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pucksandpower · 5 months ago

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Under the Mistletoe

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando really wants you to kiss him under the mistletoe. Sounds normal enough, right? Wrong! So wrong

Warnings: 18+ content and description of an allergic reaction

The apartment is finally quiet. The muffled thrum of conversation and laughter that had filled every corner just hours ago has faded, leaving only the faint crackle of the fireplace in the living room. It smells like pine needles, spiced cider, and the faint citrus tang of your new body wash. You pad softly down the hallway in your slippers, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet.

“Lando?” You call, peeking into the dimly lit bedroom.

He’s there, of course, but the sight that greets you isn’t what you expect.

Lando is lying on his back, smack in the middle of the bed, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s wearing nothing. Absolutely nothing … except for a single, strategic adornment. Tied with what looks like a strip of red ribbon, a sprig of mistletoe dangles provocatively from his dick.

“Seriously?” You stop in the doorway, blinking. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Happy Christmas,” he says, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an invitation.” He tilts his head slightly, his curls a messy halo against the pillow. “You’ve got to kiss me.”

“Oh, I’ve got to, have I?” You fold your arms, biting back a smile.

“Under the mistletoe,” he clarifies, as if that makes it any less ridiculous. “It’s the rules. I don’t make them.”

“You absolutely made this up.”

Lando shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “Does it matter?”

You stand there for a moment, torn between amusement and disbelief. “You know, normal people just leave cookies for Santa. Not …” You gesture vaguely at him, at the ribbon, at everything.

“Not everything has to be normal,” he says, his grin softening slightly. There’s something teasing in his tone, but there’s sincerity, too. “Come on, it’s Christmas. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me for it.”

There’s no point denying it. You do love him — ridiculous, over-the-top antics and all. With a sigh that’s more for show than anything else, you take a few steps closer to the bed.

“Alright,” you say, pretending to consider. “Where exactly am I supposed to kiss you? The mistletoe’s not even …” You trail off, waving a hand vaguely in the air.

Lando smirks, his eyes dancing. “Where do you think?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you say again, but you’re already climbing onto the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and Lando watches, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re not protesting much,” he points out.

“Shut up.”

“You could have just stayed in the doorway, you know. Told me off or something. But no, here you are-”

“Lando,” you cut in, leaning over him.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Your lips are on his before he can say anything else, cutting off whatever smug reply he had planned. His hands slide instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him.

It’s not rushed. The night has been long, full of people and noise and obligations, and this moment feels like a welcome reprieve. Lando’s mouth is warm, insistent but unhurried, and you let yourself get lost in it for a while, your fingers tangling in his hair.

When you finally pull back, he looks up at you, flushed and grinning.

“Good start,” he says, his voice a little breathless.

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Really?”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admits, his grin widening.

Shaking your head, you shift your attention downward. The ribbon, the mistletoe — it’s so absurd you have to laugh.

“Did you seriously tie this yourself?” You ask, running a finger lightly along the edge of the ribbon.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Fine, yes. Took me a solid twenty minutes, too. Those stupid YouTube tutorials make it look way easier than it is.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re still here.”

You meet his gaze, your laughter fading. The teasing, playful look in his eyes hasn’t disappeared, but there’s something else there now — something softer, more vulnerable. It’s the look he gets when he’s reminding you, without words, just how much you mean to him.

“Well,” you say quietly, “it is Christmas.”

“And you’ve got to follow the rules,” he murmurs.

“Right.”

The bed creaks slightly as you shift again, positioning yourself more comfortably. You lean down, pressing another kiss to his lips — gentler this time, more lingering. Then you trail kisses along his jaw, his collarbone, the faint dusting of freckles across his chest.

Lando lets out a soft, contented sigh, his hands finding your hips again. “You’re taking this very seriously,” he says, his voice tinged with amusement.

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

“Lucky me.”

You glance up at him briefly, smirking. “You’ve no idea.”

When you finally reach the ribbon, you pause, your lips hovering just above it. Lando’s breathing hitches slightly, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Merry Christmas, Lando,” you murmur.

“Best Christmas ever,” he replies, his voice low and fervent.

And then, with deliberate slowness, you kiss him under the mistletoe.

You pause for a beat, the mistletoe brushing lightly against your cheek. Lando’s breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling beneath you. He’s trying to stay still, but his fingers dig into your skin, betraying how much control he’s losing.

“You alright up there?” You ask, teasing, your voice low.

“You know I’m not,” he mutters, his words strained.

“Good.”

And with that, you continue. Deliberate. Unhurried. Every movement of your mouth is purposeful, every touch designed to unravel him. Lando groans, low and broken, the sound rumbling through the quiet room like a storm on the horizon.

“Fuck, you’re …” He cuts himself off, his head tipping back into the pillow. His hands flex against your hips, as if holding you steady is the only thing grounding him.

“Say it,” you murmur, barely pulling away for a second.

He glances down at you, his hazel eyes dark and glassy. “You’re killing me,” he manages, his voice hoarse.

You smile, the corners of your mouth curving just slightly before you return to your task. Lando’s hands slip from your shoulders, clutching the sheets instead. He’s completely undone now — his breathing ragged, his head thrown back, his body trembling beneath you.

“F-fuck … close,” he stammers, his words tumbling out like he’s barely holding them together.

You hum softly in acknowledgment, the vibration of it drawing a sharp, involuntary gasp from him. It’s all he can take.

He breaks.

A strangled sound escapes his throat as his body tenses, and you taste the telltale musky warmth on your tongue. You stay where you are for a moment, letting him ride out the high, his grip on the sheets going slack.

When it’s over, you pull back slowly, swallowing before wiping at the corner of your mouth. One drop clings stubbornly to your lip, and you swipe it away with your thumb, catching Lando’s hazy, satisfied gaze as you do.

“You alright there?” You ask softly, your tone light but full of affection.

“Barely,” he mutters, his voice thick. He exhales sharply, his chest still heaving as he lets his head fall to the side, watching you with a dazed grin. “You’re-”

“What?” You tilt your head innocently, wiping your hand on a tissue before tossing it onto the nightstand.

“Perfect,” he finishes, his voice soft and full of something deeper than just the moment.

You laugh quietly, crawling up the bed to lie beside him. He pulls you close immediately, one arm draped over your waist, the other brushing back a strand of hair from your face.

“Was this your master plan all along?” You tease, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Maybe,” he admits, still catching his breath.

“And?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

You roll your eyes but smile against his skin. “Merry Christmas, Lando.”

“Happy Christmas,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with exhaustion and contentment.

For a moment, neither of you says anything more. The only sound is the quiet crackle of the fire in the distance, and the world beyond the bedroom feels miles away.

Eventually, Lando breaks the silence. “So … same thing next year?”

You shove him playfully, laughing as his grin widens. “Go to sleep.”

And with him wrapped around you, the warmth of his love settling over you like a blanket, you do.

***

The morning light creeps through the curtains, warm and soft, a stark contrast to the frantic energy in the room. You stir awake first, stretching lazily until you feel Lando shift beside you, letting out a low, uncomfortable groan.

“Ugh,” he mutters, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” You mumble sleepily, rolling over to look at him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just shifts again, his body stiff and tense. Then he sits up abruptly, wincing as if every movement hurts.

“Lando?” You ask, more alert now.

“It … hurts,” he says, glancing down at himself. “Like, bad.”

You follow his gaze, and that’s when you see it. The redness. The swelling.

“Oh my God,” you say, your voice shooting up an octave. You sit up fully, the sleepiness disappearing in an instant. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” He exclaims, his face a mixture of panic and embarrassment. “It was fine last night!”

“Well, it’s not fine now!” You scoot closer, carefully inspecting the irritated skin. It’s blotchy, bright red, and looks alarmingly angry.

“It’s swollen,” he groans.

“No kidding.”

“What do we do?” He asks, his voice bordering on frantic.

“First, calm down,” you say, though your own voice isn’t exactly steady. “Second … oh my God, Lando, do you think it’s the mistletoe?”

His eyes widen as the realization hits. “You think I’m allergic?”

“Do you have any idea where that stuff’s been stored? It’s probably coated in dust or pollen or something. Or-” Your voice catches. “Do you think you’ve always been allergic?”

“I’ve never, uh … put it on my cock before, so how would I know?”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, panic simmering between you.

“We need help,” Lando says finally.

“Like … a doctor?”

“No!” He yelps. “We’re not going to a doctor for this!”

“Then what-”

“Call Jon,” he blurts out, cutting you off.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. “Your performance coach?”

“Yeah! He knows, like, medical stuff. And he won’t make it weird.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow but grab your phone anyway, scrolling to Jon’s number. “Oh, this isn’t going to be awkward at all,” you mutter as it rings.

“Hello?” Jon answers, sounding far too chipper for the situation.

“Uh, hi, Jon,” you begin, exchanging a look with Lando. “It’s Y/N. Lando and I have … a bit of a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Jon asks, his voice immediately shifting to professional concern.

“Well …” You trail off, glancing at Lando, who gestures frantically for you to continue. “It’s kind of … personal.”

“Y/N,” Jon says patiently, “you’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

You let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Okay, fine. Lando’s … area is swollen and covered in a rash.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“… Come again?” Jon finally says, and you can practically hear him trying not to laugh.

“It’s not funny!” Lando shouts from the bed. “It’s serious!”

“Oh, it’s serious?” Jon repeats, his voice full of barely concealed amusement. “Alright. How did this happen?”

You hesitate, then mumble, “He … tied mistletoe to it last night.”

Jon doesn’t reply immediately, but the faint sound of him choking back laughter comes through the line.

“Can you help or not?” Lando snaps, his cheeks flushing red — whether from anger or embarrassment, you’re not sure.

“Okay, okay,” Jon says, his tone softening. “It’s probably an allergic reaction. Clean the area thoroughly, apply a topical antihistamine if you have one, and keep it elevated to reduce swelling.”

“Elevated?” You echo, frowning. “How are we supposed to-”

“Just do your best,” Jon says, clearly suppressing a laugh again. “And if it doesn’t improve in a few hours, you might need to, uh … consult a professional.”

“Thanks, Jon,” you say quickly, hanging up before Lando can yell again.

Lando groans, flopping back onto the bed. “This is the worst Christmas ever.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, grabbing the first-aid kit from the bathroom. “Now, let me see.”

“This is humiliating,” he mutters, but he doesn’t resist as you sit beside him, carefully applying the ointment Jon suggested.

“Hold still,” you say gently, your touch careful.

He winces but doesn’t complain further, watching you with a mix of gratitude and lingering embarrassment. After a few minutes, the redness looks slightly less angry, though the swelling is still noticeable.

Once you’re done, you sit back with a sigh, your hands on your knees. “Well, that was a bonding experience.”

Lando lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, not exactly what I had planned.”

You glance at him, your lips twitching upward despite everything. “So … was it worth it?”

He grins, some of his usual confidence returning. “Next year, I’ll make sure to have an epipen ready.”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Next year, maybe let’s stick to normal traditions. Like cookies. Or matching pajamas.”

“We’ll see,” he says, smirking as he leans back against the pillows. “I’ve still got a whole year to think of something even better.”

“God help us all,” you mutter, but there’s affection in your voice.

And despite the chaos, as you settle back into bed beside him, you can’t help but think it’s still a Christmas to remember.

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mangooes · 3 months ago

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Sleepwear Crisis

It started with a simple suggestion.

"Sylus, you need new sleepwear."

And it ended with Sylus standing in the middle of a luxury boutique, arms crossed, lips curved into a knowing smirk, while his wife aggressively flipped through racks of pajamas.

"Sweetie," Sylus drawled lazily, watching her with amusement, "I already told you, there’s no point. They’ll just get ripped again."

She turned to glare at him. "And whose fault is that?!"

His crimson eyes gleamed mischievously. "Yours, obviously."

She gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me?"

Sylus chuckled, stepping closer, voice dropping into that teasing purr that always made her toes curl. "Kitten, let’s not pretend here. Every time I wear a shirt to bed, you somehow find a way to get me out of it."

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "That is completely untrue—"

"Oh?" Sylus raised a brow, smirking. "Shall I recount the incidents?"

He held up one finger. "The first set got ripped because you decided my buttons were too annoying and just—" he made a dramatic tearing motion, "—handled the problem yourself."

She coughed. "That was one time."

"Then, the second time," Sylus continued, holding up another finger, "you got ‘too warm’ and used me as a personal cooling device, pulling my shirt off in your sleep."

She pursed her lips. "Listen—"

"And let’s not forget the last one," he smirked, leaning down so his lips brushed against her ear, voice wickedly smug, teasing, "Where you got frustrated mid-kiss and literally clawed it off me."

(Name) turned completely red.

