looks like a button.

You don't ask him to press it.

---TOO MANY LOOPS LATER---

You hear a voice yelling, "You're in a time loop!". You discreetly track down the source. It's not someone you recognise. You follow them around all day. They keep yelling, but nobody responds. You wonder how many times you were in their place.

---TOO MANY LOOPS LATER---

You consider asking the doctor to mark it with a scalpel or something, just to see if it carries over.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

It does.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You realise this doesn't help you in any way.

---WAY, WAY TOO MANY LOOPS LATER---

You ask him to press the button.

---ONE LOOP LATER---

You actively check the date for what seems like the first time in forever.

It's the same.

Your house feels claustrophobic all of a sudden. You don't know what to do next. You could get him to press it again, like that would do anything? You could get him to remove it, like that wouldn't just kill you, maybe permanently? It's too much. It's not going to work. It's never going to work. You don't realise how high the tower of your hope was until it collapses underneath you and you feel like you'll never stop falling.

You run outside and scream.

Heads turn towards you.

Inexplicably, they start clapping and cheering.

A man steps forward and offers a handshake. "Welcome to the loop, man!" he says.

You shake his hand dumbly.

He explains what they think they know so far. Everyone is supposed to be in the same loop, but most of the devices aren't behaving properly. Or the synchronisation is an off by default feature and the random overlaps are the bug. Or something about tachyon fluctuations. You ask what points to any of these ideas. He says it's baseless speculation; he doesn't even know what a tachyon is, he just heard about them on Doctor Who once. He grins infectiously, like this is a joke he's told a thousand times and he still thinks it's the funniest thing in the world. Maybe he has. Maybe it is. You grin back.

You accept some offered snacks and hot chocolate, and a pin with "JUST AWAKENED" on it in large font; it'll let people know to give you space if you don't approach them and help if you do, apparently. It seems like there's a whole system to optimally rearrange everything in the opening hours of the day, but when you ask about it you're waved off; worry about that later, you get a week to acclimate yourself before you start being asked to get involved in logistics, they say.

You ask after the woman who kicked off your..."awakening!", someone helpfully chimes in. Awakening. Alright, that. Several people recognise the name; one offers to go get her. You say to ask her to meet you in the park in an hour. They say sure. You start walking.

You see "awakened" people doing all sorts of things, but what catches your ear is a conversation with someone who is very confused. Not everyone is awake yet, you guess. It sounds like every "unawakened" person has a looper assigned to explain the situation to them every morning, although sometimes one person handles a whole group. Maybe they tweak the process over time to try and make it more efficient?

You shake your head; not time for logistics yet. Though you can't help but wonder who was assigned to you, and how many times they had to give you the talk. Would it be awkward if you met? Would it be impolite to seek them out? Have they- it hits you that it was probably the guy who stepped up to talk to you. He might know you better than you know yourself. He probably tuned that tachyon bit until you found it comforting. It really might be the funniest thing in the world to you, at least at this moment.

You suppress a shudder. It's hardly fair to feel weirded out, you think, then you think you've probably thought that before, here, pre-awakening, and you suppress another shudder. At least he gave you space to think about it all. It'll be better tomorrow, when you remember him, too.

You reach the park.

She's already there; she's wearing a different outfit than you remember. She's probably been awakened for much longer than you; she did seem to have her head on pretty straight about tackling the whole thing.

Silence descends. You stare at each other. You imagine she's not entirely sure why you called her out here. You're not either, until suddenly you are.

You ask her out.

She turns you down.

You try to give your usual response, but both of you collapse into gales of laughter before you can.

It's like a spell breaking. Fighting down chuckle aftershocks, you talk a little about your respective experiences. She hasn't been here that much longer; only a few months. Those are just thirty-loop periods now, with the actual calendar unchanging as it is. They keep time by memory consensus and post it up every day; it's probably correct, although the possibility of errors creeping in can't be completely discounted.

You both stuck to the rejection script, but for different reasons; you out of habit, her in an effort to control for confounding variables. It's weird, thinking about the same things happening so many times for completely different reasons. You wonder aloud about all the versions of you from her loop, this loop, and all the other ones. Are they dead? Did they ever exist?

She stops you and tells you to go take Existential Processing 101 during your first week before getting into this; with so much time and interest in speculation on their shared experiences, there is an extremely extensive canon of ideas and established reasoning to go through in order to catch up. Oh, and don't forget to check the loop calendar for the current date; that's your Loopday, and if you don't remember it then it's unlikely anyone else will. People usually regret forgetting, especially anyone whose regular birthday was lopped off by calendar standardisation.

January 31st. Ah. You'd better make a note of it, then.

Conversation gradually peters out. You get the sense she's still in a curious explorative phase of her own adaptation, and the conversation with you was a welcome novelty and diversion but she'd like to get back to her life now, please. You excuse yourself with a smile and a wave that she returns; you'll probably chat again another time, but it's pretty clearly not going anywhere romantic. God, how does that even work now with the infinite time horizon and lack of aging? Somehow, you suppose; if you weren't convinced that humans could adapt to anything during your solo looping, you certainly are now.

You spend the rest of the day wandering. It's a weird mix of the environment you've been in forever, things that you'd guess have to be put up every day, and things that you reckon were probably placed on a whim with the knowledge that they'd be gone tomorrow. It's not always easy to tell the difference between those last two.

You wonder about other cities, other countries, and the world. You wonder what they're all doing with all this time. You wonder what you want to do with it. Maybe they have a program for getting people up into space for a day? It probably has a long waiting list, if it exists. If it doesn't, it sounds like a good idea to you. But it's not time to worry about logistics yet.

You wonder what the thing in your brain is. You wonder if people know it can be marked; you think they probably do. You guess it's being used to store data that's important enough to go to all that trouble for. It's not time to worry about logistics yet.

You're assuming interacting with it doesn't crash the loop any more; you've been talking to people about it all day, after all. You wonder why that mechanism existed and how it worked in the first place; probably a safety of some kind and probably based on the thing detecting itself or knowing about another one of it, you reckon. It didn't trigger when you heard it described, after all, or when you only suspected other people. You guess it had a fairly rigorous proof threshold. As for why, who knows? Maybe your brain would have turned to soup otherwise. Maybe it would have made awakening too easy. Maybe it would have let you acquire ultimate mastery over time and dethrone the gods. There's probably been a lot of speculation already.

You wonder whether they've tried removing the device from anyone. You hope not, but you suspect it's probably happened somewhere. You're not going to ask about that until much later, you think.

Your wanderings bring you home around sunset, strawberry crepe in hand from a dessert stall you passed along the way. True to their word, the "JUST AWAKENED" button worked as advertised; seems like everyone's been where you are right now and it engenders a lot of sympathy. You wonder who makes them every day and how. It's not time to worry about logistics yet.

You follow your old time loop routine in the evening. It's comforting and familiar where it used to be a piece of too-small driftwood in an endless flat sea. It contrasts nicely with the massive influx of novelty that the rest of the day represented; you scarfed that down desperately as your hunger for it made itself known, but you can't feed a starving woman anything too rich or plentiful or else they'll get sick. You realise that's why the newbie pin was so important.

At exactly the right time, you begin to tire. You make your way to your bedroom, lay down exactly as you have for countless years now, and sleep.

---SEVEN LOOPS LATER---

You begin to live.

Being stuck in a time loop for so long, you remember it clearly. And the loop was on the day she rejected you too. You didn’t have to, as it will loop back anyway, but you responded as you always did. You can already hear her rejection in your mind. “Ah it’s okay I-” “Sure why not.”

[dmitriene]

happy late valentine's day !

valentine's day is not simon's ghost riley best holiday, at all, not only that celebrating something is overall not the most preferable thing to him, there's also an issue on thinking, or even making a gift, afraid of making the person upset with what his mind comes up, or even dislike, he does his ever best to avoid even getting in a monologues of upcoming holidays and any possible plans for them.

in relationship with you, he get's stressed to the bone, no, you don't purse him with a long list of the things you want him to get you, nor you demand them either, after all, his bank card is always in your pretty purse and between your fingers, getting swiped here and there if you want to buy yourself some little treat, clothes, lingerie, change of furniture, cosmetics, anything you want, you get, and simon doesn't even blinks twice when he gets a message that you spent another hundred, in less than five minutes.

but even then, simon longed to be the one to make you a gift, to make this day really, really special to you, to see your eyes round wide and twinkling with giddy happiness, to feel the endless press of your glossy lips pecking all over his patchy stubble cheeks and jaw, over his wrinkling, crooked nose, rapidly fluttering, crinkled eyes, stopping with deepening, languid caress against the grin splitted, chapped surface of his own lips.

he get's you a jewelry, perhaps not a very creative choice, but you still jump on your feet and wind your hands around his neck, hanging off his body with high pitched giggles right beneath his ear, making him fumble with the square, bow decorated box with just one hand, the other cupped right beneath your plump ass, holding you securely, and when he finally reveals what waits for you inside, your heart leaps and flutters anew.

you know, it's just a bracelet, some might say at seeing your eyes start to glisten so silly, but it's not only gets in your taste with the color and design, you catch it gleaming right beneath the rooms light, the embroidery of your shared initials, right on the inside, where it would be pressed against your fluttering pulse and hidden from curious eyes of people around, just your size, fitting your wrist without slipping away, only comfortably loose, and it's a gift for a price of the whole world.

it's adorable, how simon looks at you as you babble out excitedly, reaching out to take the bracelet and get it around your wrist almost too hurriedly, he's smitten, so hard, calloused fingers scrubbing at his stubbled jaw to try and hide the wide toothed grin he wears, mixed with a light sheepishness he almost manages to hide, eyes such a lovely hazel, entranced, squinted in a smile and accented with deepening crows feet, and oh, you want him to know just how much you appreciate the gesture.

the valentine's day ends with your brains pounded out, even though your first plan was to get down on your knees and take simon's cock deep in your throat, make him feel just how much you appreciate every inch of him, engulfed tight in the wet tightness of your soft, eager mouth, letting your tongue do the worship, but he got you swept off your feet and carried straight to the bedroom, spread out over the tangled linens and wearing nothing but the bracelet, all responsive, arching, reaching, keening his name again and again.

simon had come a long way, and your sharp nails tangle in the cropped hairs at the back of his head, anchoring, petting, moaning out in agreement when he grunts that you're his, a declaration, how much he adores you, a strained, guttural whisper, body strained, hard as a steel, overwhelmed, shaking at each trust, as he pounds into your squelching cunt rapid and unhinged, ravenous, completely, holding your frame flush against his, panting in your ear, kissing over each feature of yours sloppily.

the next morning glows up your tangled limbs and silly, absolutely lovestruck giggles and chuckles, faces still hadn't lost their luminous smiles, even with his back stinging from the nail scraped scarlet scratches, and a pulse between your still weak, quivering thighs, hands wrapped around each other, unable to pull away for even imaginable second, and even the sun gets blinded by the dazzle of your love.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[just-aake]

Detecting Love Part 3

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 3 to Detecting Love. Sometimes being able to see lies isn't the only way to know the truth.

Part 1 | Part 2

Warnings: fluff, light angst, slight violence

Words: 6011

Everybody lies.

It’s a skill everyone picks up from the moment they understand the world around them—instinctive, reflexive, necessary. 

Some might even say it’s the glue that holds society together, smoothing out interactions, saving feelings, keeping secrets.

Because lying is one of the surest ways to get what they want.

And when you’re the one person who can see every lie, it means you’re also the one possible thing standing in the way of what they want. 

Your power has been with you for as long as you can remember, an ever-present weight you’ve learned to carry. You’ve adjusted, adapted, built your life around it. Every conversation, every interaction—filtered through the crimson glow of deception that only you can see.

But “seeing” is the crucial part of your ability.

Which is why, at this moment, stripped of your sight, you find yourself completely at Natasha’s mercy.

The soft cloth tied around your eyes steals your vision, replacing the world with darkness. You lean back against the armrest of the sofa, letting yourself sink into the plush cushions, the absence of sight sharpening your other senses.

A soft rustling sound. The clink of items being placed on the coffee table. Then, the telltale shift of weight as Natasha settles onto the sofa beside you.

You reach out blindly, fingers stretching toward where you think she is. There’s a shift—so subtle, so deliberate—and instead of warm skin, your fingertips grasp at nothing but air.

Your hand drops onto the cushion with a quiet huff.

“You know,” you mutter, tilting your head in her direction, “this isn’t exactly what I imagined when you asked if you could blindfold me.”

A melodic chuckle answers you, warm and teasing. 

And then, a gentle touch—her hand finding yours, fingers sliding between yours in a slow, deliberate motion. The heat of her palm against your own sends a small thrill up your spine.

And then she tugs.

You’re pulled forward, your balance shifting unexpectedly. Your free hand instinctively reaches out, fingers splaying against the back of the sofa just in time to steady yourself.

The sudden proximity makes your breath hitch. 

Even without sight, you can feel her—warmth radiating from her body, the faint scent of something so distinctly her lingering in the air between you. 

The soft exhale of breath ghosts over your lips.

And finally, the press of her mouth against yours.

It’s slow at first, a testing, teasing thing. A mere brush of lips, then another. 

You hum in approval, leaning in to deepen the kiss, but just as you begin to chase the sensation, she pulls away—just enough to be out of reach.

You frown, lips still parted. 

A quiet chuckle rumbles from just beside you, her presence shifting slightly as she dodges out of the way.

“Was that what you were thinking about?” Natasha’s voice is playful, laced with amusement.

You chuckle, shaking your head slightly. 

“More or less,” you admit, voice low. You tilt forward again, intent on finding her.

Only to be met with empty space. 

You sigh in exasperation, lips jutting out in an exaggerated pout. 

Natasha’s quiet laughter follows, rich and teasing, a warm contrast to your supposed frustration.

Then, she shifts, as smooth and quiet as the expert spy she is. 

A presence—suddenly close, just beside your ear, and a breath of warmth that sends a subtle shiver down your spine.

“Unfortunately,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with amusement, “I did have something else planned first.”

Before you can react, a gentle but firm nudge pushes you back into your original position. You huff in mock protest, but there’s no real resistance. 

Instead, you settle back against the sofa, patience threading through your posture as you listen to the subtle sounds of movement—the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of utensils, the faint scrape of ceramic against wood.

Then, Natasha speaks again.

“Open up.”

A brow arches instinctively, curiosity flickering in the absence of sight, but you obey nonetheless. Lips parting slightly, you wait. 

The moment the food touches your tongue, you process the flavors—unexpected, slightly off balance, but not bad exactly. 

You chew thoughtfully, trying to find the right words, as you now realize why Natasha had spent the last few hours in your kitchen while also forbidding you from entering the area.

“Mmm, oh, that’s…that was, uh…that tasted pretty good.” 