"SO!" she clapped her hands together loudly, turning back to the clothing racks with extreme determination. "Matching pajamas it is!"

Sylus threw his head back and laughed. "You’re just ignoring me now?"

"Yes."

She yanked a pair of soft, red-maroon silk pajamas from the rack and shoved them into his arms. "These. No complaints."

Sylus arched a brow, unfolding them. "A button-up again? We both know how that’s going to end, sweetie."

(Name) huffed. "Fine." She grabbed another set—this time, a plain black tee with matching pants. "This then."

Sylus smirked. "Mmm, better. But what’s this about ‘matching’ pajamas?"

She grinned, holding up a soft crimson set for herself. "You heard me, mister. We’re getting couple pajamas. You’re not getting out of this one."

Sylus chuckled, draping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I would never dream of escaping, kitten."

Then he glanced at the shelf nearby and spotted something that made his grin turn downright wicked.

"Matching slippers too?" he asked innocently, holding up a pair of absurdly fluffy, pastel animal-shaped slippers. One was a tiny donkey. The other was a tiny dragon.

She gasped. "YES! WE NEED THEM! wait are you calling me a donkey???"

Sylus snorted. "Glad you see the resemblance sweetie. My donkey."

"You’re ridiculous."

"And you love it."

She sighed dramatically "Unfortunately, yes."

Sylus chuckled in response, leaning in, pressing a kiss to her temple.

And that was how Sylus—one of the most wanted criminal, feared bosses in the N109 Zone.

Ended up walking out of a luxury store carrying couple pajamas and ridiculously fluffy slippers, all because his mischievous wife demanded it.

Or yet maybe sylus, sleeping shirtless might be the better option.

hEYY i'm back! And i'm on schedule i think, if i can revise another fic tonight i might post another one later! :)) anyways i HC that mc would be involved in sylus's sleepwear always being torned LMAOO

#lnds #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #qin che #lads sylus #sylus

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moonchildstyles · 8 months ago

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cloudburst

y/n and harry broke up. he goes on a date, and y/n drives in the rain.

wordcount: 8.5k+

—————

(Y/N) knew it was hypocritical to be feeling jealous at the moment—pathetic, even. She was there that night, she knew she was the one that ended her relationship with Harry. He was single, and there was nothing wrong with him going out with another girl; he could take her to whatever restaurant he wanted, including the one that they had found together last month.

It had only been a couple of weeks, though. And, he had been the one that wanted to try and work things out with her. Harry had been the one that was insistent that they could work through this—the miscommunications, the lack of time together, the passive aggressive arguments—, but now he was the one moving on nearly immediately. She wanted to cry that it wasn't fair, that he was supposed to still be torn up about it the same as she was.

It wasn't as if she didn't love him anymore or was itching to get out and meet other people, she was just finding herself more unhappy than she was happy when she thought about him. He had told her that he loved her, that he wanted her—needed her—when she had sat him down, she thought neither of them would be moving on this quickly.

But, it's fine. It's whatever. Good for him.

Locking her phone, she placed it face down on her kitchen counter with a startling slam. She didn't double check to see if she had cracked her screen, instead stepping away from the device all together as if it wanted to sulk just as back as she. If her phone was a good friend, it would delete the Instagram app as soon as possible; there was no reason to see any more pictures of Harry and his new friend at dinner.

Forcing her head to clear, (Y/N) padded through her apartment with the intention of cleaning up. The last weeks had left her with heartbreak brain, chores having been pushed to the wayside as she recovered. When was the last time she went grocery shopping? Had she really run out of tissues or did she have an extra stash in some closet she'd been too lazy to check?

She shook her head, taking the pile of dirty socks to her washing machine while her mind raced with distractions. It was late, but she could go grocery shopping, at least to pick up a few essentials so she didn't order in again for the next couple of days. Seeing the world for another reason instead of work would be good for her, she thought. Even if the thought of putting on shoes that weren't slippers made her want to tear up.

After starting up the washing machine, she trudged up the stairs towards her room. The cloudy night called for something warmer than the ratted t-shirt and frayed shorts she had on, leaving her to rifle through the collection of sweats she had tucked in her dresser. No matter the garment she pulled out of the drawer, didn't seem to be enough; not thick enough, soft enough, warm enough. Leaving the pieces in a mess in the drawer, she didn't let herself think before she was drifting to her closet where there was a too familiar hoodie hanging up.

The smell wasn't quite as strong as it had been weeks ago, but there was still a faint scent of Harry's cologne embedded in the fibers. It was truly nothing more than a plain black hoodie, the material showing wear in the way the strings were tied into a bow at the neck with frays at the end, holes lining the sleeve hems, and a lipstick stain smeared on the back shoulder in a shade she had on her bathroom counter. Though it was his hoodie, she had stolen it enough times that it lived at her home with Harry taking it back every now and then, imprinting himself on it for her to revel in once he gave it back.

Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, she knew it was a bad idea. There was no reason for her to wear that hoodie. Really, it was surprising that he hadn't asked for it back yet—especially if he was going out with other girls.

It would be crazy for her to wear it, right? It was not normal to be mourning a relationship she ended. That was not her hoodie.

She slipped it on, anyway.

As much as (Y/N) was crazy, and hypocritical, and jealous, and insensitive—she missed him.

This whole thing would be a lot easier if she wasn't still in love with him. If he had just broken her heart and ruined those feelings for him, she wouldn't be feeling insane as she pulled the sleeves over her hands and pretended as if she wasn't breathing in his scent.

Going out didn't seem so bad when she had this on, though.

Collecting her bag and keys, she made a point to rush through the final steps of readying herself before she was going out the door. If she waited too long, she might end up crying in this hoodie instead.

Outside, it was raining much harder than she had initially thought. Pulling up her hood, she attempted to protect her hair from the droplets though there were casualties that were immediately pasted to her face. By the time she made it to her car, the hoodie was beginning to grow heavy against her back, rain streaked down her bare legs (in the interest of getting out of the house, she didn't change from her shorts like she'd wanted), and her lashes made heavy with mist.

Once safe inside her car, she pulled in a heavy breath.

She could do this. While Harry was out at dinner on a date, she'd go pick up some spaghetti noodles and more cheese than she should eat in a week.

Because she wasn't upset. She wanted to be broken up. She's fine.

With a forceful turn of the key in the ignition, (Y/N) gladly focused on the mechanics of driving through the rain as opposed to everything else on her mind. The clean scent in the air filtered through the cab, comforting her more than she realized.

No doubt, she could do this.

Pulling onto the main road, she turned up her music to be heard over the sound of the rain beating against the windscreen. The pavement was slick, dyed a slate black with the help of the droplets, puddles growing in every small divot in the road. The streetlamp twinkled off of the gathered water, rippling with each added drop. Everything was just a bit bleary through the windshield, even with the reach of her wipers going in overtime to wipe away the streaks.

While she was never a huge fan of driving in less than perfect conditions, especially at night, the scene out here tonight was a perfect match to the pit in her stomach. It made sense for the weather to act this way, she thought; she was too torn up for the world to be given a cloudless, warm night.

The music playing sifted through a playlist she'd found the other day, her search having been nothing more than for "breakup music". While she didn't know every song, or if she was even allowed to be moping to the tunes considering she was the one that cut things off, the lyrics she could catch were felt in her chest with a weight on her lungs. The ones about the other party moving on before the singer was ready stung particularly sharp tonight.

Especially when an all too familiar song started up, a voice she'd heard thousands of times before pleading with his ex lover to keep from calling her new flame "baby".

This song had come out long before (Y/N) had met Harry, written with another in mind, but she remembered listening to it back then. She remembered wondering just how heartbroken one would have to be to write stanzas just as these, how hurtful it would be to see your love finding someone else to take your place.

(Y/N) automatically reached out to skip the song, not even knowing it was on the playlist despite it being an obvious pick, but her hand stopped short.

It'd been weeks since she heard his voice, even longer since he sang around her. Even if this was through speakers, mastered and fit to music, it was something she'd been missing despite pretending she didn't. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, dropping her and back to the steering wheel as if she hadn't just submitted to self-torture.

As the tune went on, (Y/N) no longer had to wonder what kind of heartbreak went into poetry like this. She was right where Harry used to be, wishing he would give her just a bit longer of pretending to be his baby before he chose another.

She hadn't realized she was tearing up until her wipers were unable to keep her view from being blurry. The rain outside now paled in comparison to pools glimmering at her waterline. Her skin felt hot, resistant to the chill seeping through her vents. She didn't even make it through the full of the outro before she repeated the song once more, knowing it would only spur her tears on that much more.

Before she knew it, her bottom lip was quivering before a broken sob puffed from her lips. She sniffled with tears racing down her cheeks, searing over her warmed skin.

It wasn't her business, but did he share the same bite of sushi with this new girl that he'd also given to (Y/N) a month ago? Did he order the same bottle of rosé? Did he reach across the table to push her hair out of her face just as he did for (Y/N)? Was tonight going to be the first date they would relay to friends and family when asked how they had found someone so special? She had no right to ask any of these questions, but was Harry going to fall in love with this new girl?

Did he think of (Y/N) at all tonight, like she was thinking of him?

The idea of being on Harry's mind at all was enough to have her hands tensing around the wheel, but the thought of not crossing it at all had them shaking instead. Her eyes were flooded, hands wavering on the steering wheel, skin warm and nose wet. The rain beat down against the hood of her car with as much force as her heartbeat, riding the tempo as if she couldn't hear it well enough in her ears.

She shouldn't've left the house tonight. It would be way easier to sob like this if she wasn't having to also keep track of the road in front of her and the slick pavement beginning to flood with more water than the drains lining the sidewalks could handle. At least she seemed to be the only one out on the road at the moment.

Scrubbing her hand over her eyes, she attempted to clear them in hopes of regaining her focus. The song was over now and she planned on wiping that song and subsequent album from her vicinity as soon as she made it to the grocery store.

By the time she blinked her eyes open, lashes sticking to one another under the weight of her tears, she was only a few hundred feet away from the vague outline of a stoplight. She hadn't even seen the light shift from green to yellow, let alone to the blazing red that shone overhead.

Of course, now would be the time she saw one other person on the road, already creeping out into the intersection to use their own green light.

In a knee-jerk reaction, (Y/N) stomped on her brakes. Her breath caught when she felt that tell-tale give under her tires, the feel of the back of her car shifting out of sync with the steering wheel.

The broken rattling of her heart was replaced by the pounding of the beats against her ribs as she realized there was no way she was going to stop. She was currently gliding over the road, her tires unable to grip onto anything underneath them through the layer of rain on the pavement. All she could do was turn the steering wheel and hope that her car followed, hopefully missing the poor bystander who would learn that she wasn't paying as much attention as she should have been when coming to the intersection.

Every thought in her head seemed to happen in slow motion, but the world around her raced by in a second. She could feel her mouth moving, her voice muttering curses that made no sense, but there wasn't a single sound she heard over her heartbeat. Beyond her windows, the rain blurred every moving shape, her foot still heavy on the brake despite it being a fruitless effort.

Headlights shone against her face for a brief second before she cranked the wheel, spinning just in time as she hit the middle of the intersection. Her new bleary view showed off the vague outline of the pole of the stoplight for a brief moment before spinning out even further until she was facing the direction she'd come in, her car turning in a complete one-eighty in her lane until everything suddenly stopped with a metallic crunch.

She heard the impact before she felt it. Her driver's side door whammed into the pole of the stoplight, denting through the layers of metal with the window cracking and breaking. Prisms of glass rained over her, grazing her face and tops of her thighs with prickling shards. Her dented door threaded to push in on her before stopping, leaving a pressure against the side of her body and a complicated way to get out of the vehicle once she found her head. Her dashboard was lit up with every caution insignia as if she had no idea of what had just happened. Through the broken window, rain began to stream in, seeping into the cuts on her face and legs. She shivered though she couldn't feel a single chill from the air, her body beginning to reel from the accident she had just found herself in.

In the back of her mind, over the pelting rain and pounding heartbeat, she heard her breakup playlist filtering through the remaining speakers.

A wretchedly familiar voice singing about fine lines and being alright.

"Hon? Are you okay?"

Turning to face the nice woman who'd come to check on her after witnessing her blunder, (Y/N) opened her mouth to respond.

She burst into tears.

—————

Harry really needed to stop wearing this necklace.

He'd known that for the last few weeks, and, yet, every time he'd thought to unclasp it and put it at the bottom of a jewelry box to never be seen again, he never had the strength to. Instead, he continued to wear it every day, absently playing with the single pearl sitting at the base of his throat.

Natalie watched as he fiddled with the pendant, but he still couldn't get himself to stop his idle hands.