A beat of silence. Then, a soft exhale, barely containing amusement.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Natasha states flatly.

You grin, tilting your head in her direction, unbothered at being caught.

“Hey, between the two of us, who’s the one who can actually prove whether I’m lying?”

A featherlight touch brushes against your cheek—at the edge of the blindfold, her fingers tracing along the fabric. Then, a low chuckle, close and intimate.

“Right now,” she murmurs, “I’d say my odds are better than yours.”

You roll your eyes behind the blindfold, a grin still tugging at your lips. 

“Alright, Romanoff, what’s next?”

There’s a slight pause before you hear her retrieve another bite-sized offering from the table. Then, once again—

“Open up.”

You oblige, and the moment the different food hits your tongue, a genuine hum of appreciation escapes you.

“Oh, wow. That’s actually really tasty.” 

You don’t need your sight to know she’s suspicious. It’s in the split second of silence, the charged pause that follows your reaction. 

Then—an offended scoff and a shove against your shoulder. It’s light and playful but enough to push you back slightly. 

You react on instinct. Before she can retreat, your hand darts out, fingers wrapping around her wrist. 

A surprised inhale escapes her as you tug—not forceful, just enough to unbalance her.

The next thing you know, she’s half on your lap, her weight settling against you as she catches herself with her hands on your shoulders.

For a moment, there’s only stillness. Warmth pressing against warmth, shared breaths mingling in the space between.

“I’m not lying,” you say softly, your voice steady with sincerity.

You tilt your head slightly, aligning with where you think her face is, wishing—just for a second—that you could see her.

But then, she moves.

Her hands rise, cupping your face gently, her palms warm against your skin. A second later, her forehead presses against yours, grounding you in the closeness of the moment.

“I know,” Natasha whispers.

And you believe her.

A part of you aches to look into her eyes, to see the truth in them. To witness firsthand the way her gaze would soften, the way the world itself would fade in the presence of her unwavering adoration. 

But the blindfold remains—a barrier, yet somehow making every other sensation sharper, more visceral.

You exhale, a slow, teasing smile forming. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” you murmur, “but was the blindfold really necessary for this?”

There’s a slight shift with Natasha turning her head from you as if debating whether to admit something.

“Trust me,” Natasha mutters, her voice lower, more conspiratorial. “My cooking has gotten to the point where it may be somewhat edible, but the presentation definitely needs some work.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles in your throat.

She shifts again, her nose grazing against yours now, a barely-there touch that sends a flutter through your chest. 

And then, in the smallest of murmurs, as her lips brush yours.

“Plus,” she whispers, the words melting into your skin, “I could do this.”

Just as you anticipate the full press of her lips, the warmth vanishes.

You lean forward instinctively, chasing after the kiss that never lands. Your breath stirs the space between you, lips parting slightly in expectation, but Natasha has already moved away.

A quiet chuckle—low and knowing—echoes from a different angle now, just slightly off from where she had been before.

Your brow furrows. 

“You’re playing dirty,” you mutter, tilting your head as if that might help you locate her.

Another soft laugh. Then—

A featherlight kiss at the corner of your jaw.

Your breath catches, but before you can react, she’s gone again, retreating before you can pinpoint her exact position.

You turn slightly in the direction of the touch, but then—

A kiss, just beneath your ear.

It’s brief, teasing, her lips barely making contact before they disappear again. Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to catch her, to pull her back where you want her.

Then—

A press of warmth at the hollow of your throat.

Your exhale stutters, heat curling low in your stomach. You tilt your chin up, attempting to track her movements, but Natasha is already gone, shifting to another spot before you can react.

Then, a whisper, her breath fanning over your collarbone—so close but maddeningly out of reach.

“Having trouble, detka?”

You let out a quiet growl of frustration, reaching blindly in her direction, but she slips past your grasp once again. Your pulse pounds beneath your skin, every teasing press of her lips winding you tighter, pushing you further into a mix of heat and exasperation.

“I swear to God, Romanoff—”

Her laugh is like silk and fire, smooth but entirely too pleased with itself.

Another kiss, this time against the side of your throat. A sharp inhale escapes you, but before you can turn toward her, she’s gone again.

Your hands finally shoot up, reaching out in the dark, determined to catch her this time. 

But Natasha is faster. 

A whisper of movement, the ghost of her presence shifting away just before your fingers can close around her.

Your head falls back against the sofa, a frustrated groan escaping your lips. 

“I really hate you right now.”

She hums in amusement, the sound vibrating against your skin as she hovers close, just beyond reach.

“No, you don’t,” she counters easily, seeing through your lie.

You exhale sharply, trying to school your breathing. 

“Debatable,” you grumble, though you know a red aura is probably around you at the moment.

Warm hands suddenly cradle your jaw, fingers tracing along your skin with deliberate tenderness. 

You barely have time to process the shift before she finally, finally presses her lips fully against yours, capturing you in a slow, intoxicating kiss.

The tension in your body melts instantly, frustration replaced by the relief of having her exactly where you want her. Your hands find her waist this time, pulling her in with no intention of letting her slip away again.

When she eventually pulls back, just enough to break the kiss but still close enough that your breaths mingle, she smirks against your lips.

“See?” she murmurs. “The blindfold was necessary.”

You shake your head with a breathless laugh, fingers tightening at her sides.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still hopelessly in love with me.”

You sigh dramatically at the truth of her words.

“Yeah, yeah. Now kiss me properly already.”

This time, when she does, she doesn’t pull away.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The steady hum of the AC sends another chill through the room, making you shiver involuntarily. Rubbing your hands together for warmth, you glance down at the document in front of you before shifting your gaze to the woman sitting across your desk. 

“You want to transfer to another department?” you ask, scanning the request form. “Are you sure?”

The woman nods without hesitation—at least, on the surface.

“It’s been weeks since our break-up, but he’s still trying to get me to take him back,” she explains, frustration laced in her tone. “It’s getting to the point where I can’t get anything done without him hovering over my shoulder.”

Your frown deepens, arms crossing as you lean forward slightly.

“Do you actually want to leave your department?”

For a split second, there’s a flicker of hesitation, a moment where her expression wavers. Then, in a much quieter voice, she mumbles, “Yes.”

And there it is.

The red glow appears instantly, surrounding her like a warning flare only you can see. A lie—one spoken more to convince herself than anyone else.

You sigh, setting the paper down.

“Look,” you say gently, “if he’s harassing you, you shouldn’t be the one who has to uproot your life to avoid him.” You meet her gaze firmly, making sure she understands. “Let me talk to him. If he still won’t leave you alone, I’ll transfer him to a different facility. Does that sound okay?”

She hesitates. Then, a slight nod.

No red glow this time.

Instead, relief crosses her face, and you nod in confirmation. 

“Alright. That’s what we’ll do.” 

She thanks you quickly, standing and heading toward the door. As you turn in your chair to discard the request form, you hear a sudden, surprised gasp.

Then, almost shyly, a mumbled greeting before hurried footsteps scurry away.

Without looking, you already know why.

“Everything okay?”

Natasha’s voice fills the room, smooth and unmistakable.

You glance back to see her stepping inside, the door clicking shut behind her as she gestures over her shoulder.

“That’s the third time I’ve seen her in your office this week.”

A teasing smirk tugs at your lips when you realize she’s been taking note of such things. You lean forward, elbows resting on your desk.

“Are you jealous?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, unimpressed. Without hesitation, she tosses the hoodie in her hands straight at your face, hitting you squarely.

You let out a muffled laugh, peeling the fabric away.

“Don’t tease me,” she warns playfully, settling against the edge of your desk. “Especially after I took the time to bring this to you.”

You hum in amusement, slipping on the hoodie. Immediately, warmth envelops you, and with it, her familiar, comforting scent. 

Natasha watches as you sink into the hoodie’s embrace, snuggling into the fabric like it’s second nature. There’s a pause before she quirks a brow.

“How come you keep forgetting to bring your own?” 

You glance up, smirk never faltering.

“Because I love yours so much.”

She scoffs, shaking her head, but the slight smile curling at the corner of her lips betrays any real irritation. Her gaze flickers downward as she plucks the paper smoothly from your hand. 

“A transfer?” she muses, raising a brow.

You exhale, leaning back into your chair. 

“Just some workplace romance drama.”

Your fingers find their way to her thigh, tracing slow, idle circles against the fabric of her pants. 

“You know how relationships between coworkers always get complicated.”

Natasha smirks, tilting her head slightly. 

“Is there something you’re trying to say here?”

You grin, about to tease her further, but a sharp beep interrupts the moment.

Natasha pulls out her comm device, checking it briefly before shutting it off with a sigh.

“I have to go,” she murmurs. “The team’s probably already at the hangar by now.”

“A new mission?”

She nods. 

“Shouldn’t take too long. I’ll probably be back for dinner.”

A playful look of apprehension crosses your face.

“Oh, uh…did you want to try cooking again tonight, or—?”

She shoves your shoulder lightly, making you laugh as she huffs in faux irritation, crossing her arms.

Still grinning, you scoot closer, uncrossing her arms just so you can hold her hands instead.

“I’m kidding,” you assure her. “I’ll wait for you to come back, and we can make something together. Sound good?”

Natasha exhales, her faux annoyance melting away into something softer. She nods, giving you a brief eye-roll before letting you hold onto her hands.

“Alright.”

You squeeze her fingers gently, tugging them slightly so she focuses on you again. Your thumb glides over the back of her hand in slow, soothing strokes. Then, the words leave your lips, unfiltered and true.

“I love you.”

It’s soft—barely more than a whisper—but woven with every ounce of affection you feel for her.

Her eyes search yours, something flickering behind her gaze. Then, she lifts a hand to your cheek, her thumb brushing along your skin as she leans in. 

The kiss is slow, lingering, and warm. Careful in a way that makes your chest ache.

When she pulls back, she hovers close enough that you can still feel her breath against your lips.

Her mouth parts slightly as if she wants to say something—as if she wants to say it back.

Your heart hammers at the thought, and for the first time, instead of fear, a surge of anticipation appears within you—to hear those words fall from her lips.

But she doesn’t say them.

The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken. And then, you exhale softly, filling the silence with your own quiet plea.

“Stay safe, okay?”

Natasha’s expression softens. A small, knowing smile lifts the corner of her lips as she whispers back, “You too.”

She squeezes your hand again before pulling away, slipping effortlessly back into her composed exterior. As she heads for the door, you watch her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering in your hands.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“I swear I didn’t go near her this whole week.”

You barely suppress the sigh threatening to escape as you lean back in your chair, watching the man across from you. He sits rigidly, hands clasped together on the desk, his face carefully composed. But it doesn’t matter how well he masks his emotions.

Because the truth is written all over him. Or rather, it glows.

A constant red aura surrounds him, pulsing faintly as he continues to defend himself. His voice is smooth, and his delivery is nearly flawless—he might have been able to convince someone else if he had to. Maybe even turn the situation in his favor.

Too bad he has to face you instead.

You drum your fingers lightly against the desk, exhaling quietly. You’ve heard enough.

Rubbing your temple in exasperation, you make your decision.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your tone measured but firm. “I think the best option right now is to create some distance between you two. Why don’t you take some time off for yourself? And in the meantime, I’ll arrange for your transfer to another department.”

His expression tightens. “But—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Your voice cuts through his protest, cool and unwavering. You straighten in your chair, leveling him with a stare.

“Either you take the transfer,” you continue, “or you can gather your things and leave the Compound entirely. Your choice.”

For the first time in the conversation, his composure cracks. His brows furrow, lips parting slightly as if he’s struggling to process that you aren’t buying a single word of his defense. He looks at you as if searching for an opening, a way to manipulate the situation in his favor.

But you aren’t giving him one.

After a long moment, his jaw clenches. Then, reluctantly, he nods.

“Fine,” he mutters.

You nod once in return, already mentally filing the necessary paperwork to have him reassigned.

“Good. I’ll have the details sent to you by the end of the day.”

The meeting ends, and he leaves, his steps heavy with frustration. You watch him go, feeling a faint sense of relief that, at the very least, the situation will be handled.

It’s late by the time you make your way toward one of the labs. Most of the Compound has quieted down, the usual hum of activity reduced to only a few lingering agents and late-night researchers. 

You had planned to leave for the night since it’ll still be a few hours before Natasha returns, but something nagged at you—an instinct, maybe. 

A feeling that you should check in before heading out.

As you approach the lab, muffled voices filter through the partially open door. One is quiet and tense. The other is lower, insistent.

You frown.

Pushing the door open, your eyes narrow at the sight before you.

The woman who had come to you earlier stands backed into a corner, shoulders hunched as she clutches a tablet to her chest. 

The man—the same man you had just ordered to take some time away—looms over her, his stance rigid with barely restrained frustration.

“I just want to talk,” he presses, voice strained with forced patience. “You don’t have to act like I’m some kind of monster—”

“That’s far enough.” Your voice cuts through the air, sharp and cold.

Both of them turn. 

The woman’s eyes widen slightly in relief while the man’s expression darkens. He straightens, schooling his features into something less aggressive, something more controlled.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he exhales, clearly displeased to see you again. “She agreed to meet up with me.”

The red glow appears around him once again, and you internally groan at his constant attempts at lying to you.

You step forward between them, pushing the woman back behind you as you face the man with your arms crossed. 

“I gave you two options. This wasn’t one of them.”

His jaw tenses as his eyes flicker in suspicion between the two of you. A subtle anger forms in his expression. Then, in a flash of movement, he lunges with a punch.

You react quickly, your hand shooting out and grabbing his arm in a vice grip. With a sharp pivot of your body, you use his own momentum against him—slamming him onto a nearby table with a heavy thud.

He groans, winded but still struggling.

“Stay down,” you growl.

But he doesn’t listen.

His other hand scrambles blindly, knocking over a tray of glass vials before grabbing something solid. Before you can react, he slams the tray into the side of your head.

The impact sends a wave of pain through your skull, sharp and searing. Shards of broken glass cut into your skin, and something cold, almost slick, drips down your face.

You stagger back slightly but force yourself to recover and move.

With a burst of strength, you throw a roundhouse kick, your boot connecting solidly with his chest.

The impact sends him sprawling to the floor, where he stays motionless, unconscious.

For a moment, all you can hear is the ragged sound of your own breathing.

Then, the burning starts.

A sharp, stinging sensation spreads from where the liquid seeps into your skin, trailing down into your eyes. It burns, an unfamiliar heat that makes your vision swim.

You press a hand to your forehead, blinking rapidly to try and clear your sight, but the pain doesn’t subside, and your vision becomes even more distorted.

The woman rushes over, worry painted all over her face. “Are you—oh my God, you’re bleeding—”

“I’m fine. Just call the medic team,” you grit out, even as your head pounds with each pulse of your heartbeat.

Despite the pain, one thought drifts sluggishly through your mind.

Natasha is not going to like this when she gets back.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Is this going to take much longer?”

You sit perched on the edge of one of the medical bay beds, an ice pack pressed gingerly against the side of your head. The cool sensation numbs the dull throb beneath your fingertips, but the sting in your eyes remains persistent.

Dr. Cho, standing, you assume, at the other end of the room, hums in thought.

“Depends,” she responds. “Can you open your eyes fully without struggling?”

Your eyelids flutter slightly as you make an attempt, but the moment they part, an intense burning sensation forces them shut again. You exhale through your nose, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

“It’s just that I have dinner plans tonight,” you explain, shifting slightly in your seat. “So I really need to be home sooner rather than later.”

Dr. Cho pauses briefly before revealing, “I’ve already informed Agent Romanoff. She’ll be here shortly to assist you home.”

Your mouth parts in betrayal. 

“What happened to patient-doctor confidentiality?” you ask, turning toward where you think she is.

Before she can answer, another voice emerges from the doorway—low, edged with quiet challenge.

“Were you going to try and hide what happened to you from me?”

Your back straightens instinctively at the sound of Natasha’s voice.

Your mind scrambles for a defense, but all that escapes is an unconvincing response.

“Wha–I uh…of course not.” 

Footsteps approach—calculated, steady. Then, before you can react, a warm hand cups your cheek, fingers tracing gently over your skin. Another hand, softer but firm, wraps around your own, carefully prying the ice pack away from your head. The loss of the cool compress makes you wince slightly, but the warmth of her touch quickly replaces the sensation.

Under her breath, Natasha mutters, “Terrible liar.”

You huff a small laugh. 

“Hey, you can’t be mean to me. I’m injured here.”

An amused exhale leaves her lips, and though you can’t see it, you can feel the way her expression softens. Then, a slight shift as Natasha turns away from you.

“Why can’t she open her eyes?” she asks, her tone dipping into something firmer, more concerned.

There’s a shuffling of papers before Dr. Cho answers.

“Her optic nerves were affected by exposure to a trial serum during the fight. The blunt trauma to the head certainly isn’t helping, either.”

Natasha sighs, irritation laced in the sound. Her fingers find the ice pack again, pressing it gently back to the side of your head. You flinch slightly at the contact before your hands instinctively reach for her waist, tugging her closer as you rest your head lightly against her shoulder.

“You should train more on not leaving an easy opening for them to hit you like this,” she mutters, the words tinged with quiet frustration. 

You chuckle, tilting your head slightly.

“Let’s not forget that I still took him down while blinded.”

Natasha huffs, exasperated, but she doesn’t push you away. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Dr. Cho.

“So what can we do to help her?”

There’s a sound of rustling before footsteps approach.

“These eyedrops should help alleviate the pain and speed up the recovery process of the serum’s effects,” Dr. Cho explains.

“What effects?” Natasha asks in concern.

You can practically feel the tension in her body, the way her muscles tighten subtly beneath your touch. 

Dr. Cho hesitates momentarily before answering, “We’re not exactly sure yet. The serum is still in its trial phase. But based on what we know, whatever effects there are should be temporary.”

Before Natasha can question the doctor further, you sigh dramatically. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” you say, making a grabbing motion in the air, hoping someone will hand you the drops.

A hand—undoubtedly Natasha’s—swats yours down before setting the ice pack aside next to you.

“Hold still,” she murmurs.

You feel her fingers cup your cheek again, tilting your face up slightly. Then, with gentle precision, she coaxes your eyelids apart.

Cool liquid drops into your eyes, and immediately, a wave of relief washes over the burning sensation. A slow exhale leaves your lips as she repeats the process for the other eye.

It takes a few moments before the sting fully subsides. Your eyes remain shut as you wait for the discomfort to fade entirely. Then, cautiously, you let your eyelids flutter open.

The blurriness makes you blink rapidly, adjusting to the light of the room. The familiar shapes of the medical bay start to take form, Natasha’s figure sharpening before you.

But something isn’t right.

Your breath stutters slightly, eyes darting around as an unsettling sensation creeps into your chest. 

Natasha notices your hesitation immediately.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice steady but edged with concern. 

You hesitate, your pulse picking up as your mind tries to make sense of what you’re seeing. Your brows furrow as you rub at your eyes, but when you look again, it’s still the same.

Her hands come up again, cupping your face, grounding you. Her warmth steadies your frantically beating heart. 

“Talk to me,” she murmurs, softer now. “What’s wrong?”

You exhale deeply, your gaze locking onto hers.

Then, quietly, you whisper,

“Everything’s gray.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You stare at the food on your plate, moving it around aimlessly with your fork. The once-vibrant colors that usually make a meal feel inviting are gone, leaving behind a dull-tinted palette.

Dr. Cho explained that the serum must have affected the nerves responsible for transmitting color signals to your brain. Thankfully, she assured you that the condition would be temporary. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say how long it would take for your eyes to fully recover.

Days? Weeks? Longer?

The uncertainty gnaws at you, making you lose even more of your appetite.

“You know,” Natasha’s voice cuts through your thoughts, calm and casual, “we could still order some takeout.”

You blink, looking up to see her sitting across from you, elbow propped on the table as she watches you.

“You don’t have to force yourself to eat that,” she adds, already reaching for your plate.

Your instincts kick in. Quickly, you maneuver your plate out of her reach, eyes narrowing in challenge.

“I like eating the meals you make me,” you say firmly. Then, to drive your point home, you take a large bite.

The moment the food hits your tongue, warmth spreads across your taste buds. Then, heat. A slow, creeping burn.

Your eyes widen slightly as the realization sinks in—it’s spicy. Uncomfortably spicy.

You cough lightly, reaching hastily for your water. Natasha watches calmly as you take a few gulps before finally catching your breath.

Swallowing hard, you manage to look back at her with as much composure as you can muster.

“See?” you rasp. “It’s not bad.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Then, slowly, a soft smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she rests her chin against her hand, a look of undeniable fondness in her eyes.

“Liar,” she mutters, amused.

The teasing tone makes you want to smile—until your gaze drops to your hands.

Your colorless hands. You turn them slowly, searching. Looking for the familiar glow—the telltale red aura that has always been there whenever someone lies. 

But there’s nothing. An unease tightens in your chest.

“How can you tell?” you whisper before you even realize you’ve spoken the thought aloud.

“What do you mean?” Natasha asks.

You lift your head, meeting her eyes.

“How can you tell that someone is lying?”

For a moment, she simply looks at you, expression unreadable. Then, something shifts in her gaze—understanding.

“Years of training and spy work help in that field,” she says, her tone light as she gives you a small smile.

You exhale slowly, the weight of everything settling heavily on your shoulders.

“I’ve had my powers my entire life,” you murmur. “Now that I can’t use them…it feels terrifying.”

Natasha listens quietly and attentively. 

“How does someone live like this?” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “Not knowing whether someone is telling the truth or not?”

Silence fills the room. The weight of the question lingers between you, and for a second, you regret bringing it up.

But before you can brush it off, Natasha speaks.

“Sometimes,” she says gently, “we just have to trust our instincts.”

You glance up, skeptical, but she isn’t finished. 

“Other times,” she continues, gesturing toward you, “there are things we just know are true.”

Your brows furrow slightly, but she holds your gaze with quiet certainty.

“It’s how I know you’re telling the truth every time you say you love me,” she murmurs.

She pauses for a brief second before offering you a soft smile.

“I can feel how true it is in my heart.”

Something inside you tightens at her words. 

To feel the truth of something rather than see it—it’s a concept that should scare you. But as you sit there, watching her, listening to the quiet conviction in her voice, you can’t help but want that.

To believe without hesitation. To know something so deeply that no confirmation is ever needed.

You swallow, steadying yourself before you ask the question that you’ve wanted to hear the answer from her for a while now but have been too hesitant to ask.

“Do you love me?”

The words leave your lips softly, but they carry a weight that settles in the space between you.

Natasha tilts her head slightly as if searching your expression for the reason behind your sudden question.

And then, after a beat, she stands from her seat.

You watch as she makes her way around the table, stopping when she’s close enough to lean against the edge beside you.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing gently against your cheek before her palm cups the side of your face. Her thumb strokes your skin—slow, deliberate.

And then, finally—

“I love you,” she says.

It’s firm, unshaken. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Just truth.

A breath of relief escapes her lips as the words settle into the air between you, as if she had been waiting—aching—to say them.

Your heart swells, warmth blooming in your chest.

And in that moment, you understand what she meant.

You don’t need your power to know she isn’t lying. You feel the truth in every word.

Without hesitation, your hand reaches up to the back of her neck, pulling her down into a deep, lingering kiss.

She doesn’t hesitate either. She returns it instantly, sinking into the moment as if she had been waiting for this, needing this as much as you have.

When you finally pull back, lips still brushing against hers, you murmur against her mouth, “I love you too, Natasha.”

A grin spreads across her lips, her breath warm against yours as she presses a featherlight kiss to your lips—soft, lingering, a quiet savoring of the moment.

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice filled with warmth.

You barely have a second to bask in the glow of her confession before you catch the subtle scrape of ceramic against the wooden table.

Your instincts kick in immediately.

Without breaking eye contact, your hands find hers just as she tries to slide your plate away. With a firm grip, you press her hands down against the table, standing as you give her a knowing, pointed look.

“That doesn’t mean you get to take away my food, Romanoff,” you say, playful yet unwavering.

Natasha raises a brow at your challenge. She doesn’t pull away from your grip—at least, not yet.

Her expression shifts, mischief flickering behind her green eyes as she tilts her head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

“I’m trying to prevent the person I love from getting further injuries from my cooking,” she counters smoothly.

Then, without warning, she leans in, her lips grazing against yours—so soft, so fleeting that it barely qualifies as a kiss.

It’s a tease, deliberate, and infuriatingly effective.

You instinctively chase after the sensation, leaning forward, but she stays just out of reach, hovering close enough that you can feel the smirk curling against her lips.

Her breath fans across your skin as she murmurs, voice a hushed, teasing challenge.

“Do you really think you can stop me from doing that?”

The words send a slow shiver down your spine, and in an instant, the playful tension between you crackles like a live wire. Your fingers tighten around hers slightly, your grip firm yet unyielding. A silent declaration.

Your body presses closer, the air between you thickening as you arch a brow.

“I think I have a shot,” you counter, voice low, measured, daring.

Natasha hums, the sound laced with knowing amusement. Her eyes flick down to your lips, lingering for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours, her own shimmering with something equal parts affection and mischief.

She tilts her head slightly, and the corner of her lips quirks up.

“You really are bad at lying,” she murmurs. 

And then, before you can respond, she closes the distance.

Her lips press against yours—not teasing this time, not fleeting. The kiss is slow but firm, filled with an unmistakable sense of certainty.

You lean into it without hesitation, swallowing any words she might have added, neither confirming nor denying her remark.

Not that it matters. 

You already know the truth without needing to see the red glow around yourself.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading! I know a lot of you were looking forward to this, so I hope you all were able to enjoy this part also.

[sodxdrugz]

- * . ‘ Sylus as a girl dad

This is how I think Sylus would act as a girl dad. Let’s be honest, Sylus is so girl dad coded.

Everything about Sylus screams ‘girl dad’

The way he interacts with you, the transition from cold and distant to someone much kinder and tender

He grows more comfortable to express his feelings, albeit mainly through his expressions

Sylus would ADORE his baby girl

Nicknames of “Sweetie-pie” “Darling” and “Princess” are commonly and frequently in use

I can imagine your and Sylus’ daughter doing his makeup for every occasion

You finish applying your makeup, smoothing down your dress after cleaning off your hands and then checking yourself over in the mirror. After setting everything in place and readjusting your jewellery, you go on the hunt for your husband and baby girl. It’s not long until you find them.

When you do find them, you have to hold back a bark of laughter. They’re both in the master bedroom. Sylus is seated on the floor, slouching so your little bundle of joy can have free access to his face.

Your daughter fusses around your husband with her own children’s makeup palette in hand, reaching up with chubby arms to apply various products on his cheeks, lips, and eyes. Her eyes are set in all the seriousness an eight year old can carry, with an adorable pout of concentration enough to make you grin.

Sylus’ eyes catch your figure in the doorway. His contentment makes something inside you swoon. Pink eyeshadow is a dash of colour across his outer eyes, a glossy red lipgloss is smudged across his smirking lips, and an obnoxious blush darkens his high cheekbones.

As usual, his eyes rake over your figure, taking his sweet time to admire how your dress hugs every curve, how it highlights your chubbiness in the most elegant way possible. Your jewellery glints—the most expensive on the market, of course. Your bracelet charm matches with the one jingling on your daughter’s wrist.

“Do I look good, Sweetie?” His voice smooths over, silky and amused. The lipgloss catches the light, twinkling and sparkling like the night sky outside. You catch the warmth in your cheeks in unison with his darkening gaze and widening grin.

Your daughter perks up. “Mommy!” She rushes to your side and crashes against your legs—nearly making you stumble. You giggle, brushing a manicured hand through her head of white hair. Soft strands curl around your finger affectionately.

“Hi sugar. Getting daddy all pretty for tonight?” You look at Sylus as he stands up proudly. If he was confident before, your daughter’s makeover makes him even more so.

The way he would wear out his makeup for your date night, proud and unashamed of the mess spread across his face

Because it’s not a mess to HIM

It’s his daughter’s masterpiece

If anyone questioned why his face looks the way it does, he would proudly state it’s his daughter’s work

And if they so happened to criticise it

Well, they wouldn’t only have to deal with his wrath, but yours

I can imagine that both you and Sylus are evenly matched when it comes to being protective of your daughter

Said protectiveness knows absolutely no bounds

Missing person reports of the people who dare think or say anything bad about your precious girl? Well, who could have done that?

Certainly not you or Sylus

Sylus is very careful to keep your daughter safe

When she grows up, she thinks it’s too much and overbearing, but it’s for her own good

Every boy is driven away

Every thought of a boyfriend is shut down

Aside from that, her best friends would consist of Mephisto, Luke, and Kieran

Both you and Sylus do not trust anyone else to be around her

Luke and Kieran would LOVE her

They would involve her in all of their pranks

Sylus would scold them for the stunts they pull, but never his daughter

She can do no wrong in his eyes

You would be the one having to scold her, because Sylus can not bring himself to

It’s funny

He’s the leader of a big crime organisation, kills people, and is feared by the majority, but he can’t stomach the thought of scolding his daughter

When a glint of a tear appears in her eyes, he’s at her beck and call

When she uses her puppy dog eyes, he will bend to her every will

You have to scold him for being so lenient at times, but you’re no better either

Anyways, that’s all!!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Another Heartbeat

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, captivity, elements/suggestions of feederism behaviour, breeding, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get your valentine's surprise.