He hadn't even wanted to be here tonight, anyway—he had to self-soothe somehow, even if that meant playing with the necklace his ex-girlfriend gifted to him.

Natalie was nice enough, a friend of a friend of a friend who'd been around to some parties here and there, but she wasn't (Y/N). Harry had only agreed to come out tonight in hopes of giving him a reason to wash his hair and eat something that wasn't bread or coffee while sitting on the kitchen floor. Even with clean hair and an order of his favorite sushi cleared from his plate, he still felt slices of guilt; one for going out with someone while still being very hung up on his ex, and for going out at all with someone who wasn't (Y/N).

Harry wasn't stupid, he'd caught the cell phones pointed in his direction when he and his date had been seated. If it wasn't up already, it was only a matter of time before those photos would be circulating on all of the socials and appearing on timelines. He could already picture the headlines for tomorrow morning, detailing the mystery woman on this dinner date while questions about his previous flame were posed. He just hoped (Y/N) would somehow be able to dodge these flecks of news—even for only a couple of days.

Hopefully, he'd have a chance to talk to her before she knew. If she was open to hearing from him, he'd explain where he was coming from in even agreeing to this date, and maybe she'd take him back. If she knew he was still in love with her, willing to change his schedule, relearn how to communicate, start going to therapy weekly again, would it be enough to salvage their relationship?

"But, what about you?"

Being pulled from his head, Harry had to face Natalie with a blink of his eyes. She had been talking about a movie or something—or was it her last holiday?—, but he hadn't heard a single word. Another pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

He thumbed over the pearl at his throat. "Um... I'm so sorry, wh—"

Divine intervention came in the form of his phone vibrating in his pocket. He shot an apologetic smile at Natalie before slipping the device out of his pocket, eager to pick up for whoever was on the other side.

Until he saw the contact name, anyway.

(Y/N)'s mother. She was calling him.

"Who is it?" Natalie asked, canting her head at Harry's startled expression.

"Um... Jus'—uh—someone I haven't heard from in a while. I have to take this, 'm sorry."

He didn't catch Natalie's reaction before he was rising from his seat and heading towards the front door with the phone pressed to his ear. Rain sprinkled over his head while thunder cracked in the distance. A darker storm was moving in.

"Hello?"

"Harry?! Harry, are you there?"

"'M here, yeah. Is everything alright?" He'd never heard her voice in such a frantic state, especially not over the phone like this. Was she that upset over the breakup?

"(Y/N)—It's (Y/N). She's been in an accident, and I—we—Her father and I, we're—She's alone. I-I know you two broke up, but she's in the hospital by herself and the nurse said she's not doing okay, she's—I don't know, I don't want her to be alone but I can't get on a flight until tomorrow morning and there's—"

Frantic chattering continued on through the receiver, but there wasn't a single syllable that was able to breach his thoughts.

(Y/N) was in the hospital. She'd been in an accident and was now at the hospital. Alone. She wasn't doing well while she was in the hospital after being in an accident, all alone.

His stomach turned.

"Wha—Where's the hospital? What hospital is it?"

Was he having a heart attack? Every beat of the organ fluttered at the base of his throat, the chambers squeezed tight.

He needed to find her. She couldn't be alone. She had to be okay and he needed to be there.

Her mother shakily relayed the name of the hospital and room number, stumbling over the syllables until Harry had them seared into his memory.

"I-I'm so sorry to ask you, I know what—"

"No, no," he shook off her words, "Th-Thank you for telling me. 'M going to her right now, I'll let you know how she's doing."

Shaky goodbyes were shared with quiet sobs sounding on the end of the other line. Harry felt breathless as he stowed his phone away, hands shaking with fumbling fingers. His head was a mess.

All he wanted to do was go—get in his car and go, be with (Y/N). But, there was Natalie sitting at their table, a dessert ordered to the table with their check of sushi and wine waiting with their server. There were people around them who would no doubt post about any kind of commotion he sounded tonight, perhaps even leak his location if hearing he was on the way to a hospital in the city. (He usually liked to see the best in others, but it'd happened before, these wild invasions of privacy).

Despite every instinct pushing him towards the parking lot and abandoning the night, Harry forced himself to walk back into the restaurant. He held a thin grip on his control, but it was enough to get him back to his table with Natalie so he could quietly speak with her.

"Is everything okay?" she asked before he'd even taken his seat.

Swallowing, his throat bobbed as he shook his head. "No, actually. I—'m really sorry, Natalie, but I have to go. My, um, a friend of mine—they're in the hospital. I need to go."

Natalie's features were marred with surprise, mouth dropped open with her lashes in a glimmering flutter up at him. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. That's so scary. No worries, go ahead I'll take care of everything. Call me when you can, okay?"

Meeting the blue shimmer of her gaze, Harry felt his features tighten. She was much too nice for him.

He wasn't going to call.

Harry didn't say anything before he was rushing out of sight, only stopping at the hostess station for a slick second to tell the staff to charge the card attached to the reservation. Natalie was open to order whatever she wanted for the rest of the night, but she wasn't paying for a single cent. This would be his apology for never calling.

It was with shaky fingers that he typed in the name of the hospital (Y/N) was at—all alone—as soon as he was in his car. Though his heartbeat didn't settle much, his head felt a bit clearer knowing that with every mile he was cruising down the street, he was growing closer to (Y/N). His hands couldn't stay idle for very long, consistently reaching up to the necklace around his throat.

(Y/N) was going to be alright, right?

The question warmed the backs of his eyes, flushing his skin. As much as he wanted—needed—to be at her side, Harry realized he wasn't sure what he was walking into. Her mother had said she wasn't doing okay—whatever that meant. What kind of scene was he going to walk into?

Stop lights and brake lights passing in a blur through the growing rain, Harry made it to the hospital in record time. The pavement was slick, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps and the many car lights bumbling through the carpark. He didn't think before he was pulling into the first spot he found, parking at a sloppy angle before he was rushing out.

With the rain coming down, his hair fell across his forehead, slicking to his skin. The droplets acted as the tears he was unwilling to shed until he saw (Y/N) in person.

He marched his way into reception, shoes squeaking over the linoleum. Behind the desk, a woman perked up, spotting him with bored eyes before she perked up with recognition he knew too well.

"Hi, um, how can I help you?" she sputtered.

Unable to muster a greeting smile, he kept his eyes low. "I—um—I need to see someone, please?"

The rest of the checkin passed in a daze, Harry only barely able to keep himself from begging to see (Y/N). He relayed as much information as he could, showing any kind of identification needed. He was more than thankful to hear that her parents had approved his visit during their initial phone call, something he filed away for later so he could thank them when he had a clear mind.

The best thing he heard, the one that stuck glaringly in his mind, was the fact that she wasn't housed anywhere to be treated for critical pain. She was being held somewhere safe and hopefully comfortable.

Following the given directions, Harry felt like a ghost as he floated through the different doors and elevators. He moved restlessly while he dinged through the floors, feet shuffling while his eyes were trained on the rising numbers.

Was this the slowest elevator on earth? Or were they always like this?

Once set free on the correct floor, Harry floated through the halls, sweaty palms pressed into the pockets of his pants. All he could focus clearly on was the room numbers pinned beside the doors, the thumps of his heart bubbling in his ears.

After going down what felt like endless miles of hallways, the correct room number finally appeared before him. The door was shut, the lights inside dim. His hand hesitated on the door handle.

He had been so consumed with making it to her, to make himself feel better with the sight of her, that he hadn't really considered if she would even want to see him. If she wasn't asleep at the moment, would she just kick him out? She had been the one to break up with him, anyway.

Before he could doubt himself any more, he pushed through, keeping his steps light over the linoleum.

Just as he thought, the room was quiet and dark, rain streaking down the window. There was a warm glow coming from the standing lamp at the corner of the room, machines beeping along with the television with a made-for-tv movie playing. A whiteboard marked with her name was pinned to the wall, filled with stats and jargon Harry didn't have the mind to decipher.

Amongst it all, (Y/N) was laid in the hospital bed with the thin covers pulled to her middle. Her eyes were shuttered, showing off the bruising underneath alongside the myriad of cuts over her skin. As peaceful as she appeared, sleeping away under the crumpled sheets, Harry couldn't help the tears that touched his eyes.

With the door closing behind him, he drew closer to her bed. It didn't take much examination to spot the tear tracks glimmering on her cheeks, the swollen puff of her lips. It was the same way she'd looked when she had told him she didn't want to be with him any longer.

Harry wasn't sure what broke his heart more: the obvious evidence of weeping on her features, or the fact that her tears would have skated over every cut and scratch marring her cheeks?

He shuffled over the floor. He wanted to be at her side, hold her hand and let her know she wasn't alone anymore, but he didn't want to wake her. There was a reason that she wasn't allowed to head home after being checked out by the hospital team, the more rest she received the better.

Instead, he gingerly made his way to her bedside, taking a spot in the uncomfortable chair seemingly waiting for him in the lamplight. With the way she was laid up in the bed, he had an unobstructed view of her relaxed features, some of the more notable injuries on her face bandaged up while others were left treated with nothing more than a glistening salve. She didn't look particularly comfortable, especially knowing how she usually liked to curl up with her hands to her cheek and legs to her chest, but this was better than nothing.

Better than being in a wrecked car somewhere.

The thought was sobering, enough to have those tears he had been urging away to resurface on his waterline once more.

She was here. (Y/N) was okay—hurt, but well enough to be left to sleep on her own. She was no longer alone.

He hung his head in his hands. He didn't want to think about what kind of accident would have put her here, blood on her face with machines monitoring every vital in her body.

With those tears in his eyes, peeking up at her between his lashes, she looked like a watercolor painting. The edges were blurred, leaving the general outline of the person that filled his dreams and became his muse for the better part of the last year and a half.

He couldn't believe the last month of his life. He'd lost her. And for what? Because he didn't think it was important enough to send her a text when he was going to be out later than initially thought? Because it was easier to let his schedule happen to him, as opposed to shaping his life around making enough time to spend time with her? Because why would he talk to her, tell her where he was coming from, when he could be passive aggressive and sweep everything under the rug instead?

The beeping of the heart monitor was the pitched baseline that anchored him to the room. Every dotted sound kept him from being swept away in the rivers of tears dripping down his heated cheeks.

He could have lost her today. In the worst case scenario of this day, he would have received a very different phone call. He wouldn't have had the chance to sit at her side right now. He wouldn't have seen these healing injuries on her, instead having only old photographs to remember what life looked like on her.

As cracked as his heart was at the moment, he would take these cuts and scrapes, this uncomfortable chair, the stiff set of her bedding, over any other ending this night could have had.

The rain pelted against the window as Harry fixed his gaze to the love of his life.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, if it had been nothing more than a few minutes or if it had been hours at her side, until there was the soft click of the doorknob twisting with the door pushed open. Entering was a nurse in soft purple scrubs, hair pulled back and a clipboard in her hands. She had her eyes trained down before looking up to catch Harry wiping his eyes and (Y/N) unstirring in her bed.

"Oh, hello," she murmured, voice soft as they were both aware of the patient in bed, "I didn't know she was having any visitors tonight."

A barely there smile curled Harry's cheeks, his skin smooth of dimples. "Yeah, got here as fast as I could. Have you been helping her?"

The nurse shook her head, "A little, but she's been asleep for most of it. Poor thing cried herself into exhaustion, so I doubt she really remembers meeting me."

Her statement had his bottom lip quivering. Harry had to remind himself to be grateful she was even here to cry.

"She's doing alright, though?"

With a quick glance at the clipboard, the nurse nodded her head. "Yeah, she's doing much better—now that she's calmed down a little. We've just gotta keep an eye on her for tonight. She got a good crack to her head, so I want to make sure she doesn't sleep for too long tonight."

Harry gave her a nod, a moment from offering to wake (Y/N) for her before the nurse stepped forward. In gentle tones with a hand to her shoulder, she woke (Y/N).

Unlike her, she had been sleeping rather lightly, jumping awake after only a single call of her name. (Y/N) fluttered her eyes open, lashes sticking together from the dried crust of her tears, enough so that she reached her scratched hands up to rub the mess away.

"Hi," (Y/N) greeted, her voice in a croak as she got her bearings.

"Hello," the nurse responded with a gentle smile, "Sorry to wake you, hon. I just wanted to check on you, then you're good to go to sleep, again."

"Okay," (Y/N) breathed, struggling to sit up.

Without thinking, Harry surged forward, helping her as much as he could. The second he put his hands on her, (Y/N) jumped, having not seen him prior.

It was clear she was more than surprised to see him with the way her eyes widened, blanching at the sight of him.

"Harry?"

He offered a quiet, thin smile, sitting back in his spot once she was stable, sitting up for the nurse. "Hi."

Before much else could be shared between them, the nurse began running her tests. Small talk was shared between the two, (Y/N) glancing more than once in Harry's direction. His hands were a fiddling mess in his lap, watching with rapt attention as every evaluation was run.

"Everything's looking okay—what I expected we'd be seeing," the nurse mused, writing down her information on the clipboard in hand, "But, how are you feeling? Any extra pain, anything you want me to take a look at or mention to the doctor?"

"I'm fine," (Y/N) smiled, the expression less than convincing, "Nothing hurts any more than earlier."

"Okay, okay," the nurse nodded, "That's good, let me know if that changes. I'll be back to check on you in a few hours, so get in your rest while you can."

A pointed look was placed in Harry's direction at her last statement, a teasing curl to the corner of her lips. (Y/N) gave a sheepish nod.

"Right, thank you."

The nurse departed with a couple of well wishes and a reminder that she'd be back in a few hours. Once the door clicked behind her, a stiff silence settled between them. The only sound came in the form of the mechanical beeping of the machines around her and the ending of the television movie playing.

(Y/N) had her eyes facing ahead, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Harry stared at her.

"(Y/N)—"

"You're here."

His throat bobbed as he heavily swallowed. "I am," he nodded, dropping his gaze to his picked cuticles in his lap, "Your mum called me."

A furrow had her brow pinched. "Her and my dad are on vacation right now."

Another nod, a strand of hair touching over his forehead. "They'll be back tomorrow morning, but she wanted someone to be with you tonight."

Maybe it was the way her shoulders tensed, the glassy look that took over her gaze, or the pinch to her features, but something brittle settled in the air between them. Every breath felt delicate as he waited for any kind of response.

"I'm sorry."

It was his turn for his brows to knit together. "For what?"

That fragile tension between them cracked.

"You were on a date."

Harry hung his head, lips thinning. He thought he would have more time to explain this.

"'S not what it looks like, (Y/N)."

She shook her head, voice quiet under her breath. "So it wasn't a date?"

Sucking in a breath, his lungs squeezed. "I mean—It—Yes, it was a date, but—"

The beeping of her heart monitor heightened, the pitch seemingly hitting higher than a moment before with the pace quickening. "So it is what it looks like."

"(Y/N), 's more—there's more to it than that."

(Y/N) only shrugged at his half-hearted response, her head hanging between her shoulders.

Harry felt just as defeated as she looked now. This wasn't how he wanted to reunite with her, but he guessed beggars couldn't be choosers. This was the opportunity he had, and he wasn't going to turn it away.

"What happened tonight?" he murmured, shifting the conversation away from his own blunders. Unfortunately, this avenue would be an easier section to stomach than anything she would want to know about his date.

"I got into an accident."

"I know," Harry gently prodded, "But, what happened? Y'usually only hit curbs, not anything else."

His shoulders loosened when his teasing was enough to draw a huffed laugh from her, a slight smile softening her features.

As much as they may have deteriorated recently, he did know her. He knew her better than he knew himself.

"It was just raining really hard, and—I don't know—I wasn't able to stop like I thought. I slid and hit a pole, and... yeah."

As much as he did like teasing her about her more precarious driving habits, he knew more than anything that she was cautious. It wasn't like her to settle into accidents like this—she rarely ever drove in weather like this anyway, let alone at night.

"Y'never drive in the rain," he pressed, an unaired question bookending his words.

"I know."

Harry looked at her, waiting for more than those two syllables. It was fruitless, he knew.

He hung his head, running an absent hand through his hair before his fingers found the pearl at his throat. Eyes on the floor between his feet, he couldn't look at her as he spoke once more.

"(Y/N). What happened tonight?" This isn't like you. Why did this happen?

The air in the room seemingly went still.

When he chanced a look up once more, he saw her sitting in her hospital bed with sparkling tears in her eyes. His chest panged at the sight. He knotted his fingers tighter together, forcing himself to see from reaching out.

"(Y/N)...," he started, voice decidedly more gentle than a moment before.

She shook her head. "I didn't want to be home—and I was crying, and I wasn't paying attention and the rain was heavier than I thought—and just... Everything happened."

What was worse? Hearing that she had cried more than once tonight, before she'd even got in her accident, or seeing her recount it with another set of tears racing down her cheeks?

This time he couldn't help himself; Harry reached out to touch her wrist. Her skin was warm under the chill of goosebumps on her skin. While she didn't move to hold his hand like she used to, she didn't flinch away. That was enough, he thought.

"Why were y'crying, lo—(Y/N)?" He internally cringed at his slip up. He had no place calling her anything but her name. "What happened?"

Another shake of her head. "It's stupid," she sniffled, fluttering her eyes closed with the tears clinging to the tips of her lashes.

"Not if it made y'so upset that y'ended up here tonight," he crooned, words a quiet lilt only for her to hear, "What happened?"

"I—It's..." she cut herself off more than once, throat bobbing, "I don't... I was the one that broke up with you, I-I'm not supposed to be upset. It-It's not fair."

Her voice was barely a whisper by the time she finished speaking. His hand on her wrist tightened, a snug warmth against her skin. He ran his thumb over the bone, pretending he didn't feel the cut just on the underside.

He waited.

Another made-for-tv movie started on her television.

He waited.

She took a deep breath. Her eyes still closed.

"You went on a date tonight."

Harry's shoulders deflated.

"(Y/N)—"

"No," she peeped, shaking her head with her arm stiffening under his hold, "No. You were on a date, and I'm crazy and I'm not supposed to be upset, but I couldn't handle it—I didn't want to be home alone an-anymore. I didn't think you'd be over it already since I'm not, but you-you can do whatever you want an-and I need to be okay with that. And, then you—your music, it started playing while I was driving and I-I—Harry, I couldn't stop crying and then I crashed." Her voice was clogged in her throat, muddy and thick. Her tone came in waves, ebbing and flowing until it gave out. "I'm sorry."

There was no chance Harry had of keeping his own tears at bay as he listened. It was too much—all of it; hearing her beginning to sob over the thought of him being over their relationship, how just the sound of his voice over her speakers brought her to tears while driving, the fact that she'd seen photos of him out on a date had driven her from her home to get away from herself.

He felt his skin flush, the warmth heading down his neck the same way his tears did. He sniffled his nose, his lips rolled between his teeth to keep himself from blurting out each thought he couldn't help but to have.

He doubted telling her how much he loved her was going to be much help when she was so dedicated to the thought of him already finding someone new to replace her.

"You—" he cut himself off when his voice came a croak, clearing his throat with his hand on her wrist. "Y'don't have to be sorry, (Y/N). You're not crazy, either—I don't know what I would do if I'd seen y'go out with someone else, either. Y—'M jus' sorry, I never—I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay, it's okay," she murmured, shaking her head as she slid her arm out from under his hand, curling into herself while she refused to open her eyes. "It's not your fault—you—I ended our relationship, you can do whatever you want." A shuddering breath had her shoulders shaking, lungs rattling. "I-I'm sorry you're here instead of with her."

Just short of climbing up on the bed beside her, Harry pulled his chair as close to her side as he could. There wasn't anything he could say—nothing that he could imagine would shift her mind on what she'd seen and decided was the truth. All he could do, even if it involved uncomfortable bending of his joints, was collect her into his arms and hold her. It was only then that the slow roll of her tears were let loose into full weeps, her face buried into his neck.

She burrowed against him, sinking into him as if the last month hadn't occurred. His hands spanned over her form, familiar with every plane and curve. His fingers caught on the raised abrasions that could be felt through her thin gown, but Harry could only be grateful that those were the only evidence of her accident. The mechanical beeping of her pulse skittered high, enough so he worried that the nurse could be alerted of the disturbance. Nonetheless, he held her tighter.

"There's nowhere else I want to be," he murmured into her hair, his voice watery like the tears running down his cheeks.

Reaching towards him, (Y/N) wrapped her hands in the wool of his jacket, fingers clawing into the fabric in a tighter grip than he'd expected from her state. "E-Even tonight?"

Her cry was thin and pathetic, causing Harry to pulse his arms around her once more. "Tonight—every night. As long as 'm with you."

He could feel the flutter of her lashes as she cinched her eyes shut tighter. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again, just audible given how closely he had her wrapped around him, "Wh-What about her?"

He shook his head against her hair, his nose skating over her crown. There would be a time to really unpack why he found himself at a candlelit table with Natalie, including everything that was going through his head every time she spoke to him, but that wasn't tonight. She needed him, and all of the reassurance he could give more than he needed to clear his conscience and monologue over his feelings.

"She's not you and that's all that matters to me," he told her, sincerity dripping in his tone, "All I want is you."

(Y/N) cried in a blubbering sob, "I didn't think you loved me anymore."

Harry's own eyes had to be shuttered closed then, a fruitless attempt in hopes of stemming the tears falling out of his eyes and into (Y/N)'s hair. "I didn't think y'loved me anymore, darling."

"I-I do, I do," she countered, shaking her head in his neck with her grip tightening on him, "We-We just never saw ea-each other anymore, and I-I thought you were mad at me all th-the time and I thought we'd be happier apart—b-but I was wrong and—"

"It's okay, it's okay," he soothed her, starting a circuit of his palm over her back, "I-I understand. But now we know—you're all I want, an-and I'll do anything to make it work with you."

"You're all I want," she whimpered, voice tight, "Don't leave me."

While a part of him was soaring knowing that she was still in love with him, that this wasn't over the way he'd thought, he was still more than heartbroken to hear that she was so torn up and broken herself. She thought she had no choice but to end the relationship in hopes of making both of them happier elsewhere. He never imagined himself making someone he loved feel that way.

"I won't."

—————

Rubbing the lack of sleep out of his eye, Harry stood back as (Y/N) checked out of the hospital. Her mother was twined to her side with her father looking just as distraught, though he was better at giving his daughter space. They'd come straight here as soon as they landed only a couple of hours prior, walking in on Harry who had stayed far longer than the originally carved out visiting hours with (Y/N) still in his arms.

Gratitude was exchanged between them—Harry for coming to (Y/N)'s side at a moment's notice, and her parents for telling him at all and letting him be there for her—with a thread of stiffness lingering afterwards. Harry couldn't blame them; the last they'd heard about him was the fact that he'd been dumped by their daughter along with all the reasons why. They didn't know what had come of the night before, yet, only seeing the aftermath of their tear puffed faces and his arms wrapped around her.

Truthfully, Harry wasn't even sure where he stood with (Y/N) at the moment. Promises uttered through sobs after a traumatic event wasn't something he was going to hold her to. Even if he wanted to believe she was still in love with him and wanted to be with him like she'd said last night.

Armed with paperwork and parents at her side, (Y/N) nodded to the nurse at the checkout with a plastered smile. Though they were still clear on her skin, the cuts and scrapes she'd earned in her accident didn't look so bad when she smiled with light in the eyes.

Though he was still a bit too far away, he could hear the mumblings of a quiet conversation happening between (Y/N) and her parents. He was sure she was going to go home with them, and sort out everything else that couldn't be helped with a night at the hospital, but he'd wait until he knew she was safe before he'd leave himself.

He watched from the corner of his eye, giving them privacy, though he could see (Y/N) waving off her parents before stepping towards him. It was a lingering departure, her mother refusing to let go too readily, though she eventually resigned herself to head down the hallway towards the bank of elevators with her husband and her daughter's paperwork.

(Y/N) took shy steps towards Harry, empty hands a fiddling mess.

"You're still here," she said, voice quiet to match the waiting room.

He shrugged, a small smile having curled the corner of his lips. Was he supposed to remind her that she had asked him to stay, or keep that ex-boyfriend barrier in place? (If it was even still standing, given the way she'd fallen asleep in his arms just hours before).

"You're doing alright?" he asked instead, scanning over the planes of her face as if he didn't have them memorized already.

She nodded. "Just sore, but I think I'm just going to feel that way for a little while. My head's doing better, though—I still have a headache, but I don't think it's because of the accident."

Though she ended with a laugh, Harry figured she wasn't sure what to make of last night anymore than he did.

"'M happy you're alright," he told her, sincerity weaved through his words, "Are your mum and dad taking y'home?"

"Yeah," she nodded, looking over her shoulder to the couple waiting at the elevators, "I think my mom wants me to stay at their house tonight, but we'll see."

"Oh, y'don't want to spend hours watching soap opera reruns tonight?" Harry teased, a sly smile touching his lips. The curl only stretched when (Y/N) laughed.

"Not particularly, but who knows," she said, sparing another glance over her shoulder to see the audience waiting on her, "Um, we talked a lot last night."