Based on responses: Lap sitting, breeding, creampie, plus size reader, being carried

Characters: Steve Rogers

This is #2 of the Valentines Roulette stories

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You wince as the light aches in your eyelids. You stay hidden behind them as you raise your hand shakily. Your lashes wet with tears as you search for the strength to open them. You hunch down and slump further into the corner. 

“Sweetheart,” his deep timbre fills the cramped space. “Hey, are you awake?” 

You sense him come closer. You don’t have the voice to answer him. Are you awake? This feels like another rotten nightmare. 

“Sweetheart?” His shadow dulls the glare shining through the open door. Open... there was a time when all you did was stare through the dark and pray for those hinges to turn. “It’s a special day.” 

He touches your shoulder. You flinch. He curls his hand around your arm and slides you against the wall to sit straight. He catches your head as it bobbles on your neck. 

“You can behave, can’t you?” His thumb brushes your cheekbone and he cooes at your witless murmuring. “I know you can be good for me. You have been.” 

Your eyes are like marbles, threatening to roll back. The days, weeks, months, however long, blend together in blackness. The only light comes through when he slides back that narrow latch and pushes through the tray. A thick bitter smoothie and bland food. Nothing sugary or processed. You eat it or... 

You shudder as your teeth ache at the memory of the metal clamp pushing open against them. The strain of your esophagus and the churning of stomach acid. No, you eat on your own and it keeps him happy. Nice, even. 

“Alright, let’s get you ready, sweetheart,” he slips an arm behind you and another under your knees. He lifts you effortlessly. “Oh, sweetie,” he purrs, “you’re so...” his hand squeezes along your hip. “Soft.” 

The food comes like clockwork. You clear the tray and push it back every time. You feel it engorging you, adding to the cushion around your hips and belly. Even your chest feels bigger. 

He carries you into the light. You turn your head and hide your face against his hard chest. If you open your eyes, they’ll burn out of the sockets. It’s too bright. You cradle your face as all of your trembles. 

“I know, sweetheart, gotta build up your strength,” he coaxes. 

The motion of the world around you adds to the dizzy spin in your head. You lean into him as you feel like you might fall out of his grasp, even as he holds you snug. He finally puts you down. You fold over your lap instantly and he pushes you back up. 

“Work with me,” he pets your hair. 

You tense and quiver as you hold yourself up. You stopped standing up a while back, stopped trying to get any sort of exercise in that space. A cell. The prison he made for you. 

“Alright, we’re going to get you cleaned up.” 

His knuckles brush down your temples and cheek, then along your neck. He follows the silhouette of your body along your shoulders and arms. He gently reaches behind your neck to untie the knot behind it. He peels away the open back linen gown. 

You shiver as your head hangs like a boulder. 

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he says. 

You shudder and ball your hands. You exhale as your eyes singe with the effort. You have to obey or... 

You whimper as you pry your lids open. He cradles your chin and forces your head up. Tears roll out and flow down your face. Everything around you is harsh yet fuzzy. 

“I know, sweetie, gotta adjust,” he stands and lets you go cautiously.  

You quake as you lean back against the cold tank of the toilet. He turns and dims the lights. You let your head sink again and watch the tile. The last time you saw those dainty blue diamonds, there was water splashed all around, your body was thrashing, your voice shrill and dry. 

You jolt as you come back to the present. He lowers you into the tub as hot water laps down from the faucet. The steam rises around you in a cloud as he helps you recline against the porcelain.  

His deep voice rises from his large chest. You stare at his shirt. He sings as he washes you with a cloth, suds foaming round his thick fingers. Your eyes creep up to thick beard along his jaw. His eyes are as bright as gems as they focus on his task. Everything is bright. 

And heavy and rough. Just the cotton is enough to make your skin crawl. After so long in desolation, it’s like sandpaper. His voice is low but rattles your eardrums. The song plucks at your brain but you can’t place the memory. 

What was before? 

“Till the end of time,   Long as stars are in the blue,   long as there’s a spring,   a bird to sing,   I’ll go on loving you.” 

You close your eyes and moan. He clucks. 

“No, don’t go to sleep,” he bids. 

Your eyes snap open. He continues his work. When he’s done, he lifts you out, leaning you against him as he wraps you in a towel. There’s a warm smell wafting from your skin. 

He dries you meticulously and replaces the towel with a robe. He takes you to a new room. He sits you at a table with a framed picture of a woman above it. You blink as he moves beside the woman. It’s not a picture. It’s a mirror. 

Is that really you? 

He moves behind you and tugs at your hair. He pauses to check something as he arranges it. Some sort of instruction? Then he shifts you to face him. He uses pencils and brushes on you; tugging at your eyelids and spinning a wand against your lashes. 

He puts you to face the mirror again. You look shinier. You? That’s you? 

He dresses you in red. A plush cloud of fabric in light layers, with roses on the bodice, a short robe with puffed sleeves. He guides you before a bigger mirror. Tall. He stands behind you as he makes you look. 

“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart,” he drags his hands up and down your sides. “You ready for your surprise?” 

You mouth the words. You don’t think you can speak. He smiles and sits you on the cushioned stool again. 

“I almost forgot about me.” 

He leaves you and opens the closet. You watch his back. He’s so big. Tall, broad shoulders, thick hands. 

Your eyes list to the door. You can’t stand without him. You press your soles to the floor and your calves shake. No, you won’t get very far. 

“I can hear your excitement,” he turns with hangers hooked over a finger and taps on his chest with the other. “Sweetheart, you’re going to love it.” 

He goes behind a folding screen painted with golden feathers. You can see his head above it as he changes. He emerges, knotting a patterned silk tie over his crisp white shirt. The jacket is a pale shade of grey that somehow makes his eyes bluer. 

He nears and bends to check himself in the mirror. He combs his long hair back. His thick strands and beard don’t match the formality of his attire. 

“Come on, sweetheart.” 

He stands straight and bends his arm. You stare at it before your head clicks. He helps you stand and loops your arm through his. He walks you into the hallway. Your legs wobble dangerously. 

He stops you before a closed door. There’s a small wooden sign hung on it that shows a stork. You frown. You wonder what it means. You waver as you expect him to put you back into the dark. You step back on your heel and whimper. 

“Sweetie, you’re being good. You can stay out.” 

He turns the crystal door knob. Something about the decor feels so... out of time. He pushes the door inward and unhooks his arm from yours. He guides you by your shoulders into the room, staying behind you. 

The first thing you see are balloons. Big round balloons with pink ribbons and bows attached to them. The latex shines in shades of rose, blush, and ivory. They’re tied to the furniture that fills the room. 

The walls are painted in shades of pastel, one is a forest scene with critters and birds behind branches and stones. There’s a dresser and a table with a pad on top. A chair and a matching ottoman, a rug that looks softer than a cloud, and at the center of it all, a crib. Above hangs a mobile with stars and moon. 

“Happy Valentine's, sweetheart, you’ve been so good,” he praises as he trails his touch down your arm and takes your hand. He draws you around the room. “You like it?” 

Your stomach stirs uneasily. You nod despite the violent tide inside you. This isn’t right. What is this? 

“I knew you would. And you can help finish it. The little things. You know, I don’t have a good eye for the details,” he turns you to take it all in. The windows. There’s no sunlight coming in. Are they even real windows? They are just frames nailed to a wall. 

“Come on,” he brings you to the chair and he sits. He tugs you by the hand. You nearly collapse. “Right here.” 

He pats his thigh. You turn and he helps you sit. He pulls you against him to recline as the back lowers with his lean. He extends his legs onto the ottoman, yours with them. 

He sighs as you lay atop him. He traces the length of your arms then feels along your torso, squeezing the padding along your stomach and chest. You squirm uncomfortably. 

“You been eating good. Drinking your smoothies. Getting your vitamins,” he says. “I can see how good you’ve been.” 

His hands stop on your thighs. He rubs the fabric then slowly drags it up with his fingers, crumpling it high above your naked legs. He tickles you and you wince as he kneads you more firmly. 

His hand trails beneath the bunched skirt and he pets long your curly patch of hair. You hold your breath and tense. He pushes his fingertip between your folds and your voice trickles out in a squeak. 

He rubs you as your insides squirm. You shift and he spreads his other hand across your stomach to still you. You slicken beneath his teasing touch. Your legs fall apart as he pushes his hand further back. 

He exhales over you and drags his hand around your thigh. He slides it under you and his knuckles press into you as he plucks at his pants. He pushes his fly open as you wriggle against him. He shifts you up his body as his other hand dips down to your pelvis. 

He angles you down as he guides his tip long your cunt. You arch your back as he wet himself with your juices. He delves into you slowly and you latch onto his wrist. You convulse as he gets deeper and deeper. 

He rolls his hip, gliding out and back in. You clench around him and measure your breath around the tension in your muscles. He pushes in and you whine. He keeps a slow, even tempo as he stretches a finger down to toy with your clit. 

“I was reading a lot. They say it’s better when you cum. To make sure it takes.” 

His words confuse you. You can barely think as he makes his long thrusts. You brace the armrest as he unravels you tilt by tilt. 

He swirls his fingers as a fiery cluster blooms in your core. You push your feet down around his, digging into the cushion of the ottoman. You strain and writhe as your voice breaks through the brittleness of your throat. You twitch as the heat within unfurls into icy tendrils. 

He hums as he urges you through but doesn’t let up. He pumps into faster as his fingers keep their tempo. The layers of clothes build a fire between you, raising a sheet of sweat over your skin. He groans as he fucks you from below. 

His feet slip from the ottoman as it slides beyond his height. He plants his soles on the floor, rutting up into you as your legs splay wide. Your body bounces helplessly and you cling to the chair and moan, drowning in the shallowness of your breath. 

“I can feel how ready you are, sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth. His hand roves up to your chest and he squeezes, your nipple throbbing tenderly. “You’re going to be a good mommy.” 

You shudder and gasp, your ribs wracking in dread. He groans and fucks you harder, puffing over your hair. 

“Sweetie, are you ready? Tell me you’re ready? You gonna make me a daddy?” 

You gulp and cough, head lolling as you cling onto his arm. He hammers into you harder and harder. 

“Tell me,” he snarls. 

“Y-y-yesssss,” you rasp from your tortured through. 

He grunts and spasms, a warmth flooding inside you as his pace turns wild. You close your eyes and they sting with another swell of tears. The painted walls, the glowing the balloons, it’s all so much worse than that black cell. 

[coc0amocha]

🔞 Backseat sex || "It'll be quick, I promise."

The whole deal was that he'd be patient until the two of you got home, but it was bold of you to assume he'd be able to hold himself together for the whole car ride.

Boyfriend!Suguru × Fem reader

Word count: 2k

You sank deep into the plush leather of the passenger seat, the familiar scent of Suguru’s car filling your nostrils, The soft hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of the tires on the road were like a comforting lullaby, soothing after your long day at work. You looked out the window, the city lights flickered by in a blur of warm oranges and cool blues, casting fleeting shadows on your and his face. The headlights from passing cars briefly illuminated the interior of the car, making everything feel even more intimate in the dim glow.

This was your routine, your small moment of peace amid the rush. Every evening Suguru picked you up from work and drove you back to your shared home. Having him next to you made you feel peaceful after a long day.

The peaceful feeling was typically mutual..But unfortunately, not today. Suguru's eyes were narrow and his body was slightly tense. But you didn't ask questions because you already knew why, if him sexting you all day while you were working hadn't given it away nothing else would. He was more focused on getting you home as quickly as possible to get you into bed, because you were forcing him to wait until the two of you got home. And red lights were his worst enemy right now.

The car was pretty much silent except for the quiet hum of the radio and his loud, heavy breathing. After the red light you two got stuck at for what he thought was years finally turned green, he started pulling off the typical route. Biting his tongue and furrowing his brows. You turned your head away from the window to look at him in confusion as he now appeared to be driving in the total opposite direction of the house.

"Babe, what are you doing??" You asked softly, raising your hand to point towards the window in the direction he's supposed to be driving "Our house is that way"

He glanced over at you for a second, his eyes dark and glazed over. He then looked back towards the road, taking multiple seconds before answering you "I know where our house is, darling." He replied roughly, his voice low as he pulled over in a secluded area

"What are you doing???" You asked again, a slight irritated edge to your voice

He unbuckled his seat belt and ran a hand through his hair as he leaned back in his seat, his eyes meeting yours again "Climb into the backseat for me please."

Your eyes widened as you just stared back at him. You blinked once, twice, trying to figure out if he was being serious or not. But he seemed dead serious. Thing is, you had already told him multiple times he had to wait until the two of you got home. You furrowed your brows at him "Put the car back in drive" You sneered

He reached out and grabbed your hands gently "Please, angel.." he begged his eyes wide and filled with pure desperation "I can't wait that long" he added, body trembling with built-up tension and need

"I'm being serious–" you started, only for him to cut you off

"I am too." He leaned closer, his eyes still glazed and hazy "It'll be quick, I swear..Just get in the back f'me angel.."

You stared back into his wide and sparkling eyes in silence for a few seconds. He was looking at you like his heart would stop beating on the spot and he'd pass away if you made him wait a second longer. Groaning in defeat, you pulled your hands away from his to unbuckle your seatbelt. His eyes shining with sudden excitement as he watched you begin to climb into the backseat. The second you made it back there, you barely had time to think before he was suddenly on top of you, he had practically pounced on you like a wild animal. His fingers intertwining with yours as he leaned down and kissed you sloppily, precision wasn't the main concern right now. His other hand trailed up to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in the soft strands of hair and pulling it slightly. It gave that area of your scalp a barely-there sting that you didn't mind all too much.

When he finally pulled away from your lips, he was panting harshly, his chest heaving. But he gave himself no time to catch his breath before he leaned down and started to trail hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Occasionally sucking on the smooth skin and groaning into it, leaving reddish purple marks in his lips wake. He lived for the way you softly hummed and occasionally gasped at the sensation, his hands trailing down so he could hook his fingers into the top of your pants

"I want to taste you, sweetheart" he murmured against your neck, his breaths hot and erratic against it "Please let me..I need it" he quietly pleaded, lifting his head to look at your flushed face. Watching as you nodded eagerly and answered him

"Mhmm..." You hummed in response with a slight nod "But you said this would be quick, don't get ahead of yourself..." You reminded him, trying to stay some form of rational

You don't think your words necessarily registered, though. He has been long gone since the start. The second you nodded he was tearing your pants off you like a feral beast. Dipping his head down between your legs, he began planting soft kisses up your inner thigh that made you shiver. Occasionally sucking the supple skin between his lips, then letting it go with a soft pop. Dragging his tongue upwards along the flesh until he reached the edge of your panties. He took a deep inhale and shuddered, looking up at you through hooded eyes "mmh..my sweet angel" he murmured as he started to slowly slide your panties down your legs "I know you taste as good as you smell.."