"We did, yeah," he nodded, throat bobbing as swallowed, eyes dropping from her own, "But, we don't—'m not—If y'don't feel the same way as y'did last night, 'm not going to ma—"

"I do," she cut him off, a bright chirp that matched the spark in Harry's chest. "I do feel the same, I mean. We should probably talk a little more, though, right?"

A dimple dented Harry's cheek, suddenly feeling incredibly more alive than just a heartbeat before. "Probably."

"Are you busy tomorrow? In the morning?"

It didn't take a second thought before Harry was moving his schedule around to keep his morning stark open tomorrow. Those meetings could be moved—maybe even made into an email or a quick phone call.

"Not for you."

The blooming smile she gave him was reminiscent of the first time he pulled that flirtation on her.

"Good," she quipped, "I'll call you tonight or something, then. Maybe we could get breakfast tomorrow?"

"I'll be there," he cemented, "Jus' tell me when."

The rewarding light in her eyes made it easy for Harry to forget the last month of his light (except for the night he'd just spent with her, of course).

"I will," she told him, "Bye, Harry."

Maybe it was the way she hesitantly stepped towards him, or the shy way she had her lips rolled between her teeth with a budding smile, or the memory of her warmth against his chest, but Harry didn't think before he was collecting her into his arms. (Y/N) melted into his chest on instinct, wrapping her arms around his middle. He could feel the mush of her cheek against the cuff of his shoulder. Despite the sterile scent of the hospital clinging to her, underneath it all was the familiar fragrance of her shampoo and sweet body lotion she somehow never ran out of.

Drawing away first, (Y/N) only put enough space between them to get a look up at Harry. Though her eyes were bloodshot, bags darkening underneath, and the shadow of her tears lingering in the corners, he'd never seen anything more beautiful than (Y/N)'s eyes.

"I'll see y'tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

Long after she untangled herself from his hold, Harry still felt (Y/N)'s warmth long enough to carry him home and keep him company until his phone rang a familiar tone later that night.

—————

ahhhhhh I never write angst so I hope this turned out all right! thank you sm for reading, and sorry for any mistakes! if you have any ideas or anything at all send them in!

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honestsycrets · 2 years ago

Text

starved | [miguel o'hara x reader]

❛ pairing | new papi!miguel x new mami!reader

❛ type | oneshot: explicit content

❛ summary | peter says he's sex-starved. he isn't. he's just... adjusting to less time with his wife.

❛ tags | breastfeeding miguel, lactation kink, slight pregnancy kink, touch starved, pissy miguel, spanish is not translated, mention of violence, some cursing, f!reader.

❛ sy’s notes | written as per poll request! thank you everyone who voted.

Miguel likes to work.

Or, he thinks he likes to work.

The fate of the multiverse and all that boring ass bullshit. Peter has heard it all, twice, thrice over. What he knows is what he sees. What he sees is an overworked man running through anomaly files, sending out orders, and not spending time where it really mattered.

“Is that who I think it is?” Peter’s annoying ass house slippers flapped over the ground by Miguel’s feet. Peter’s hands rubbed together, sparking little bursts of heat between his palms. “It is! Mireya!”

Mireya, the newest addition to his small family. She was nestled comfortably in the crook of one of Miguel’s muscular arms as if it were the safest place in the entire world, suckling on what was left of a bottle of breastmilk. Miguel turned to place the empty bottle down on his desk. Peter followed, peeping over Miguel’s arm at her. Despite Miguel’s reservations, her bright brown eyes bored Peter with interest. She cooed at him. “Can I hold her? Let me hold her, it’ll be great! Aw look, she has curls.”

“My daughter isn’t your doll.”

“Look how pretty, she’s just like her mami. All sunshine and dimples and--,” Peter reached forward, easing his scrawny hands under her plush little arms and picking her up. Miguel’s hands fell onto his hips, shifting weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at his feet expectantly. “You know, for a new dad, you’re grumpier than usual.”

“Peter.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he bobbed back and forth, spinning in a circle. She giggled the kind of laugh that was all sugar, making Peter grin even harder. “I mean, wasn’t Mireya your idea? Are you-- y’know?”

“Y’know?”

“Sex starved,” Peter whispered like it was a great, terrible secret. As if in this vast space of silence, someone might catch his words and convict him because of them. Miguel’s half-lidded eyes slid against one another, held for a second, then spread open in an annoyed flick. He fluttered his gloved fingers at Peter to hand Mireya over.

“I’m just saying if you need a night alo--”

“I don’t. I’m not sex-starved.”

He waved him off. His eyes fell on his daughter, boring back up at him with those beautiful eyes he had waited so long to see. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, lulling her back into her late-night slumber, cradled against his chest.

Sex starved, he said. What a shocking joke.

His room was no place for a child. It was perpetually dark, dimmed for his sensitive eyes. So, at the end of the day, Miguel had your room to return to. A real home, one with more than a ratty run-down chair and a lifetime of regrets. A home that he couldn't make alone. Miguel pressed past the bedroom door where he found you overcome by sleep. Just like Mireya in his arms.

He turned his gaze down to Mireya once more, her soft and squishy body a vision of peace. Tiny fists balled up over her belly as she slept in her soft velvet onesie. The whole world in his hands: the start of a happy little family. Only right now, it didn’t feel so happy. Those were the cycles, the push and pull of life.

Tonight would prove to be another silent night with his thoughts. His chest swelled with a rush of air, bunching up his shoulders as he moved to the adjoining room to set Mireya into her warm crib. Torn from his warmth, her palms stretched out, ready to wail. Miguel placed his hand along the wooden rail, his stomach flopping into throbbing anxiety in his stomach. She could wake you up. "Shh," he set his finger in her tiny palm. Mireya’s small hands rested listlessly around her head. The wail never came.

“Mi vida,” your sleepy voice fell over his ears, a gentle caress. He longed to hear it from your lips again. “Is she already asleep?”

“Sí--” he glanced over his shoulder, catching just a sight of one of his favourite little slips. Dusty rose with delicate lace details. He studied the edge of the gown, flowing over your thick thighs as you walked. Shock.

“You look beautiful." You looked down at your soft belly, a mincing smile pulling at your lips. He knew you were nervous, the way your hands obscured your plush belly. Mesmerized, his finger fell away from Mireya's soft grip. Peter's words echoed in his mind, a deep annoyance. It made his skin crawl, this growing annoyance in the acknowledgment that he had no sex in weeks, months. He took a step forward.

“I hope she doesn’t sleep through the night. My breasts are full,” Your fingers skimmed the taut skin. The glint of your wedding band invited him forward as if… you should be his tonight. You were his wife-- and though he didn't expect you to give him relief, he missed you. Miguel dipped his head, stroking the sore muscles of his neck.

Are you, y'know, sex-starved?

“When does she ever..." he couldn't help from saying. He grazed his fingertips over the swollen skin of your breasts, glancing from the skin to your deep, shy eyes. His breath thinned, realizing that you were disengaging, too scared to look him in the eye.

“She does, Miggy,” you breathed. His jaw worked, annoyed. “Lately. You’d know if you came home at night.”

If it was lately, he had no knowledge of it. Every lab screen he pulled up, every status report from Lyla, and every silent night in the lab, obsessing over how his little girl was doing-- he missed it. He should be coming in more often, crossing the threshold of work to family life. His hand cupped the underside of your breast. You winced, embarrassment working on your face. You pushed his hand away, likely feeling exposed by his touch on your tender skin.

“Does it hurt?” He leaned down, mingling his smoky, musky scent with your delicate one. He leaned in to place a soft, open-mouthed kiss along your neck, the warm pulse of your skin against his plump lips.

“Miggy, you’ll wake her up.”

Your fingers laced in his before you pulled him out of the room with a click of the door. He settled his hand on the middle of the door, sliding his hand up your waist, the soft fabric crinkling over the movement. He glimpsed a look at your soft panties cupping your round ass. “Miggy, I… I can’t. I’m tired.”

Of course, you were tired-- He underestimated how much work you took on in her care. He willed the wisps of his desire to snuff out. The distant flicker of hope followed promptly after. Maybe, one day, you would want him again. It wasn't today.

“Ya veo,” he suppressed his frustrated growl, wrinkling his forehead. “Another time.”

It wasn't the next day. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

The anomaly whirled along a cobblestone street, exploding in a cloud of dust and stone. Its many black dipped hands flickered, dulling into little more than a negligible tremor of their limbs. Everyone else noticed the complacency that came with loss of consciousness. Miguel did not.

Miguel sauntered forward, dragged it by its muddy boots out from the crumbly remnants of the wall, and whirled it into another. It wasn't moving. It was done, tired, exhausted. He didn't care, his large hand encompassing its tendril hair and smashing it over the dusty floor. A violent crack, crack, crack of its head scratched his inert need to destroy something, anything, anyone. It fell from his hands with a slump. Miguel spat a bit of blood to the side, his cheek chewed raw under the tension of the moment.

“You need to take Peter up on that offer.”

Miguel stretched his neck one way. Then the other.

“We’ve been over this,” Miguel grumbled, hiking the pummeled body over his shoulder. It gushed blood, streaming into a diluted pink with the downpour of rain. A simple contusion, Miguel said. It was just a contusion. And a concussion. Maybe a gash or two. It would heal if the thing woke up. “I don’t need help.”

“You thrashed it, whatever it was,” Jess said pointedly. Miguel’s finger ran across his watch. The air was stale without an acknowledgment of Miguel’s churning temper, growing into a churning tempest by the passing minute. He stared long and hard through his mask. She drew out the silence as she waited for his response.

“It’s a contusion.”

The portal whirled to life before them in a slurry of vivid color, an unforgiving abyss. Jess slumped her bike with weight on one thigh, hand on her belly. The longer Miguel stared at her, so full and pregnant, the more he was reminded of you. He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no use-- he saw visages of you everywhere he looked.

“Doesn’t look like any head contusion I’ve seen,” Gwen slid into the portal. His lip curled, annoyed by the obvious objection to what he was saying. If they would let it go-- he could go on about his life, wait for this obsession with his sex life to abate. Wait for you to come back to him.

“You can’t keep taking out your—“

“I am not sex-starved!”

“Convincing.” Jess sped into the portal.

Miguel soothed the stress out of his forehead, opening and closing his palm, a current of energy coursing through his palms. They picked— and they picked— and they picked at him. At some point, he was bound to explode. He only hoped you wouldn't be in his way when it happened. He whipped the anomaly through the portal and followed after.

On the other side of the portal, there was Peter— again. Cooing with his hands on his daughter— again. His dark mask faded away, his suit wicking water off his frame. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he located you beside Jess and Gwen. You nudged its crumpled body with your shoe. He didn’t often feel ashamed of his actions. Usually, they were necessary. Something was wrong, your face pinched and curled in disgust. He felt the string of your disapproval pulling through his arms, a slight, incriminating tremor flickering through his finger. He willed it away.

“What did you do to this poor thing?” you turned to Jess, a click-click-click off your tongue. He’d hardly call it poor. “It’s overkill.”

“Girl, ask your husband,” Jess folded her arms, reclining on her bike.

“Mi Miggy?” you went to him. You leaned over, pecking his cheek with a terribly insulting kiss, tickling his jawline. He swallowed. Blinked. Then frowned and brushed off your fingers, finding the care misplaced. You could care for an anomaly but didn't care to ask him how he felt. What he needed. Your voice wilted that sunshine quality, dropping almost to a whisper. “¿Qué te pasa, Miggy?”

“Nothing.”

“Miguel--"

“I said nothing!” He knelt down, grasping its ankle and dragging it down the long, drab hall that stored a variety of anomalies. A line of blood soaked the floor, swerving after his rumbling steps. You took a step forward, snatching his wrist between your fingers. He whirled around, a tremble on his lips firmed out into an unforgiving glare. You let up the pressure on his wrist, allowing him to spin his hand free. “Déjame en paz! There is nothing shocking wrong!”

Mireya cried. So did you.

The admittance that Peter was right wasn’t one that Miguel was about to make openly.

Although he showed up that night, as you informally requested, the night proceeded awkwardly. There was no talk over dinner, not as he watched you feed his little girl, swaying by the window of the enormous city below. As you gazed into the sea of twinkling lights, Miguel came up behind you. His palms encompassed your slight shoulders, moist against your exposed shoulders. His naked chest grazed your back.

"Are you going to apologize?"

Why should he have to? If anyone listened to what he was saying-- he wouldn't be in this mess. Still, Miguel steeled his face. He placed a mincing kiss on the top of your head. His voice thinned out, barely a feather on his lips.

"I snapped."

"You did a lot more than that. You scared her."

You let him sit with his regret until you fell asleep. He debated returning to the lab or his room to try again tomorrow. But he knew his wife. You were attentive to everything that he did. You might take it as a sign of his disinterest. After minutes turned to hours, he breached the door and slid into your bed when he was sure you were asleep.

When his eyes coursed over your figure, he realized all he missed. It was too long since he felt the warmth of a real kiss. Not the brief pecks on his lips as he rushed out the door to help Jess or Gwen or any other number of spiders demanding his attention. He missed the warmth in your eyes, the way they turn into crescents with a happy smile or jaunty laugh. He longed for that sensation of your fingers combing through his hair, taking your time and curling his fluffy hair behind his ear, eyes trained on his alone in a sea of spiders. That… sensation of being the only one that you wanted.

Mireya was that for you now. He longed for it every time he came into the room, seeing you sway with his child in your arms, cradled against your breast, feeding her into a restful sleep. What he thought was a mere seed of jealousy turned out to be a terrible beast, tendrils of resentment that you can’t see what he needs. He needs you. And it isn’t his beautiful Mireya’s fault, no. It’s his.

Instead, he lay there with his palm wretched around his cock, soaked in the artificial lubricant, throbbing into his hand. He remembered his words that night. A begrudging -- Mami, give me a baby-- and how well you took him. Your body seemed to know what he wanted, swelling with his child after a few weeks. He buckled into his palm, cranking around the base and swirling up to his leaking tip, bubbling with his need. He circled his finger over the head, swiping the fluid away.

“What are you thinking about?”

Miguel paused, sweat crept down his thick throat over his broad chest. He shuddered under the weight of your silken words. His hand coiled around his cock in one more jerk, somehow accepting that he had been caught.

“Are you thinking about me? Or is there someone else?”

"Someone else?" he breathed. His lips dropped into a frown, agitation simmering to a boil. It cooled when you looked at him-- but really looked at him. The bed shifted under your weight, ruffling pillows aside. You hoisted your legs over his body, pushing his cock against your soft vulva and his stomach, breasts pushing into his face. So close that Miguel inhaled the uniquely sweet smell of your milk obscured by thin lace.

“Why would I have anyone else?” he asked, his chest distantly aching. His gaze tracked from one breast to the other. He stole a glimpse at your face, stricken with shyness. The slight pout of your lips, eyes refusing contact. “Do you even want me?”

Undoubtedly yes.

“You don’t come to see me. You don't fuck me. You don't even--"

"You're always tired."

"But you could wake me.”

“Could I? To deny me again?” It hadn’t meant to come out so passive-aggressive, but with the natural inflections in his voice, he knew you could read him like a book.

“Oh, papi," not that soft voice. He might hope again. "I always want you.“

Hmpf. Debatable.

“Even when you’re jerking off in my bed. Or couch.” You slid your pink tongue along your lower lip, guiding your body against his. The wet draw of your juices over his dick drew his sharp scarlet eyes to the sight, knocking your stiff clit with his dick. For a moment, his words failed. He should have known you would watch him.

“Is that why you're so... angry? Because of me?" He made a small noise, barely a huff. You drew his hands to your full breasts, obscured by a thin layer of fabric. This time, he smothered a groan in his chest. How pathetic, he thought, to be moaning from something as simple as your firm breasts back in his hands. What was he-- twelve? "Have I been neglecting you, Miguel O’Hara?”

“Yes-- you've neglected me,” he murmured, dragging the lace underneath each breast, knocked together by the straps of the fabric. He melded your breasts again between his hands, massaging the sore skin. His thumps flickered over your nipples, stiffening them into peaks. With a small pinch to your breasts, milk dribbled over his fingertips.

"I won't do it again," he wondered if you missed his touch by the full, grateful hum of your lips, your palms disappearing into his dark hair. You coursed along his dick again, eliciting another piteous noise of longing from his throat. "I promise."

“Hm," was the only agreement. "What a mess,” he teased, not bothering to look at you. It had the desired effect, your shoulders shyly bunching up, the cute pout of your lips, warmth in your cheeks, quivering eyes. He loved it when you looked so fucking shy, so vulnerable, and all for him. "You're leaking all over my hand."

“I’m-- sorry,” you flushed, “It… happens.”

“Mhm, you're full,” Miguel flicked his pink tongue along your stiff, fat nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a suckle. Sweet milk soothed his tongue. He hungrily drank it up, shifting his other hand back to angle his cock at the entrance of your core. A hand left his thick locks and jerked to his broad shoulder, stabilizing your hips down to sink onto him. Blood welled to the surface with your claws scratching piteously along his sunkissed skin. With a bit of resistance, he slid perfectly into your body, just like he always did. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips against your breast. It was somehow different-- the tug and stretch of his cock-- as he fucked the mother of his child. Maybe it was all in his head. “Shock, you’re gorgeous on my dick.”

“Miggy--”

He shifted to the other breast, his hands nearly stapled on your hips, encouraging you to do the work. Your warm milk slid into his mouth, down his starved throat. The pleasure of knowing he was draining you of your milk was tempered with the ever-present fact that soon, you’d have his spunk in your belly again. Your hips flushed, drawing around in quick circles, flushed with his pelvis. Small waves of pleasure grew in your belly. Your stiff clit glided against his skin, again, and again with the undulations of his hips. You felt pinned between his mouth and dick, restricted in movement, but all his, devoured by his need.

“Come here, mi hermosura,” Miguel released your breast from those lush lips, sliding his tongue along his lips to catch the remnants of your sweet milk. He slid down along the pillows, flushing your chest to his, and propped his legs slightly for a better angle. His muscular arms wound around your back, cock pumping into you with renewed vigor. He knocked against your cervix in this position, holding you fast and tight in his arms. You nestled against his sweaty chest, accepting his thrusts so well.

“Miggy-- I’m not-- on anything.”

“You're breastfeeding, close enough,” he mused in your ear as though it were a joke.

You might have argued with him if you weren’t so blinded by that fantastic juddering of his hips. As it were, pleasure rocked all thoughts of birth control out of your mind. Miggy, an ever-present lover, groaned as he held out through your orgasm milking and soaking his swollen dick in your cum. Not a moment later, Miguel forced a long stroke of his dick inside your cunt, reaching his climax buried deep in your tremoring walls. You squeezed him tight, milking him dry of his orgasm until it all faded into fuzzy pleasure. You sighed as his arms loosened, warm and full of Miguel after so long. His soft dick slipped free, cum oozing onto his thighs, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the mess.

He set a kiss on the top of your head, then your forehead, and eventually snatched your lips in a warm kiss. You could taste the sweetness of your milk on his tongue and flushed. Your head dropped down on his chest, listening for the gentle whining of your daughter. It was silent but for the intermingling of your heaving breaths.

After all the issues: the disappointment, the fighting with Peter and Jess, Miguel couldn’t help but chuckle. All it took was jerking off in your bed. He should have known-- you never did like to be left out on his fun. You were always a jealous lover, even at the threat of his own hand.

“Hm? Why are you laughing?”

“Peter said I was sex-starved."

“Well," you glistened a smile, kissing along his jaw. He huffed. "He wasn't wrong."

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sevsgiirl · 3 months ago

Text

— piss her off ‘til she hates me, pt. 2

pt. 1, pt. 3

mechanic!sevika x reader. men and minors dni.

synopsis: when the vacant house next to sevika’s finally got new tenants she didn’t think much of it. as long as her new neighbors didn’t cause any trouble, all was well. that is until she found out the neighbor had a young daughter.

word count: 9k words.

tags: age difference, alternate universe, mechanic!sevika, brat!reader, enemies to lovers, oral sex, dom!sevika, sub!reader, pet names, scissoring, hate sex, vaginal fingering.

you can check out the fic playlist here.

it’s been two days since you and your father moved in and sevika was beginning to think she had nothing to worry about.

your old man seemed nice enough and his shift at the town’s office started this monday morning. she found out yesterday that he clocked in at exactly 6am and would come back home at 7pm and sevika felt bad for the guy. her job starts at 9am and ends at 6pm, and that was already exhausting for her.

she didn’t have any work today because her boss wanted to remodel the place. some of the paint on the walls had chipped off and her co-worker, ran, almost had one of the metal shelves fall on them due to rust.

but she still went out of her way to wake up early so she can work out, meaning she was able to catch up with your father when he pulled up at your driveway, ready to leave as he unlocked his car while sevika watched from her garage.

she just finished her cardio and was toweling herself dry from the sweat dripping off her forehead when you suddenly ran out in a pair of fluffy pink slippers, your hair in disarray while a thin blanket was draped over your shoulders. you gave your dad a quick hug and he smiled before he kissed the top of your head and sevika had to admit she found the view endearing.

she didn’t have a good relationship with her father. after her mother died her relationship with him got tethered and for the remaining years before he passed it just felt like living under the same roof as a ghost - a shell of a man who once had everything and then nothing, which made her resentful given the fact he still had a daughter, after all. that’s why she admires your father.

that in spite of everything he still looked out for you. and she admires you too in a way, that after everything you didn’t let the passing of your mother weigh you down too much that you still managed to stop yourself from going down the path of an addiction. unlike her, it took her a good chunk of her twenties and thirties to overcome hers, but even now, she still needs at least 4 pints of alcohol to get through the day.

so that’s what convinced her that since your old man was a good example maybe you wouldn’t be too troublesome.

oh, but she thought wrong.

it wasn’t until a few hours after your dad left and she finished her workout and decided to go back to bed was when she heard it.

that awful, grating sound of a speaker blasting music from your bedroom window, which coincidentally happened to be right across hers.

sevika tried to tune it out thinking maybe she’d be able to sleep it off or that eventually you’ll turn it off, but after twenty minutes where you showed no signs of stopping, she begrudgingly got up from bed in only a wife beater and sweat pants hanging low on her hips, marching out of her house and up to yours.

she didn’t want it to come to this, she thought maybe she was just overreacting when she sensed you were going to be a problem but like always, her gut instinct was right.

she pounded on your front door and when you took too long to open it, she scowled and banged on it so hard she swore she could’ve torn the hinges off.

“open up!” she yelled.

the music came to a screeching halt. fucking finally. she never really let her temper get the best of her, she normally had a tight hold on it, but in moments like these where she was given some time off work and to relax, to have that disrupted so early in the morning irked her beyond comprehension. plus didn’t you have any consideration? it’s nine in the fucking morning.

it took a couple of moments before the door swung open and revealed you, still clad in your pajamas (rather skimpy at that, as you only sported a baby black tee and shorts) distracting her with your bare thighs before your voice snapped her out of it.

“can I help you?”

again, your voice got on her nerves because not only was it a huge contrast to your inconsiderate behavior, being soft-spoken and all, but the way you asked the question didn’t help either. you almost sounded like you were the one being inconvenienced.

her jaw clenched “can you turn the music down? it’s so loud and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s still so goddamn early.”

you blinked up at her with your big doe eyes, and if it were any other person, they would’ve fallen for the oblivious facade you were trying to pull. but she knew better.

and you sensed that she wasn’t having any of it either, making the ends of your mouth twitch as you glared up at her.

“you know, I’m beginning to doubt my dad’s judgment when he said you were cool.” you quipped back which only made her chuckle.

“I am, only because your father was good company and respectful. but you,” you dared her with your eyes to continue and quite frankly, she had no problem doing just that “you on the other hand? yeah, can’t really say the same.”

you shot daggers at her with your eyes but you were quiet for a bit despite her remark. then you grinned before walking closer and getting up in her personal space, too close that she was taken aback because she could practically feel your chest rubbing against hers due to the close proximity.

“that’s not a nice way to talk to your neighbor now is it?” you asked, tone dripping with sarcasm while your face hovered near hers, the height difference being the only barrier that stopped your lips from touching hers considering the top of your head could only touch her chin “sevika?”

the way her name rolled off your tongue shouldn’t have made her spine tingle, but it did. you had an obnoxious effect on her and she wanted to justify it as her being annoyed by you. nothing more.

“turn that shit off or else,” she said gruffly before turning back around and walking away, sparing you one last heated glance before she reached her house, and slammed her front door once she got inside.

the music still didn’t stop.

𐙚˙⋆.˚

it only got worse from there.

she should’ve known better than to confront someone like you who probably fed off on being told no more than anything, and you were slick with it too. you pulled your tricks just around the same time your father leaves for work, leaving no possible witnesses to see how much of a menace you are.

it started with the music, which became louder and more horrendous that she was convinced you only put it on just to grind her gears. it’d last for three hours until eventually you go the whole day before turning it off when you knew your father would come back home.

as if that wasn’t enough, you made some friends. not just any other friends, of course, you just had to get close to powder of all people, vander’s youngest, along with the rest of her friends who’s been sevika’s biggest nightmares for as long as she could even remember.

they’d stop by your house to hang out which would’ve been fine hadn’t powder brought her whole damn crew with her, and she means that literally too. powder and her boyfriend ekko had their own little band as a sideline job which they called the firelights, and for some ungodly reason, you decided to invite them over as well.

the firelights testing out their new equipment in your garage while you and the rest had drinks in your front yard, flinging some of the red solo cups you were using carelessly into the trash bin and of course missing, causing three or four to land on sevika’s yard instead.

combined with the commotion coming from your garage and the fucking littering, sevika was about to pop a vein. she knew she’d have to confront you again without there being other people so as to not cause a scene, so instead, she took her jacket and got out of the house so she wouldn’t have to endure any more of this nonsense. but while she was stomping away, the sound of your maddening voice made her pause.