He sat back against his heels and just admired your form splayed out in front of him, it made his mouth water. He then leaned back down slightly and lifted your thighs, throwing both your legs over his shoulders. The backside of your shoes pressing against his back as your legs dangled there lazily. He slid his hands up and down your thighs, feeling the goosebumps that prickled your skin as he pressed tender kisses against your pussy, taking his time before dragging his tongue slowly and carefully through the folds. He groaned at the taste and gripped your thighs tighter as he felt you start to shudder

"Y-you're supposed to be making this quick, Suguru..." You choked out, the heel of your shoes digging into his back further

"I only just started, darling. Give me a second" he murmured against your wet heat, not looking up at you. The vibrations from him talking causing you to squirm. He gave another slow drag of his tongue before starting to lick at your clit in tight circles. Relishing in the way you gasped and moaned, shallowly starting to grind up against his face. He moved his hand down from one of your thighs to press his middle finger against your aching entrance, letting your pussy swallow it up on its own. The soft keen that fell from your lips once his finger was planted inside of you was like music to his ears

"God, I want you so fucking bad.." He growled out, sucking your clit past his lips and into his mouth. Pushing a second finger inside you and beginning to pump the digits in and out of you. Starting off slow but picking up the pace fairly quickly

"S-suguruu–" you whimpered, your thighs quaking around his neck as his mouth and fingers worked you over. Groaning against your sensitive flesh

His eyes fluttered shut as he sucked on your clit more passionately "Baby you taste heavenly...fuck.." he hummed against your clit before reluctantly pulling back. Slipping his fingers out of your wet heat and bringing them to his lips, savoring the taste and licking his fingers clean of your juices. He slowly and carefully lowered your trembling thighs from his shoulders "Easy, angel. I just want you to relax, 'kay?" He said soothingly as he slipped his hands down to undo his belt.

You watched as his belt unclipped and he pulled it off, tossing it carelessly to the side. His pants sitting more loosely on his hips as he unbuttoned and unzipped them and let them fall down his legs. Kicking them off fully, now just in his boxers that were tenting obscenely around his cock–a wet spot where his precum had gathered and smeared. He positioned himself so he was hovering over you. Reaching back to pull his boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free, he put himself back in position. Hands at either side of your head as he held himself up.

Slowly, he began to push inside you. Letting out a drawn-out moan while you mewled at the sensation of suddenly feeling him rubbing up against your inner walls. Once he had fully buried himself to the hilt, he began pistoning in and out of you. Normally, he'd take it slow and gentle..But he was far too pent-up and impatient for that right now. And it didn't take long for him to be practically bullying your pussy "Fuuuuucckk, I've needed this all goddamn day" he moaned, louder than intended

You gasped and grunted, trying to catch your breath as he moved at a pace that was difficult to keep up with. Your nails scratching and digging into his shoulders as you tried to anchor yourself "haah–S-suguru!! Slow...Slow down..fuck!" You managed to choke out between moans and gasps, your breath hitching as he slammed against your G-spot.

He forced his eyes open briefly, glazed and unfocused as he looked at your sweat-sheen flushed face. His brow was furrowed as a cold trickle of sweat made its way down his temple "Hmnn...N-not very capable of that ri-right now..An..angel.." he babbles, panting harshly "I'll....I'll make it quick, promise.." he murmured as he squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling over yours that was shaking just as hard. He could feel the car rocking with the two of your shared movements "I'm not gonna last much longer anyways.." he added quietly

"What was that?" You asked, your voice breaking with the effort of holding back a loud whine. You practically had to strain your ears to hear him over the slight ringing in them

Suguru grunted and shook his head "Nothing.." he muttered as his nails clawed at the leather seat, his muscles tensing and relaxing. The pleasure coiling tight in his gut "fuck, baby.." His tone was bordering on a whimper as he lowered himself slightly and buried his face in the crook of your neck. His thrusts growing less and less precise and more erratic and messy. His whole body shaking like a leaf as he whined against your neck, making the skin feel like it was vibrating under his mouth

You suddenly began to clench and squeeze around him, and he couldn't handle it. It was game over–his body tensed and with a grunt, he was emptying himself inside you like he had been dying to do all day. And it wasn't long before you were cumming just as hard.

Gasping, he slowly pulled his softening dick out of you. Lifting his head from your neck to look at you with a lazy smirk Seee? Quick..." he said breathlessly

You rolled your eyes playfully "Thanks for keeping your word, sweetheart. Can we go home now?" You asked, sitting up and reaching for your panties and pants which he had tossed to the side carelessly

"Hmmm.." he hummed in consideration, quirking an eyebrow "only if we can go for round two in the house."

You narrowed your eyes at him "You're insatiable."

He shrugged as he reached for his own pants and belt "A man can have his wants"

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

Little Dove

(Or, the birth of Sylus' daughter)

Just pure, unabashed fluff ♡ Dad!Sylus means the universe to me.

Not proofread, written entirely on a whim 🙈

For years, Sylus has been a connisseur of music. Has amassed a vast and impressive collection of vinyls. Listened to practically every classical piece there is. And yet... nothing has sounded as wondrous or beautiful to his ears as the first cries of his newborn daughter. The sound of her makes Sylus' breath catch and his heart skip a beat.

When the baby — your baby. his baby. — is placed in your arms, the world around Sylus seems to narrow down, and for the next few moments it's as though you and the precious new life you hold in your arms are the only beings that exist in it.

The sight of you — exhausted, yet with a smile so radiant that it would put a thousand suns to shame — cradling your little dove causes Sylus' chest to tighten, an unfamiliar lump forming in his throat.

Joy. Relief. Pride. Love. They all swirl around in his heart, expanding to an extent he had never before thought possible for a fiend like himself. But as of yet, he holds the dam together, blinking away the stinging mist forming in his eyes.

After pressing a kiss to your damp temple, Sylus gently, and with uncharacteristic tentativeness, reaches out to touch his daughter for the first time, his index finger tenderly stroking her soft little cheek.

"She is beautiful" he murmurs, the deep timbre of his voice thick with emotion. "Like her mother" he adds, looking up to meet your gaze with a gentle smile that completely softens his sharp features. They hold no trace of the imposing leader of Onychinus. Nor is there any hint of his trademark smug smirk or arrogance. There is only the unfiltered adoration and love of a husband and father.

- 🐦‍⬛

Tiny. She is so tiny.

Sylus finds himself inwardly marveling the first time he holds his daughter, his large hands all but dwarfing her.

And yet, despite the miniscule weight of his baby girl, Sylus feels it more keenly than he has ever felt anything in his life.

Throughout his long life, Sylus has held more riches, more exquisite jewels and rare valuables in his hands than he could ever count. But never before has he held a treasure near as priceless as the tiny, flailing bundle wrapped up in soft blankets now in his arms.

A small part of Sylus is, for the first time in his life, terrified. A little crack forming in his seemingly impenetrable self-assurance, giving way to his first bout of parental worry.

She is so small. So fragile. What if he accidentally ends up hurting her in some way?

However, Sylus doesn't let any of his newfound nervousness show, as ever the master of self control. Instead, he puts all his focus on soothing his little one, — who has begun wailing softly — already putting her and her needs before his own worries.

Instinctively, Sylus starts to carefully rock the tiny wailing newborn, humming to her in the same low, tender (but oh so out of tune) tone he always used on her while she lay in your womb. And your little girl, as if recognizing her father's voice, ceases crying, her little face unscrunching, peering up at him with wonder in her ruby red eyes. The moment her beautiful orbs meet his, Sylus feels his throat tightening and his heart squeezing, his whole being quite literally overwhelmed by the sheer strength of love he is experiencing.

His little dove. So beautiful. So perfect in every way.

Part of Sylus is in disbelief that someone like himself had had part in her creation. That something so innocent, so fragile, so breathtaking, so indescribably precious could come from a fiend and criminal like himself. However, he has long vowed that he will give her all the opportunities, all the care, all the security, all the affection, all the happiness that he himself never had growing up. His child will never be forced to be an outcast, nor a criminal. She will be free to be whoever and whatever she wants to be. To soar as high as she pleases. The sky will be her limit.

Sylus has only held his little girl for a few moments, and yet he already loves her so much that he hardly knows what to do with himself. It is a vaguely terrifying feeling in its sheer, fierce intensity, yet one he can no longer imagine living without.

As he keeps humming softly to his baby, his thumb gently stroking her impossibly tiny yet perfect fingers, his eyes still locked onto hers, Sylus is unable to hold back the tears that creep up again, try as he might. He has always been an expert at managing his emotions, but the flood welling over him is beyond even his capability to control. And so the leader of Onychinus relents and the dam breaks, silent tears running slowly down his cheeks in a rare instance of raw vulnerability.

Sensing your gaze upon him, Sylus finally looks up, his red rimmed eyes meeting yours. With a soft smile, radiant in its unfiltered joy and pride, he bends over you and plants a kiss on your lips, a stray drop of rain landing on your cheek when he withdraws.

"Thank you" he says softly, his expression one of indescribable, limitless love and adoration for you and the tiny life you've created. You smile at him, and reach out to gently wipe away the tears that are gathered in his dark lashes with your thumb.

Tenderly handing your now sleeping daughter back to you, Sylus settles beside you on the bed, wrapping his arm around you and holding you close as you both gaze down at the dozing baby girl in your arms. Yours and his very own little dove. The living embodiment of your love. The very testament to your mutual perseverance against fate.

.♡

[ihaznoclue]

Panic Attack

Pairings -> Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader

Warnings -> Panic attack, mental health issues

Note -> Reader has been bottling up their emotions for a very long time until they break

Genre -> Angst to Fluff

Shadow the Hedgehog

It wasn't fair..

You just couldn't anymore with the pressure that has been holding you back, that has been haunting you for a long time now

You didn't want to come as weak or sensitive as people always used to call you

But today was the day you were going to breakdown

Today was a horrible, the reason why is because everyone has been pressuring you to doing stuff that you didn't want to do

Your family, your friends they never notice the amount of stress you've been though work, your emotions were getting the best of you as you tried and tried to not cry in front of them

So you excused yourself into leaving the place back to your house, where shadow might be

Shadow was the only guy that understood you, that helped you

But you don't know if he was going to help this time as he always seemed to be busy saving the world and stuff so you just didn't want to bother him

So you stayed silent once you got home, opening the door to hear his footsteps coming the front door to greet you as always

"Hey Shadow" You said faking a smile to which Shadow didn't think any of it

Shadow then took your stuff and put your jacket on the front draw near the front door

"Are you hungry?" Shadow asked, his ear flicked as he looked up at you, you shook your head "No thank you, I'm quite tired at the moment"

Shadow nodded as he went to the kitchen to make himself something

You walked over to your bedroom as you shut the door and leaned on it giving out a huge sigh

Now was the time you started to break, tears spilling down from your eyes as your face scrunched up in a frown

"I'm so stupid, so weak" You mumbled as you started to hit your forehead with the palm of your head

You tried to be quiet as possible for Shadow to not hear you, you didn't want anything in your doing to go to Shadow, you just didn't want to bother him

Everything started to overcome your body as your tears didn't stop, your breathing has become more and more heavier as you tried to breath normally

Shadow on the other end could hear something coming from your room, well he does have ears

He put everything down as he walk to your room, only for it to be locked

He tried turning it a couple of times but it wouldn't budge so he called out to you

"Name?"

No answer

That caused his fur to stick up, something is wrong and he needed to get in that room to see what was happening so of course he used his chaos control to teleport into your room

Once he did, his eyes widen to see you panicking, your hand was clutched onto your clothes as you tried to breath

Your face was soaked with tears

He needed to do something but this has never happened before and he didn't know what to do

So he carefully kneeled in front of you to get you to know his presence was there

He then reached out a hand to touch your knee which caused you tense up

"I'm right here, try to take a deep breath for me" Shadow softly spoke as he now was holding your hand gently

You then took a deep breath and a couple more, Shadow was focusing on you as you closed your eyes as you took one last breath

You were back to normal

"Sorry, I didn't mean to"

"Don't apologize"

"But-"

Shadow then shushed you as he pull you to him as he hugged you

"If you are ever going through something like this, always let me know instead of doing it yourself. You're important to me and I can't stand to see you like this"

You were never comforted like this, Shadow's presence was so warm and gentle

You then nuzzled your head into his chest where you felt his white fur, Shadow was gonna stay with you until you were okay

"You matter"

-A<3

[birthanon]

Write about a a woman that liked so much being pregnant, that she decided to not let the baby come out of her. She tried to delay labor as long as she could but the inevitable happened and labor started. But she wont give up, she didn't want to lose the status of pregnant woman to be just a woman again. She went to a cabin in the woods where nobody could "help" her and force her to give birth. She managed to hold the baby in for 2 or 3 days by using means to physically block the baby from coming out and even ways to relieve the urge to push(without actually pushing the baby out). But eventually she makes a mistake that makes the baby go out to the "point of no return" and she end up giving birth.

Here we go! Thanks for the prompt!

The following story contains severe (and unrealistic) self-birth denial and clothing birth.

It’s the year 2028, and women have lost the right to vote, unless they are pregnant and they can certify that the fetus is a man. So, nine and a half months ago, Hannah had begun to date with the hope that she would have the ability to vote. Unfortunately, the dating worked a bit better than she’d expected, and so the pregnancy process started. . . prematurely. 

When Hannah reached her ninth month mid-October and began experiencing practice contractions, she went to her doctor and asked for some nifediphine, expressing that she was worried her baby would be born too early, and that she wanted to give birth to a big strong boy. The doctor, with a gleam in his eye at those words, agreed and gave her the prescription, though warned her he could only give her so much. 

Contractions came and went over the next couple of weeks, often in the least expected and most inopportune times. Hannah called in sick to work so she could remain more sedentary, in hopes of keeping the baby in her for as long as possible. Uncomfortable weeks of swollenness and nausea stretched on, but she convinced herself it would be worth it, to stay pregnant, so she could vote. The only women men cared about these days were the ones that were pregnant, and she had to make the most of it.

On November 3rd, two weeks and a half weeks after her due date, Hannah ran out of nifediphine, and despite laying on her left side and drinking plenty of water, her contractions began in earnest. No, no, no, Hannah thought, breathing hard, as the latest contraction eased. The last two contractions had been ten minutes apart. “Baby,” she gasped, cradling her hand around her large stomach, “You have to wait, just four more days. Elections are on the seventh, and we have to vote.”

The baby, however, didn’t seem to care and the contractions continued. Hannah’s body screamed at her to get up and move, to sway through the pain. But she couldn’t, not if she wanted to keep the baby in, so she lay still, breathing through each pain, keeping her legs pressed together and her hips up on a couple pillows to help keep the baby off of her cervix. In lew of moving, she moaned through each pain, vocalizing freely.

Three hours in, her contractions were five minutes apart, and there was a knock at her door. Hannah swallowed back her latest moan as another contraction struck. She currled around her stomach, miserable.

The knock sounded again urgent. “This is the paramedics. We’re here on a wellness check. A neighbor said they heard someone in distress. Please open up or we’ll break down the door.”

Shit, Hannah thought. She couldn’t get discovered, they’d force her to give birth. She’d have to stand up. First, she looked up some birth videos on her phone and cast them to her tv. By that time, her contraction had begun to ease a bit. She called an “I’m coming, just give me a minute,” to the door, and very, very slowly sat up and eased herself to her feet. 

The moment she got up, she felt her baby slam down into her opening cervix. Her feet spread instinctively as another contraction seized her. She clung to her headboard gasping, eyes wide, shocked by the firefly pain of her cervix stretching around the baby’s head. The pressure increased dramatically, until she felt something pop within her, sending water gushing over her feet. Luckily, her moan was covered by the scream from her tv.

“Ma’am are you all right?” The paramedics called.

Groaning, Hanah forced herself to stand up straight, organized her clothes and walked carefully toward the door, trying to keep her legs as close together as possible.

The paramedics seemed relieved, when she answered, their eyes going straight to her enormous belly which strained against the nightgown she was wearing. 

“Sorry,” she said, cradling her stomach. “It gets so hard to get around these days, with this passenger.”

“A neighbor heard sounds,” the paramedic said, eyes fixed on her stomach. “They were worried you needed assistance.”

“Not me, unfortunately,” Hannah said with a smile. “I was watching birth videos, to get ready for the day. I didn’t realize they were so loud. I’ll turn them down.”

The paramedic seemed unconcerned, so Hannah stepped carefully aside, waving him into her house. As long as he stayed out of her bedroom, currently covered in her waters, she would be safe. 

She stayed by the door, legs pressed tightly together, though her body screamed at her to open her legs, while the paramedic walked into her living room and saw the birthing videos on her tv.

Another contraction struck, this one accompanied with the undeniable urge to push. Hannah bit her lip to avoid crying out, thankful that the paramedic’s back was turned as he sauntered through her house. The contraction hadn’t quite given in by the time he turned around however.

“It seems everything is in order,” he said. “You sure you are all right?”

Hannah forced a smile. “Just fine,” she assured him, as sweat itched its way down her back and water dripped down her leg.

“All right then,” and the paramedic left. Hanah let out a relieved sigh and leaned against the door as she closed it. If she wanted the chance to vote, she’d need to go elsewhere, somewhere no one would hear her scream. 

Moving carefully, she waddled to her room and grabbed her hospital bag she’d prepared a few days ago. That had a lot of what she needed, but if she was going to keep the baby in for four more days, she’d need a bit more help. She grabbed towels, her clean kitchen scissors, and several bottles of water. Then she changed her clothes, forcing on a pair of tight exercise shorts, and some pre-pregnancy jeans. She could barely walk in them, and they clung uncomfortably to her hips and butt. The crotch of the pants dug into her sensitive, swollen lips, but it was a reassuring kind of pain. She would vote this year.

With her stuff gathered, she began to carefully walk to her car, one hand holding her bag, the other cradling her bump. She tried to keep her legs close together, but it was near impossible. Two agonizing contractions later (she could feel her baby moving down even though she stalwartly refused to push) she reached her car. Dropping her bag in the passenger seat, she pulled out her phone and looked up air-bnb’s. She found a cabin out in the middle of nowhere, about three hours away, and booked it for a month. 

With the address in her phone, and a calming spotify playlist on her speakers, she began her drive there. It was unpleasant, to say the least. The evermore insistent contractions continued every five minutes, and with each contraction the command to push came over her. Each time she breathed through it, moaning as she felt her baby stretch her insides and move down, little by little, despite her best efforts. On the plus side, this was her first baby and it was massively overdue. 

It took her five hours to reach the cabin, because she’d needed to drive carefully and avoid freeways given how all-consuming the contractions were becoming. She pulled up, stopped the car and collapsed back in her seat, legs splayed. She needed to pee. She needed her clothes off. She needed to push. The last she couldn’t do, but the first two, she could.

With a moan, she grabbed her bag and got up from the car. Standing was so much worse. Her legs were trembling from exhaustion. She managed about three steps before another contraction struck, her belly tightening beneath her hand. She screamed at the pain as her legs gave way and she fell to her knees on the driveway. No one was around for miles. So she allowed herself to freely vocalize until the contraction gave way. 

Once it was done, she decided standing would be too much work, and so she began to crawl up the front door, her large stomach brushing on the stairs as she went up them. Using the door handle, she managed to leverage herself to her feet and type in the code. 

Then she was in. She staggered gratefully into the cabin. It was small, a kitchen and sitting room with a couch and a tv, and a single bedroom with a master bathroom, and most importantly a very narrow tub.

Hannah dropped her stuff on her bed and went straight to the bathroom. Removing her tight clothes took several minutes, but finally she collapsed on the toilet and took care of business, working through several contractions on the toilet. Then she ran hot water in the tub. She found some plastic boxes under the sink and put them on either side of the tub, where her legs would be, to force them together. Then covered in sweat and birthing fluids, she gratefully got in.

She moaned as the warm water lapped around her. It eased the constant pain in her stomach. At the next contraction, her legs instinctively tried to spread, but they couldn't, held in place by the plastic boxes on either side. She screamed with the pain of her contraction, enjoying the ability to finally make as much noise as possible. 

She stayed in the tub, laboring, until the water ran cold, then she ran the water again and again. When she finally felt too wrinkly, when her body screamed too much at her to move, she reluctantly clambered out of the tub. Instantly, another contraction hit, and her legs spread instinctively. She gave way and pushed, crying out as she felt the baby shoot several inches down her canal.

She yelped as she felt it move. Sitting now, just behind her lips, and it had only been a day. She still had three more days of this. There was no more time for error. 

Without bothering to dry off, she put on the tight exercise shorts, then her too-tight jeans. Her body protested as it forced her legs together, but it didn’t matter. She had to keep this baby in. She needed to stay pregnant. She left her top bare. Just this much clothing felt too constrictive, but the pants were necessary. Then she made her way to the bed. She piled the water bottles by her nightstand, stacked pillows up to keep her hips elevated, and pulled out a couple belts, which she wrapped between her crotch and her hips, extra security in case the clothes failed. 

All set, she collapsed on the bed. The next contraction that came, she pushed. She couldn’t not push. She had to trust her preparations so far. The baby moved down, beginning to spread her lips just a bit. It stung, as if her crotch had been lit on fire. She screamed again, and stopped pushing, surprised at just how painful the stretch was. 

And thus that first night went on and on and on, with her pushing as she needed, with the head stretching her a tiny bit more each time, but never coming to a full crown, her clothes too tight. She lost herself in the rhythm. Breathe, push, scream, feel the pants push the baby back into her. 

Sunlight came again, through the windows. She was nauseous and exhausted, but drank water and ate an energy bar between contractions. At one point she tried to get up, thinking maybe she’d try the bath again, but her legs couldn’t support her. She was too tired, and she needed to conserve her energy. She turned on a show, whatever Netflix suggested and let it autoplay, trying to distract herself from the pain, from the constant need to push, from the fire in her crotch.

It helped to vocalize when she needed to without fear of people trying to assist. It also helped that she could push as she needed, trusting in her clothes to keep the baby in. She lay in her bed, hips elevated with pillows, curled in a miserable ball around her massive stomach. Days passed in a blur of agony, her voice too hoarse to scream, her sheets soaked in sweat. Until finally, finally, the alarm on her phone sounded, cutting through the fog of exhaustion and agony that had overrun her. 

It was voting day! She’d done it! 

She carefully began to move, sitting up for the first time in days. As soon as she engaged her abs, the baby was forced down again. Cautiously, she put her feet out on the floor, spread wide to accommodate her massive, low belly. Then, using the bedpost she began to stand. 

The urge to push came over her, renewed by the shift in gravity, and she obliged. Squating and moaning. Then to her surprise and shock, she felt the baby move, far more than it ever had. After days of strain, the seams on her overworked pants gave way to the efforts of this new push, and the baby’s head crowned completely for the first time. Hannah screamed, dropping to her knees in shock, her hand reaching for the massive bulge in her pants instinctively.

Between the crossing of her belts, she felt her wet pants, the massive hole in the seams, of both her jeans and her exercise shorts, and then, the head. Her fingers touched the curly hair, damp from birthing liquids.

No, no, no, she thought. This couldn’t be, not after all she’d done, not after she’d all she’d been through. She couldn’t give birth. Steadying herself, she pressed her hand up against the crowning head, and began to gently ease the baby in.

Whatever pain she was imagining, this was far worse she screamed at the attempt, and stopped. She knelt there, legs spread, hand between them, panting, stars before her eyes. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t push the baby back in. 

She’d have to go like this. The nightstand helped her pull herself to her feet. She took a couple of steps toward the door. The baby’s massive head touched her thighs with each step, slipping out a tiny bit more. As she reached the kitchen, she felt the nose stretch her lips and slip out. Still, she kept waddling forward, determined. She grabbed her keys, reached the front door, and shut it. Three stairs and a walkway, then she’d be in her car and the seat would keep the baby in. She could do it.

She went down the first step, her legs spreading out of necessity. A contraction hit, seizing her body, her stomach tightening. Her hands clasped the guardrail to keep herself upright. She tried not to push, but it didn’t matter. Her legs were spread, for practically the first time in four days, gravity was on her side, and the baby’s head was halfway out. With just the slightest of instinctive pushes, the head shot the rest of the way out, shooting through the seams of her pants, catching only on the buckles around her crotch.

Hannah screamed at the sensation of the head emerging. She couldn’t move, couldn’t take another step as the next contraction struck. It had been too long. The baby had to come out, now. No matter her previous attempts. The shoulders began to emerge, stretching her further. Then the baby stopped, caught by the belts, unable to go further. 

Falling back on the edge of the stairs, Hannah began frantically tearing off the belts. Another contraction hit, she pushed. No progress. She got one belt off by the next one, and was rewarded with even more of a spread. It took her two more, fruitless, desperate contractions to get the last belt off. 

The baby shot out, ripping through the remains of Hannah’s pants, and into her waiting hands. The tiny thing began to cry, and Hannah cried as well, holding it close to her.

She wouldn’t vote this year, but she would ensure that this baby would be raised right. He’d never let anyone be put in her position, not if she could help it.

[swissschees3]

𝐀𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲´-

「𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫」

【𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭】

【𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨♡ 】

Growing up you were always a shy kid. Grandma always told you it was just a phase and you’d grow out of it with a little more socialising. But as you grew up and collected more life experiences your shy nature became something much more. You began to struggle in school, small things suddenly felt a lot bigger, every time you walked into a room it felt like all eyes were on you. You still remember the first time you had an anxiety attack. You were sitting in class with your head down, trying to make sense of a math equation. But no matter how long you looked at the pattern of numbers and symbols you couldn’t focus. Why? Because it was too quiet. The silence was so loud, it felt like a heavy weight pressing down on you. You quickly became hyper aware of yourself and any small noise you made. You hunched over in your seat, as if trying to make yourself as small as possible. Your breaths even became short, scared to breathe too loudly. Your heart started to pound and your palms grew sweaty. A knot formed in your stomach and your nerves buzzed like a live wire. In the end you walked straight out of class and hid in the bathrooms. You curled up in the corner on the dirty lino floor and broke down in tears as you tried your hardest to breathe. 

You couldn’t understand what was happening. You didn’t know why you felt so afraid. You had experienced anxiety before but this was much more potent. Your body had practically moved on its own when you fled that classroom.

Caleb had watched you run out of class and immediately went after you. He rushed inside without a care that it was the women’s bathroom. In that moment you were his only priority. 

“Pipsqueak, why are you crying?”

He knelt by your side and reached out to you but you flinched back and buried your face in your knees. You felt so overwhelmed and on top of that you felt ashamed. How had such a trivial thing caused such a big reaction? Why did you go into fight or flight over something so ridiculous as a silent room? Caleb’s frown deepened and he withdrew his hand, gripping his pants. Usually when you were upset he could just wrap you in his arms and hold you there until you felt better. But whatever this was, was different and a simple embrace wasn’t going to help. It took a while for him to gently encourage you to talk to him but once you explained what happened he listened. You expected him to laugh, to tease you. But instead he just gave you that familiar, comforting smile.

“I don’t really get it but... But I’m here for you.” He said in that gentle, soothing tone as he laid his hand palm up on his knee, inviting you to touch him when you’re ready. “And if there’s anything I can do to help you when this happens tell me, okay? You’re always safe with me, pipsqueak.” His words aren’t what you had expected but they help. You suddenly feel less alone, like you were shrouded in shadows only to be pulled back into the light. Your tears slowly subside and you sniffle as you nod your head and manage to give him a shaky smile. You glance down at his hand and hesitate for a moment before you reach out and intertwine your fingers. His smile widens and he pulls you into his strong, warm arms, keeping his grip light in case you decide you want space again. His familiar scent of apples and cologne fill your lungs and you feel at ease, like nothing can touch you. A tidal wave of such strong appreciation for him washes over you and it’s hard to put into words. You manage to squeak out a small “Thankyou” as you bury yourself further into his embrace. The only response you get back is his grip tightening around you like an iron shield. 

“Hey wait, I have something for you.”

He pulls one arm away and digs into his pocket, retrieving a pair of earphones. He puts one bud in your ear and the other in his own. He scrolls through the playlist you made for him, the one you always listened to on your walk home together. He already knew your favourite song without you having to say it and when he pressed play the sound felt like taking a breath of fresh air. He pulled you close again and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead as he gently stroked your back.

“There, now the silence can’t get to you.”

The gesture made your heart swell. You had discovered early on that music was an escape. When everything was too much it was the only thing that made sense. Caleb knew that. And when he handed you the earphones it was like he was handing you a lifeline. The familiar melody wrapped around you like a blanket, preventing any unwanted thoughts. It soothed your tired soul and rooted you to reality and in that moment you had never felt more grateful for the man by your side. He couldn’t understand what you were feeling, he never would, but you didn’t need him to. With his steady presence by your side and the gentle music filling the silence you realise you only needed him.

[ozwriterchick]

Strangers on a plane..

Summary: You meet someone on a plane who helps you out - could there be something more?