“afternoon, sevika!” you chirped from where you sat in your front yard in your plastic chair, a stupid obnoxious grin on your face as you drank from your red solo cup before flinging it directly on sevika’s lawn, making her eye twitch before she got into the driver’s seat of her car and slammed the door shut. scowling at you one last time and she swore she saw you giggle.

fucking brat.

𐙚˙⋆.˚

she couldn’t take any more of your bullshit.

but she didn’t want to make it awkward with your father by bringing it up. aside from the fact she got along with him, she’d seen how tired he was after a long day at work. he does not need sevika giving him crap about how his daughter is a major pain in the ass.

vander and silco seem to agree as well.

“just ignore her, girls her age tend to act like that so they can get a rise out of you.” silco advised as sevika scoffed.

“I’d be lying if I said vi and powder don’t act the same way sometimes,” vander chimed in from behind the counter of the bar, a bustling little establishment he and silco opened years ago, before pouring sevika another pint of beer.

sevika chugged it down in mere seconds, letting out a groan “why did you even let that gremlin daughter of yours befriend her? now I got two problems on my hands.“

vander sighed “you know how she is, she’s sociable. and the girl is new here, are you really mad that she’s making friends?”

“I couldn’t give less than two shits that she’s making friends, my problem is that she and your daughter are causing a ruckus while I’m a few feet away.” she snapped “I only have a few days off before my boss clocks me in again, and I haven’t had the time to enjoy it.”

both men exchanged deliberate glances with one another before vander nodded in understanding.

“I’ll talk to her.”

sevika held onto that promise. even as she returned home from the bar, her head pounding from the afternoon spent complaining about how much of a nuisance you were while she drank her stress away.

she noticed that your father’s car still wasn’t in your driveway, but thankfully powder and her friends already left. relieved, she strode up to her house and up to her bedroom, already wanting to sleep the day away because she knew you’d wake her up with your obnoxious music in the morning.

she begrudgingly stepped into her bedroom while she stripped herself from her shirt, leaving her in only her sports bra as she tossed her keys onto her nightstand, about to turn the lamp shade on when her peripheral caught something from your window.

there you were, clad in a matching black lace set of lingerie. you looked at yourself in your vanity mirror while your hands roamed from your torso up to your shoulder blades until you fidgeted with the thin straps of your bra.

’what the fuck?’ sevika thought to herself as she watched you almost in a daze, entranced at how you fondled parts of yourself while being unaware that you had an audience.

one of your hands reached for your drawer, rummaging a bit until you pulled out a lengthy, purple object that sevika took a while to decipher what it was until it hit her.

you gripped the purple dildo in your hands as your nimble fingers made quick work to remove your bra, unclasping it from behind before it fell graciously down your back. giving sevika a good view of the small dip just above your rear, her gaze moving slowly back up to where your mirror was.

your vanity mirror which gave her a vantage point of your round perky breasts, your nipples pebbling in the freezing night air and you let your palm stroke them slowly, making you shiver as your head fell back, and sevika was sure you let out a moan.

sevika’s throat clamped up. she knew she shouldn’t be watching this. she didn’t like you but it’s not like she should be invading your privacy, it was wrong and she was forcing herself to turn away.

but you were hypnotizing, to say the least. a small little forbidden fruit she was so tempted to take a bite into, curious what you would taste like - how you’d react if the simplest of touches already got you so riled up like this.

she felt her cunt throb at the thought, wondering how you’d feel under her callous hands. if you’d squirm if she decides to manhandle you, pull your hair back while she yanks your hips and jerk you down onto her stra-

she snapped out of her trance when she noticed you were no longer in your own little bubble, eyes finally meeting hers and she startled before running to close her blinds in a hurry. but not before catching the way your eyes squinted, watching her.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

it was like it was your mission to make her life hell.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #arcane #arcane fanfiction #arcane smut #wlw smut #lesbian #sapphic #dividers by fairytopea

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 7 months ago

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The Coldest Blue

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader Warnings: Angst. Word count: ~2.1k

Summary: When her husband returns unexpectedly from the ongoing war, she is elated. However, the sinister news she receives in the days that follow threatens to shatter her happiness.

Author's note: Happy Halloween! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She startled as a cold hand was placed gently upon her arm, the sensation tugged her violently from the warm and blissful comfort of slumber that she had been about to succumb to. As she turned over in the bed, her heart felt as though it ceased beating in her chest, and her eyes widened in shock as she took in the unexpected sight of her husband.

“Aemond!” She gasped, all traces of sleep suddenly cleared from her mind.

She reached out to touch him, and immediately he clasped her hands in his. The contact sent a shiver down her spine - he had always had that effect upon her, the simplest brush of his fingers against hers often caused butterflies in her stomach. It had been that way ever since their mother had informed them they were to be married. However, the juxtaposition of the chill of his skin against the buttery-soft warmth of the crisp, white bedding was jarring.

He must have come straight to her after having dismounted Vhagar, and his skin was still chilled from the night air of the flight – all the way from Harrenhal – a place that had torn her twin, her husband, away from her for months. It was no surprise that he felt shockingly unfamiliar, the last time they had touched felt like a distant memory.

She had made a home in loneliness, the ache of his absence, alongside continuous fear and uncertainty had become so familiar that it felt like slipping on an old pair of slippers. No longer would she pine for the weekly raven that delivered news of his well being, and declarations of his love and loyalty to her, instead she must now grow accustomed to his presence by her side, though it was an adjustment she was all too happy to make.

“I did not know you would be returning,” she said softly, a twinge of guilt in her tone – had she known then she would not have been abed, she would have prepared for his return, provided a warmer welcome. A man that had spent months away at war did not deserve to return to the sight of his wife’s sleeping back. “You did not send word.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, releasing his hands as she leaned against the pillows gazing down at him. Even in the dim candlelight that burned low upon the bedside table – she had taken to sleeping with a lit candle when Aemond had departed, unable to bear sleeping alone in the dark – his eye was still as vibrant as ever. At least that still feels familiar. Eyes of the coldest blue, that stared into hers with such intensity she was often torn between wanting to lose herself in it, or turn her face away for fear of that very thing happening.

“I just wanted to see you,” he replied quietly, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Her mind reeled with a thousand questions and he laid there patiently, watching her impassively, as she sorted through her thoughts, deciding upon which she would ask first.

Does mother know you’re back? Aegon? How are you feeling?

“Is it over then? Have you come back to me?” are the questions she finally settled upon.

“Mmm…it is over,” he told her, “Daemon is dead.”

Her breath caught in her throat as happy tears filled her eyes, not quite able to believe what she had heard. “I have missed you so,” she whispered in a trembling voice, “you cannot imagine how much it gladdens my heart to have you back.”

“You should sleep, my love,” he murmured.

“What?!” she demanded, outraged by the notion. Her lips parted and her brow furrowed as she stared at him incredulously. She had not seen him for months, how could he simply appear in their bed without warning and then just expect her to fall asleep?

“I have not known peace in such a long time,” he explained softly, “I just want to watch you as you sleep. I did not mean to wake you, I just could not resist touching you.”

“We need to tell mother that you are back,” she argued, reaching for him again. Once more, he took her hand in his, his slender fingers chilly against the soft skin of the back of her hand. “Aegon must know you have returned.”

“Later,” he insisted, “sleep.”

Despite the commanding nature of his request, his vibrant, blue eye held within it a silent plea that she could not ignore. She sighed, turned onto her side, and closed her eyes. There was a part of her that had daydreamed that Aemond would ravish her upon his return, eager for the closeness and intimacy that only she could provide, after such a long separation. She was more than a little disappointed that he had made no such attempt, though she supposed he was tured after his journey home.

She had expected the excitement of the past few moments to prevent her from falling asleep. To her surprise, the pull of sleep dragged her under swiftly, a comforting, inky blackness enveloping her. Eyes of the coldest blue filled her dreams that night.

When she awoke the next morning, her tired mind was convinced she had dreamed Aemond’s return, especially as when she turned to his side of the bed, it was empty, utterly unrumpled as though it had not been slept in. Her heart sank, disappointment settling upon her chest like a stone that threatened to crush her. The mere act of throwing the covers back and climbing out of bed felt like an effort, her bones felt heavy with sadness.

She padded barefoot, slowly, to the adjoining nursery, stopping in her tracks when she saw the back of Aemond, stood in his riding leathers, looking over the cradle of their son, Rhaegar. The warm wave of relief that washed over her almost made her knees buckle, such was the elation that she had not imagined the return of her beloved twin and husband. Her cheeks almost ached under the strain of her smile, she had not expressed such joy in a long time.

Rhaegar had been a tiny babe when Aemond had pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head in farewell all those months ago. Now, he was approaching his second name day, and growing to resemble his father more with each passing day, his features possessed a sharpness that was uncanny to Aemond’s.

The infant babbled happily as he sat in his cradle, chubby fists clenched around a wooden dragon toy.

“Are you pleased to see your father?” She cooed as she came to stand beside Aemond.

Rhaegar squealed upon seeing her, waving his toy vigorously.

“You may hold him if you wish,” she urged her husband gently.

Aemond shook his head. “He seems happy enough, I do not wish to disturb him. My boy…he has grown.”

She hummed in agreement, nodding. “He looks more like you with each passing day.”

Aemond reached out a hand towards the child, stopping short of touching him. His expression became pensive, a faraway look in his eye, before he pulled his arm back, letting it drop back to his side.

His behaviour in the short time he had been back was puzzling to her, yet she knew that war changed people. Hopefully, as time passed, he would return more to himself, and be the man she married once more.

He turned and walked from the room as the nursemaid entered and lifted the child from his cradle in order to wash and dress him for the day.

As she returned to her own chamber, she noticed that bread, fruit and cheese had been laid out upon the table, by her chambermaids, for her to break her fast. Aemond had taken the armchair beside the fireplace, his favourite place to settle before he had left to defend Aegon’s claim to the throne.

“Will you join me for breakfast?” She asked hopefully.

“No,” he responded, “I have little appetite.”

She pursed her lips. She wanted to press the issue, he needed to eat, to maintain his strength, yet she did not wish to nag and cause him any additional torment after he had already endured so much.

“We will have to take Rhaegar to see Vhagar now you are back,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood, as she seated herself at the table and placed grapes upon her plate. “He is big enough now that he can actually comprehend what she is.”

“Vhagar…did not survive the battle,” Aemond uttered, staring off into the unlit fireplace, his tone sombre.

No wonder he seemed so different. Losing his dragon would have been a devastating blow to Aemomd, after all he had endured to claim her. She was his most prized possession.

“I am sorry, my love,” she murmured, rising from her seat and approaching him. “How…how did it happen?”

“Caraxes and her were surprisingly well matched. They both now rest at the bottom of the God’s Eye…alongside Daemon, and…”

He stopped, shaking his head and lifting his gaze to meet hers. The sadness within made her want to cry. As she stepped towards him, he held his hand out, the coolness of his skin enveloping the warmth of hers.

“And what?” she pressed quietly.

“It does not matter. At least I am reunited with you, I got to see you.”

She was about to respond when a knock at the door interrupted her. She sighed, calling out for them to enter.

A page boy opened the door, just enough for him to slip through the crack, before bowing to her. “Princess, the King has requested that you go at once to the Small Council chamber.”

She frowned, scoffing as she replied, “can it not wait until I am dressed?”

“Apologies, princess,” the page boy said, not meeting her eye, “the king insists that it is urgent.”

“Very well,” she huffed, tying her robe tighter around her nightgown, “I shall be there momentarily.”

The page boy bowed, leaving the way he had come.

“I suppose we could not avoid it forever,” Aemond said wearily, rising from his seat.

He trailed after her as they walked to the Small Council chamber, his steps quiet behind hers.

“Do not forget that I love you, I always have,” he told her softly as they approached the heavy doors.

“And I love you,” she said in turn, her heart fluttering as the coolness of his fingers briefly entwined with hers.

She did not knock, simply pushed open the door and stepped in. Only Aegon and their mother stood at the long, wooden table.