Characters: James Bucky Barnes; OFC!Female Character, OFC!Little!Olivia

Word Count: approx. 1030

A/Note: Not Beta'd so any mistakes are my own.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Struggling through security you kept dropping this and that.  First it was the magazine you’d bought to read on the plane, then you almost dropped the coffee you’d bought.  Thankfully you hadn’t dropped the most precious thing you were carrying, your 3yo daughter, Olivia.

Heading on vacation as a single mother wasn’t always easy.  You were on your way home to Los Angeles to visit your mother and step-father who had, thankfully, purchased First class seats so you and Olivia would be more comfortable.  Your step-father was in Senior management with American Airlines so he was able to use his discount to assist with the seating.

Stopping quickly you place Olivia down and let her know that she’s going to have to walk from here because you can’t carry her and hold everything else.  Luckily from security it’s only a short walk to your gate and not long until boarding time, because Olivia gets quite bored, quite quickly.  Luckily your flight was a red-eye flight, so she is more likely to sleep – hopefully.

Arriving at your gate you sit her on one of the seats, dig her teddy and some snacks out of your bag and hand them to her, while you approach the staff at the check in desk.

“Hi” you begin.  “I’m flying with my daughter tonight, she’s 3, hopefully she’s going to sleep for most of the flight, and I know that first class usually board first, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to confirm that and assist me when it’s time to board, if that’s possible.”

“Of course, can I see your ticket and we can organise for you to board even before everyone else in First class.” The staff member offered.

“Thank you so much” you replied, showing her your ticket and Olivia’s.

“Ok Miss Yln, we will make a notation and give you a nod when it’s time for you to board” she smiled at you.

“Thank you, I really appreciate it.” With that, you went and sat back down next to Olivia, waiting on your boarding time.

Abot 20 min later the gate staff caught your eye and gave you a nod as time to board.  A few people had already started lining up, which always amazed you that they did this, when boarding hadn’t even been called yet, and they probably all weren’t first class passengers.

You stood up, gathered your stuff and grabbed Olivia’s hand to walk her on to the plane.  The gate staff handed you over to one of the flight attendants who asked if you needed a hand carrying anything, to which you nodded and handed her Olivia’s backpack to make it easier on you.

You placed the items you weren’t going to need in the overhead locker and the rest under the seat.  You sat Olivia on the seat next to yours so you could situate yourself.  You sat, buckled your seatbelt and as you were about to reach for Olivia to sit her on your knee a deep male voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Ummm, excuse me” the man said.  “I think someone is in my seat.”

You looked up into the brightest pair of blue eyes you’d ever seen.  You saw he was pointing at Olivia who was also looking up at him with awe.

“Oh I’m sorry sir, I was just sitting her there until I got settled.  Let me grab her.”

“Thanks.  My name is James by the way” he introduced himself.

“Oh, hi James, I’m Yn and this is Olivia”

“Well Hi Yn, and Hello Olivia, it’s a pleasure to meet you” at hearing her name, Olivia looked from you to him and pushed her face into your neck.

“Sorry, she’s not normally shy so I’m not sure what’s up with her.”

“That’s ok, it’s good to be aware of stranger danger, even at her age.”

You smiled at him and got settled for the flight.  Once in the air you put the tray table up and gave her a colouring book, pencils and some snacks.

You gave a sideway glance at your seatmate and noticed he was getting ready for some sleep.  You thought that sounded like a good idea so you scooched down a bit, lay Olivia on your chest and closed your eyes.

Stirring, you weren’t sure how much time had passed, but you felt like you’d had a decent sleep.  But something felt off, you couldn’t quite tell what it was.

You stretched out your body and that’s when you realised Olivia wasn’t on you.  You’re eyes shot open and you started to panic.  That is, until you went to get up and saw that she was laying on the chest of the blue-eyed, dark-haired stranger in the seat next to you.

You relaxed slightly, seeing she was deeply asleep and he looked like he was too.  Then you saw one of his eyes open and he gave you a side glance and said “Good morning” with a grin on his face.

“Hmm, morning” you replied.  “Let me take her, I’m so sorry about that.”

“No, she’s fine.  She’s asleep and I’d hate to wake her up until she has to.”

Turns out she’d woken up and started fussing and he noticed that you were asleep so he helped her out and she crawled onto his lap and got comfortable enough to fall asleep herself.

“Well, thank you for taking her” you said to him. “How can I repay you?”

“No need, I’m just glad you could get some rest.  I can sleep later.  Although, there is one thing you could maybe do for me?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” you smiled at him. “And what would that be?”

“Go out with me, coffee, or a drink, or dinner, up to you.”

That was the last thing you’d expected when taking a plane across the country to visit your family but why fight it, you thought? “Ok, let’s swap numbers and organise something.”

You were both smiling excessively as you exited the plane, you now had someone else helping you with yours and Olivia’s things.  Who knew where this would go, but you were keen to find out.

[rubikswriter]

Another drabble inspired by Amanda Overton’s Valentine’s Day CaitVi Q&A. This time it’s a a look at Vi and Tobias post S2.

The first few days after the war are long and arduous, and Vi spends her time quiet and broken at Caitlyn’s bedside.

Her heart feels heavy and weary; her sister and father are gone—for good this time—and Caitlyn’s life hangs in the balance.

The only thing that keeps her from falling apart completely is the steady beep of the machines hooked up to Caitlyn’s chest, reassuring Vi that her heart is still strong and fighting.

And Tobias.

His presence at Caitlyn’s side is as unwavering as hers.

‘She’s stubborn,’ he says reassuringly when Cait emerges from surgery, his hands tentatively reaching out to brush stray hair away from Caitlyn’s face, and his fingers beyond gentle as they sweep beneath her bandaged eye. ‘Just like her mother.’

Vi swallows thickly, her eyes burning with tears as she dares to meet his gaze. Guilt coils in her chest, and Vi feels remarkably out of place. Her sister killed his wife, and now his daughter is fighting for her life and Vi feels useless and weak, unable to do anything to fix any of it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Vi mumbles pathetically, reluctantly letting Caitlyn’s hand slip from her grasp as she pushes to her feet, ready to give the Kiramman’s some well needed space now, away from the likes of her and the trouble she brings wherever she goes.

‘Don’t,’ Tobias says, halting her. ‘Stay, please.’ His smile is soft, softer than she deserves.

Cait might be her mother’s double but the warmth that surrounds Vi whenever Cait looks at her is all Tobias. His eyes radiate a tenderness so familiar to her that Vi instinctively sits back down, tethered once more from the darkness threatening to engulf her.

‘Caitlyn wants you here; she always did,’ he continues and Vi eagerly takes Caitlyn’s hand back in her own again, letting her fingers seek out her pulse, its beat steady and anchoring. ‘I’m the one who ought to apologise.’

Vi startles at his words. How could Vi possibly hold any animosity towards a man who had been clearly consumed by grief. If anyone can understand the resounding, aching, loss of a loved one, it’s her.

‘Not to me, sir,’ Vi replies kindly, and Tobias exhales deeply, clearly grateful for her understanding.

‘I think we’re moving beyond formalities, don’t you? You can call me Tobias,’ he offers kindly, and Vi nods in gratitude.

His eyes stare into her for a long moment and Vi feels herself shuffling beneath his gaze, not knowing what else to say. So much has happened. So much that Vi doesn’t even know where to start, isn’t sure she even knows the majority of it. While she’d been fighting and drinking to drown her pain, Caitlyn had been manipulated and torn apart by her own.

And now, Caitlyn lies unconscious, body bruised and broken, her wounds an open display of penitence for her sins.

‘I should have been around,’ Vi croaks brokenly, her mind drifting to thoughts of Ambessa Medarda and just how ruthless the warmongering bitch had been, how dangerously far she’d willing to go; how far she’d pushed Caitlyn to go when nobody was there to stop her getting swept away in her anguish. ‘I should have protected her.’

She remembers clocking Ambessa’s hunger for battle during the memorial attack, and feels the tendrils of blame curling around her heart like a vice, constricting so tight she can barely breathe.

She should have known better.

She should have done more.

Why does she always seem to fail those she loves?

She feels her free hand clenching into a fist at the question, her arm throbbing from where it hangs in a sling around her neck, fractured from another of her missteps. No matter what she chooses, there always seems to be a heavy cost to pay. First Powder, then Caitlyn’s mother, now Jinx. As her eyes settle back on Caitlyn’s face, she prays to whoever is necessary that they won’t punish her by taking Caitlyn away too.

‘When Caitlyn got her heart broken the first time,’ Tobias starts unexpectedly, breaking her from her thoughts and making Vi’s eyes widen in interest. ‘I was the one she came to. I held her, dried her tears.’ Vi watches his lips twitch up into a fond smile at the memory before his face falls ashen with anguish. ‘When her heart broke this time, I watched from a distance as she lost herself,’ he murmurs, shaking his head in reprimand at his own actions. ‘I was too lost in my own grief to see that she was letting her own absolutely destroy her. I failed to protect her. I let her suffer alone.’

The pain etched into the lines of his face is one Vi relates to explicitly. The guilt churns in her chest before dropping to her stomach like a heavy stone.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Vi whispers, feeling her heart plummet.

‘Because I know how much my daughter loves you,’ Tobias answers, his eyes locking to hers, studying Vi intensely. ‘And I can see how much you love her.’

Vi sniffles at his words, stroking her fingers firmer over Caitlyn’s pulse. ‘I can’t lose her again,’ she whimpers, her voice coarse and strangled.

‘You won’t,’ he soothes, fingers stroking over Caitlyn’s face again. ‘Caitlyn never gives up easily. In fact, I think you’ll learn more and more just how damned tenacious the Kiramman women are once she wakes,’ he adds adoringly, his eyes flickering back to Vi’s. ‘Just promise me one thing, Vi.’

‘Anything,’ Vi exhales needily, knowing it’s true, she would go above and beyond for Caitlyn now that they have a second chance.

‘Don’t let her go again,’ Tobias says softly. ‘Take care of her heart better than I have. She’s her mothers daughter, yes; stubborn, tenacious, hot headed. But she’s also mine; sensitive, soft, delicate. She hides it well but she has a tender heart, it loves fully and bruises easily.’

‘I love her,’ Vi declares resolutely. There’s been so much pain and loss, but it’s the one thing left that Vi knows with absolute certainty. ‘And if she’ll have me, I’m going to spend the rest of my life guarding her heart with my own. I promise.’

‘Just as I know she’ll protect yours,’ Tobias smiles knowingly back at her, his eyes warm and comforting. ‘For as long as you love my daughter, you will always be welcome in my family, Vi.’

As the weight of his words settle over her, Vi draws Caitlyn’s hand to her lips and presses a soft, promising kiss across her knuckles. Family is all she’s ever yearned for, fought for, and she has no intention of stopping now.

Vi knows things might still be uncertain, but for the first time in a long time everything feels possible again. There’s hope for better days to come, and that’s a lot more than they all had only a few hours before.

She clings to the thought until Caitlyn wakes, her beautiful blue eye blinking open slowly and regarding Vi carefully for a moment before a smile tugs at her lips.

‘You’re here,’ Caitlyn murmurs in relief, voice thick and heavy with sleep.

Vi feels her heart swell and leans forward to kiss her gently. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else, cupcake.’

When Cait’s hand reaches up to cradle her cheek then, drawing her back in until their foreheads are resting together and they're sharing air, Vi knows they will find a way to start moving forwards together, no matter how difficult the road ahead may be.

[scribbbbbles]

How Brooklyn Was Brought To Her Knees - Chapter Two: The Rescue

author's note: HIIIIIIIII this one picks up right where we left off. It's longer!! almost 1k longer!!! let's hope my professors keep being nice to me so we can stay consistent :)

word count: 2.7k

PLEASE CHECK THE MASTERLIST FOR ALL WARNINGS!!!

comments, reblogs, and likes are cherished!! thank you for reading ♥

I was never one to back down from a fight, but I took Steve Rogers hand. He was an enemy of my father, but he was Steve. Good, honorable, golden Steve. There’s no way he hated my family so much he’d leave me here to rot… right? I hesitated for a second before grasping his fingers, and his eyes softened. He gripped my bicep and yanked me to my feet, where I promptly stumbled. I missed how my assailant’s hand began to shake as he released me. 

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, steadying me with two hands. “She’s worse off than you were Buck.” 

Wait. 

No. 

I slowly turned as the gears whirred in my head, actually hearing the words that came out of Steve’s mouth this time. The blue eyed man behind me pulled his mask down and shook his head to clear his hair. When he looked back up at me he was James Barnes, heir to the Brooklyn Mob, who last I heard was still missing . 

He wouldn’t look into my eyes. He knew. 

My throat went dry as I put the pieces together in my head. HYDRA had kidnapped Barnes- definitely while he was stationed overseas, it was easier to do on their home turf. If they’d lost their leverage with Bucky, maybe they thought they could play with a different boss. He must’ve been out for months , HYDRA can’t possibly work that fast.

“You got out?” I whispered to him, my voice fleeting in the silent expanse of the room. His eyes remained sharp, though a flicker of guilt blew over them like a top layer of snow shifting. It was just as quickly gone again. He only nodded as he turned to leave the room. 

“You got out so they took me didn’t they? You’re why I’m here aren’t you?!”

“I’m why you’re alive!” He roared as he whipped back to face me, his finger up and pointed in my face. I felt Steve’s grip on me tighten, as if no longer to hold me up but to keep me in place. I planted my feet firmly in response, willing myself not to sway. I held my chin high. Steve’s foot stepped out in front of me, a silent threat to Bucky of stand down . Bucky exhaled sharply. 

“Though frankly I couldn’t care less,” he said, tossing his hand before turning back towards the door. “You’re simply too good of a bargaining chip to leave here. Maybe your father will let me get a night’s rest if I drop your ass back on his doorstep.” 

“Bucky.” Steve tone carried a warning, for what I had no clue. 

Bucky turned back and glared at me, the cold in my bones reaching for him like it longed to go home, and that home was the man in front of me. He was harder than I remember- colder, meaner. His eyes were sharper, along with his jaw, and his nose looked like it had been broken a few more times. His adam’s apple bobbed slightly up and down as his large chest heaved to draw in more air from the stuffy room. His longer hair dusted across the top of his shoulders, with strands of the brown hair falling messily around his face. Some pieces got caught in his unkempt stubble and stuck to his sweaty forehead. Shadows seemed to pool at his feet like he could command them with a flick of his wrist. The pulsing light from the alarms jumped mutely around the small concrete room, illuminating him in a red glow of death. It carved dangerously down his easily 6’ frame and drew harsh lines through his blacked out tactical gear. 

I saw it first in the flashes of  light. His left arm was gone – a robotic-looking silver prosthetic gleamed in its place. On his outer bicep a red star was colored into the mechanism. It whirred ever so slightly as he moved. I barely heard it over the frantic slamming of my heart in my ears and my ragged breathing in the dead silent room, and if I wasn’t so focused on him or so intune with tech, I bet I wouldn’t even notice. I’d bet you couldn’t notice it if he had on a sleeve. This was not the boy who made me beg to be homeschooled to avoid his ponytail pulling, this was someone so much worse. This was less than a man, this was a well manufactured killing machine. He was living death. 

He looked me up and down like I was his prey; and for the first time in my life, I felt like it. 

I’ve never gulped down air faster than when Steve had finally hauled me out of that wretched basement, Bucky refusing to lay a single finger on me. The sunlight was blinding but oh so warm on my face. A grin involuntarily broke out across my chapped lips. There were police everywhere, and yet somehow we walked straight through them to an armored, blacked out SUV. One of the police nodded quickly to Bucky as we passed. 

‘Right, Barnes owns the cops.’ In my defense, I didn’t expect his reach to come out to the Bronx, but everyone can be bought. It’s the only reason any of us have a job. 

Steve kept a firm hold on me, helping me into the back of the van and making sure I wasn’t going to fall over before getting in the driver’s seat. Rogers was always nice to me, and I was thankful for that now. I shuddered internally at the thought of being here alone with Barnes. Steve’s spent a large portion of his life cleaning up Bucky’s messes; and I guess I’m one of them now. We could probably be friends, if it weren’t for our … affiliations. 

The pair of men bickered in the front seat, Bucky opting to just dump me at Stark Tower in downtown; which was also my preferred option. Steve, who ended up making the choice for both of us, said 'there was no way in hell you could just dump her on the street and have it not look like you had kidnapped and held her hostage for five years.’ I also learned from Steve in their heated conversation that Bucky was still the heir, and thus had to answer to his father. I kept my mouth shut at that, though a laugh threatened to bubble past my lips. The prospect of having to see George Barnes in my current state or at all was not one I was a fan of, but the prospect of Bucky still being Daddy’s Little Servant? That cracked a smile. 

Bucky had apparently had someone else call his father for him, lazy asshole, because when we arrived at the Barnes’ Mansion in Brooklyn there were double the amount of usual men and vehicles lining the property. I crossed every finger and toe that they were Stark cars. All I wanted was my dad, no matter how childish of a want it was. I never voiced it, but everyone silently knew. Bucky’s cold eyes had a brief sheen to them as I scanned the cars looking for any identifiable markers, understanding. I was hidden between the two gigantic men as we exited the car and moved inside the house, the main doors heavily thudding behind us as we entered the foyer. 

I heard them before I saw them. I heard my father’s frantic yelling over everything, and I couldn’t stop myself from shoving through both men with whatever strength I possessed. Steve was the only one who tried to stop me, Bucky gladly let go of my arm like it was a cancer to him. Dick. 

“You have the nerve to call my personal cell number after all these years and fucking use my daughter as bait to get me inside your godforsaken shitstain of a house–” I heard a very familiar accented voice boom through the doors in front of me, Steve and Bucky’s steps a few paces behind. They were murmuring about something, but I no longer had it in me to care. A grin crept wide up my cheeks as I shoved open the two double doors into what I could assume was the back meeting hall. 

Every head in the room turned to me as the doors opened. You could hear my father out of breath from across the room. I barely had time to register who I was standing in front of or what I looked like - covered in blood, thin as a rail, paler than any human being should be, and grinning like I just escaped an asylum - before my father croaked out some kind of a pitiful sound and tears poured from my eyes. 

I’ve never seen Anthony Stark run that fast in my life. I let out an ‘oof’ when he collided into me and scooped me up into his arms like I was five years old and not twenty; like he wasn’t one of the most feared bosses on the east coast. Our bodies shook with the combined release of sobs, adrenaline, and five years of worry gone from our shoulders as we collapsed on the floor. He pressed my face so hard into his chest it kind of hurt, but I didn’t care. He smelled like that Gucci cologne he refuses to admit smells like shit and that way too expensive aftershave he’s been using all my life. He eventually pulled back to help me stand, and we both started cackling like witches at the ludicracy of it all, slowly and shakily standing as he held me at arm’s length. He wiped my eyes as I death-grip clung to his forearms. 

He was older, with grays streaking through his slicked back hairstyle and peppered in his overgrown goatee. The bags under his eyes felt more pressing and permanent, hollow dark semi-circles. He was thinner, not by much but still noticeable as I pressed my fingers hard into his suit jacket. It was one of his least favorites, a blue Armani one he always claimed to pull at his shoulders. His lips weren’t as chapped as they used to always be, they were smooth as they pressed several kisses to my hairline. His eyes flitted around my face, and a watery smile stretched across his face. 

“Hi sweet pea,” he said, so soft that no one else could hear, as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His eyes raked up and down my body and I saw the concern knot in his brow. I shook my head at him, looking pointedly before smiling. 

“Hi Dad.” He beamed, his face relaxing and he kissed my forehead before hugging me again. I looked over his shoulder and caught Pepper Potts, who had her face schooled into a neutral expression, holding a toddler about three or four years old in her arms pressing her face away from me and into her shoulder. Next to her stood a young, crying, sixteen year old boy. 

He was ganglier than I remembered, though I guess he had grown more than I thought. His sandy brown hair fell haphazardly across his forehead and his cheeks were flushed from crying. He stood taller, closer to my dad’s height judging by where he landed next to Pepper. He wore his school uniform, a collared button down under a navy sweater and some khakis, but I caught a dainty silver chain around his neck tucked under his shirt. He wore a silver ring on his pinkie finger, a plain band but no doubt engraved with our family insignia. A show of loyalty from an active member. My heart squeezed at that. 

“Hi Peter.” My dad stepped back with a chuckle as Peter Parker flung himself at me. I laughed again and held him close as he picked me up and spun me around in circles. He was taller than me now, and stronger, but he was still my little brother. I caught Steve smiling out of the corner of my eye next to Bucky’s mom and sister, while I heard Bucky and his father leave the room arguing. I didn’t really care, because Peter was suffocating me. I swatted him on the back before he loosened his grip with a rushed, ‘sorry.’ I smiled up at him and he returned the gesture. A silent communication of a thank you. Pepper walked over with the toddler as I stepped out of the hug brushed Peter’s hair off his forehead.

“I missed you,” he said with a watery laugh, his hands remaining on my shoulders. 

“Good because I missed you too.” I got the chance to finally turn to Pepper and see the small child in her arms who looked… just like my dad. I watched Pepper shoot him a glare, and cover the child’s face from seeing me again. I looked at him with an eyebrow obviously cocked and tilted my head. Pepper’s always been a great step-mom, this was not like her to do. He looked to the floor and sighed, stepping away from her and back to me, shooting her a look of ‘not now, not here. Know your place.’ 

“We need to get the med team to look you over sweet pea. I’m hoping not all of this is yours,” his mouth set in a firm grimace as he took in my frail form, brushing my matted hair off my forehead again. Suddenly embarrassed by my appearance, I held my chin higher. 

“Never is, Dad.” He nodded, his mouth pressed in a thin line. As he turned to one of his men, Bucky and his father returned. Bucky looked shell shocked in a way I’d never seen him before. His eyes wouldn’t meet anyones and his gaze remained firmly on the floor. He slowly stalked by his mother and sister before falling in line next to Steve, hands clasped in front of him and head bowed. Steve whispered over to him, covering his mouth so I couldn’t read what he was saying. Bucky muttered something in return. His father remained in the doorway of his study, looking like nothing had gone down in the past few minutes. 

 ‘ Damn, he really got his ass handed to him.’ 

Dad nodded at George Barnes, who nodded in return. A deal was made. I quickly flitted my eyes to everyone’s face in the room. Winifred and Rebecca were doing the same as me - it seems no one informed the women - Peter was blissfully unaware, Pepper was already leaving with my apparent infant half-sister, and Steve's expression matched Bucky’s but with a hint of amusement in it. Bucky smacked his arm and they quickly left the room. Rebecca turned her gaze back towards me, raising a brow. I raised both of mine in response. She smiled softly and shook her head, pointing towards her father with her eyes. She’d find out later. 

“Welcome home, Miss Stark.” George spoke across the room. “I wish you a speedy recovery.” His baritone voice carried across the room with an air of sincerity. It was a dismissal. A ‘kindly get fucked,’ dismissal. 

“Thank you sir. And thank your sons for me as well. I owe them a debt ,” I replied, very careful to highlight whom I owe my thanks. It wasn’t customary to owe someone a favor in the mob. To be owed is a life debt, and unfortunately I now inadvertently was trapped in one such predicament to the heir. George Barnes is the world’s best con-man next to my Dad, and he will twist whatever he can get his hands on to make it fit what he needs it to. He waved his hand, another dismissal, but nodded none the same. He dismissed the debt? My eyebrows flew quickly to my hairline before I schooled my expression. I shot another glare to Rebecca, who quickly nodded in response. 

“Safe travels.” 

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[bitchinbarzal]

It’ll work out | K Kaprizov

summary: You and Kirill have been trying to have a baby for a long time. The struggle has taken its toll, creating a rift between you that neither of you knows how to fix. When things reach a breaking point, you both have to decide if love is enough to bring you back to each other.

-

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

You stir your spoon in your tea, watching the amber liquid swirl around the cup, but you don’t take a sip. Across the kitchen, Kirill sits at the table, scrolling through his phone, lost in his own world. His face is unreadable, illuminated only by the dim blue light of the screen.

This is how it’s been for weeks now. You sit in the same room, breathe the same air, but you might as well be miles apart. The weight of unspoken words, of disappointment and exhaustion, presses down on you both.

It wasn’t always like this.

You used to talk about everything, filling even the quietest moments with laughter and warmth. Now, the silence stretches between you like a canyon neither of you knows how to cross.

“I have an early practice tomorrow,” Kirill says, finally breaking the silence.

You nod, lifting your mug to your lips. “Okay.”

That’s it. That’s all you say.

You don’t tell him that you cried in the car after work today, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands after another coworker announced their pregnancy. That you smiled, offered congratulations, and then locked yourself in the school bathroom just to breathe through the ache in your chest.

He doesn’t tell you that he saw you last night, curled up on the couch, staring blankly at yet another negative test. That he wanted to come to you, to wrap you in his arms and tell you that it would be okay.

But he didn’t.

Because what if it won’t be?

Because what if the words aren’t enough?

Because what if he’s failing you?

The weight of hope is a cruel thing.

When you first decided to try for a baby, it had been filled with excitement, a whispered dream that seemed just within reach. The first few months, you were giddy with the possibility, already picturing a nursery, tiny clothes, late-night feedings with Kirill rocking your child back to sleep.

Then months turned into a year. And another.

And nothing happened.

Doctors. Tests. Treatments.

An endless cycle of waiting and heartbreak.

Each negative test was like a punch to the gut, but the worst was the time you truly believed it had worked. Your period was late, your body felt different, and for two glorious days, you let yourself believe you were finally pregnant.

You told Kirill in a hushed, excited whisper, his face lighting up with a kind of joy you hadn’t seen in months. He kissed you, lifted you off the ground, and spun you around the kitchen, laughing against your skin.

Then the bleeding started.

And just like that, the light faded from his eyes.

You had cried in his arms that night, gripping his shirt as if holding onto him could somehow stop the ache in your chest. He had whispered to you in Russian, soft and soothing, but it did nothing to dull the heartbreak.

And since then, something between you has been unraveling.

Kirill comes home late from practice, the front door closing with a soft click. You hear the rustle of his bag being set down, the quiet creak of the floorboards under his feet as he makes his way to the kitchen.

You’re at the counter, absently running a hand over the smooth surface, your untouched dinner sitting on a plate in front of you. When you glance up, Kirill is standing in the doorway, watching you with tired eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

“Hey,” you echo, unsure what else to say.

He hesitates before nodding toward the food. “You ate?”

“I waited for you,” you admit.

Something flickers across his face, something like guilt, but it disappears just as quickly. “I already ate with the guys.”

You nod, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Oh. Okay.”

You turn away, blinking rapidly. It shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does.

Kirill exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “What’s wrong?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “What’s wrong? Kirill, we barely talk anymore. You come home, and it’s like I’m not even here.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is feeling like I’m losing you.” The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and aching. “I feel like I’m drowning, and you’re just—” Your voice wavers. “You’re just letting it happen.”

Kirill shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“Then tell me what is true, because I don’t know anymore.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, as if struggling to find the right words.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and unbearable.

Then, finally, he exhales. “Maybe we need a break.”

The world tilts beneath your feet.

“A break?” you whisper.

“I don’t know what else to do, Y/N.” His voice is hoarse, desperate. “We’re hurting each other.”

Tears well in your eyes. “So your solution is to leave?”

His expression crumbles, and for the first time, you see the same pain reflected in his gaze. “I don’t want to. But I don’t know how to be what you need anymore.”

Your heart shatters.

You turn away, pressing your hands against the counter, willing yourself to stay steady. “Then maybe you should go.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Then, finally, you hear the quiet shuffle of his footsteps as he turns and walks away.

And when the door closes behind him, the weight of it all crashes down on you.

The bed feels empty without him.

For the first time since you moved in together, you wake up alone. No warm weight beside you, no steady breathing in the quiet.

Just silence.

And for the first time, you wonder if he’s ever coming back.

Four days pass before he returns.

You don’t hear the door open, but you feel his presence before you see him. When you turn, he’s standing in the doorway, looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll tell him to leave again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice thick with emotion.

Tears prick your eyes, but you don’t move. “Me too.”

Kirill takes a slow step forward. “I don’t want space. I don’t want a break. I just want you.”

A sob catches in your throat.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” he continues, voice cracking. “I don’t care if it never happens. I just want you, Y/N.”

You stare at him, heart aching. “You mean that?”

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that spill over. “I love you. With or without a baby. That will never change.”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

You collapse into his arms, clinging to him as sobs wrack your body. He holds you tightly, whispering soft reassurances in Russian, pressing kisses into your hair.

You don’t know how long you stand there, wrapped in each other. But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s everything.

Six months later, you’re staring at a pregnancy test with shaking hands.

Two pink lines.

Your breath catches, tears spilling down your cheeks as you press a hand to your stomach.

“Kirill?” Your voice wobbles as you step into the bedroom, the test clutched in your fingers.

He looks up, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Wordlessly, you hold out the test.

His eyes widen.

And then he’s across the room in an instant, arms wrapping around you as he laughs—a joyful, disbelieving sound that makes your heart soar.

“We did it,” he breathes.

You smile through your tears, pressing your forehead to his.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “We did.”

And no matter what comes next, you know you’ll always have each other.

Always.