Her mother’s big, brown eyes were tearful, as Aegon leaned over a parchment that was rolled out before him, his features pinched in anguish. His bottom lip trembled in a manner that only occurred when he was angered to the point of near hysteria.

She had expected them both to be overjoyed to see Aemond, considering he stood at her side, but both seemed too engrossed in the contents of the letter they were reading.

“Oh, my dearest love,” her mother whispered tearfully, clutching a handkerchief as she stepped towards her and embraced her tightly.

“What? What is it?” She asked, and pulled back, brow furrowed in concern as she looked at her mother and then Aegon.

Alicent kept her arms around her, stroking her hair gently, as Aegon looked up from the parchment. His voice was quiet, almost croaky, as he spoke. “News from Harrenhal.”

What more could there possibly be?!

“So?” she asked in exasperation, “what is it?”

“There was a battle between Aemond and Daemon above the God’s Eye…”

I know this, I know this, I know this!

She wanted to scream in frustration, he was not telling her anything she did not know already. She pulled her shoulders up towards her ears momentarily, an impatient gesture for him to continue.

“Daemon is dead,” Aegon said, swallowing thickly, “and so is Aemond.”

She almost wanted to laugh. No, he was not! What a ridiculous thing to say.

“No, he is–” she reached out to Aemond, grasping the front of his riding leathers, her breath hitching as her hand passed straight through him.

Her blood ran cold as her horrified eyes lifted to meet his.

“I just wanted to see you,” he murmured, eyes of the coldest blue looking straight into hers as he faded away to nothing.

“...he’s gone,” she whispered tearfully. The painful clenching of her heart dulled every other sensation, and she did not even feel it when her mother wrapped her arms tighter around her.

Eyes of the coldest blue, let me see into you.

He had returned to her one final time, and would never again.

Read on AO3

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sweetlikelace · 8 days ago

Text

MY HANDS ARE TIED, MY SLEEVES ARE TORN

PART FOUR | wandanat x reader

[part three]

paring(s): wandanat x reader, wanda maximoff x reader, natasha romanoff x reader

content warning: smut, exhibitionism, voyeurism, cunnilingus, mommy kink, daddy kink, breath play, praise, teasing,

word count: 2.3k

A/N: this was a little rushed toward the end, but i’ve been having such a hard time writing so hopefully it’s good enough for you

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, spilling gently over the bed. the world outside was quiet, the birds chirping faintly in the distance. the air felt warm, cozy, like the kind of morning where you could sleep in just a little longer, bury yourself deeper into the covers, and forget about the world outside.

you were tangled in the sheets, nestled between natasha and wanda. the three of you had fallen asleep the night before in a mess of limbs. wanda's arm draped across your waist, natasha's chest pressed against your back. you were warm, comfortable, and, for once, everything felt peaceful.

when you woke up you were reluctant to open your eyes. wanda and natasha's duvet was the comfiest you had ever slept in, and the longer you spent with the couple the more often you found yourself waking up in their bed. wanda liked her space, usually facing outward when the three of your slept, while natasha ran perpetually hot. you, on the other hand, were a full-time snuggle bug according to natasha. always wanting to be near her, or on her. she loved it of course, except for when she was sleeping. but today was the exception. usually after a more spicy night, they'd give in to your extra clingy behaviour.

you stretch your arms out before nuzzling back into natasha's side, moving around a bit trying to find a comfortable position. as you stirred, your leg shifted, and before you knew it, your foot had made contact with wanda's side with a gentle thud.

"ow," wanda muttered groggily, squirming away from the unexpected hit. her voice was thick with sleep, and her hand instinctively reached for the spot where your foot had nudged her.

you froze for a moment, eyes still closed. "sorry," you mumbled, your voice muffled in the pillow. "didn't mean to—"

wanda nestles back into her pillow, closing her eyes when it happens again. another kick into her thigh. "what the-"

natasha lifts her head sluggishly. "what's going on?"

"tasha, control your woman." wanda mumbled with her eyes closed. you could feel natasha's arm sling across your waist. she whispered in your ear, her voice husky. "relax malyshka."

"I am relaxed." you mutter back, face still buried in the pillow. natasha hushes you and pats your hip. out of the two older women, natasha took every opportunity to sleep in if she didn't have to wake up early for work.

"don't 'shush' me." you protest causing wanda to release an exaggerated sigh. "you two are ridiculous." she climbs out of bed, wrapping her robe around herself and slipping on a pair of natasha's slippers.

you reach your arms out and let out a dramatic whine. "nooo stay!" you pout. wanda just stands with her arms crossed.

"it's already 9, detka, time to get up."

you let out a dramatic groan and fling your arm over your eyes. "fine. but I'm staying in my pyjamas."

"you mean my pyjamas." wanda raises an eyebrow. for some reason it had always slipped your mind to bring extra clothes when you stayed over. the evenings always resulted in you drowning in one of their oversized t-shirts or crewnecks. you didn't mind it one bit, and neither did they. natasha found it to be extremely attractive, seeing you in her wife's clothes. “why are you even getting up this early? it’s not like you have work.” you roll over in the bed. natasha, who was trying to go back to sleep, reluctantly sat up too.

wanda opened the curtains, the sun reflecting through the vanity mirror. “oh it’s a hot one today,” she flicks her wrist, the windowsill hot from the sun. your eyes light up and you sit up. “can we go to the beach?!” you ask with a hint of excitement in your voice. wanda hated the beach, she didn’t love the idea of open bodies of water, and the sand, relentlessly finding itself in places sand shouldn’t be. you knew this of course, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

natasha watched her wife’s reaction. the way she sighed, almost anticipating the question. “a beach day could be nice.” she says, her gaze flicking between you and wanda.

once natasha was on board you thought you might actually have a chance, your eyes snapped back to wanda’s. “pleeaaseee.” you push out your bottom lip.

wanda grabs clothes from the hamper and sighs. “a beach day could be nice…” she repeats. your face lit up as you push the floral duvet cover off your legs and jump out of bed. natasha’s lips twitched into a grin, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ to her wife.

wanda had a way of making even the simplest of things feel planned. every detail, no matter how small, had to be perfect or it would throw off her whole vibe. it wasn’t that she was a control freak, but she could be meticulous at times. natasha was a lot more spontaneous. she often tried to push her out of her comfort zone, testing her limits without making her totally uncomfortable.

but when you came into the picture, natasha was no longer the one testing wanda, you did it perfectly. a natural type b personality, and how easily it could clash with the older woman’s.

wanda and natasha had a pool, so there was already a drawer filled with swimsuits in your size. you pick out a perfect baby blue bikini and slip on a crocheted dress over top.

natasha always wore the same black one piece with slits at the side, and wanda packed a yellow floral two piece.

it was hottest day this summer. the sand burnt your toes as you struggles to stay upright in your flip flops. you wait for natasha to walk ahead before jumping onto her back, causing her to tumble a bit. "a heads up would be nice." she chuckled, wanda shaking her head playfully.

"don't like the sand." you mutter into her shoulder. natasha always wore uggs on the beach for that very reason.

wanda finds an empty space and lays out a green gingham sheet she had found packed away in her closet. she takes out the sunscreen, tanning oil, and bottled water.

natasha drops you onto the sheet and you hurry toward the water.

"detka! come back you need sunscreen." wanda calls out after you, the warmth of the sun already making your skin tingle. Wanda's fingers brush against your back as she squeezes some sunscreen into her hands. You feel a little shiver run down your spine, her touch light but deliberate as she smooths the lotion over your skin.

her hands move expertly, spreading the sunscreen evenly across your back, working from your shoulders down to your lower back. the feeling of her fingers massaging the lotion in makes your muscles relax, and for a moment, you forget you're on a beach with the others. wanda is always so gentle, yet there's something reassuring in the way she takes care of you, like she's the one keeping the sun's harsh rays at bay.

natasha skipped the sunscreen and went straight for the tanning oil, wanda gave her a glare. once she finished up lathering the lotion onto your body, she moves beside natasha who was already laying on her stomach.

wanda pours a line of oil down natasha's back and gently massages it into her skin. your eyes lock onto the blonde's body, losing sight in her curves.

wanda's fingers find each inch of her wife's skin, deliberately teasing with the oil. natasha lets out a soft moan and your eyes immediately widen.

the motion of wanda’s hands becomes hypnotic as she moves down natasha’s back, her fingers light but deliberate. she massages the oil into natasha's lower back, her touch growing softer near the waistline. wanda's presence is soothing, like a safe harbor, and natasha seems to melt further under her touch. her hands linger just for a moment longer on natasha's back, almost as if she's reluctant to stop, but she does.

you blink a bit and tilt your head. "you're not coming in the water with me?"

natasha murmurs something you can't quite hear. you look out into the shoreline and decide to go yourself. wanda keeps a watchful eye on you like a mother would a child, while natasha sunbathes.

despite how hot it was, the beach was almost deserted. there was a family a few years down but not close enough where you could hear any of the kids.

the moment your toes touch the water, a soft shiver runs up your spine, the coolness of the sea contrasting sharply with the warmth of the sun still lingering on your skin. the sensation is freeing, as if the world outside of this little bubble doesn't matter for a while.

you look back to your spot on the beach. squinting your eyes to see the married couple close, closer than they were a few moments ago. you watch as wanda’s fingers slip inside the other woman, drawing out soft sounds that were muffled from the waves. you head snaps around quickly to see if anyone is watching, but it’s only you.

you slip further into the water, your nose just above as you watch wanda climb on top, tugging at natasha’s bathing suit. you felt the familiar tingling sensation between your legs. you didn’t know whether to stay put and watch, or interrupt them.

you watched natasha squirm beneath her, your eyes just watched her finish, her skin radiating afterglow.

you swallow the lump in your throat before slowly stepping out of the water and making your way back. you felt a little embarrassed watching, maybe a little bit of shame too.

when you return natasha is back to tanning on her stomach, wanda reading her book. you look between the two of them.

“how’s the water, malyshka?” wanda asks, her eyes glued to the page.

“cold.” you speak in a corse whisper. was she not going to acknowledge what you saw? “were you…”

“what’s the matter, baby? you’re shivering.” wanda hands you a towel and pats the spot beside her. you didn’t even notice the goosebumps covering your arms.

you shift beside her and watch as she continues to read. natasha laying peacefully in the sun, like she hadn’t moved in hours. “i saw you guys…” you confess.

“saw us what, detka?” wanda tilts her head.

you didn’t want to say it. it made your cheeks burn. “i saw you guys, you know…” it felt childish the way you couldn’t say the words.

“you mean you were being nosy.” natasha corrects you, lifting her head up.

you freeze at her words and look to wanda. “no it’s not like that.. i just… there’s people over there.” you stutter, causing the two women to exchange glances.

“you mean all the way over there?” natasha looks, resting her sunglasses on her nose. “don’t tell me you’re that shy.”

you felt small under their eyes. “i’m not shy, i just never…”

wanda lets out a taunting gasp. “you never been fucked in public, detka?”

that was the last of your composure. you tense up, pressing your legs together at the thought. that was never something that had crossed your mind before today. it would be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy watching them from the water, but a part of you was shocked. you’d never expect either of them to be into exhibitionism. before you could blink again natasha’s oily hand found your thigh and gave it a squeeze, while wanda tied your hair up out of your face. she kisses your cheek, and then your lips and you find yourself laying down against the sheet.

the oil smelt like coconut and pineapple, natasha smelt like coconut and pineapple. it was intoxicating. “she smells good, doesn’t she, baby?” wanda murmurs in your ear. “go on, tell tasha she smells good.” she slips her hands underneath your bikini top, massaging your breasts gently.

“you smell good, tasha.” you repeat quietly and natasha smiles and pours some of the oil into her hand rubbing it into your legs. “you’re gonna smell so good after this too, sweet girl.”

wanda traces patterns up your chest as natasha works the oil into your legs. natasha pours some into wanda’s hands and places them on your collar bone. she unties the bikini knot behind your neck, pulling it down completely.

her thumb circles your erect nipple, pulling soft moans and whimpers from your lips. “shhhh, my love, you don’t want anyone to hear what a naughty girl you are, hmm?”

natasha smirks and runs her oily fingers to your hips, dipping them into the straps of your bathing suit. she doesn’t take them off, just tugs enough so there’s room for her hand to slip in.

you squeeze your eyes as natasha uses the coconut oil to fill you up. her fingers exploring every inch of you. you squirm against the warm sheet as wanda holds you in place. “you’re doing so good for mommy and daddy, detka. almost there.”

natasha continues to work her magic, bring in you closer and closer to the edge. wanda’s hands find your breasts again, squeezing them between her palms.

you take a deep breath and hold it as the wave washes over you, natasha’s thumb pressing down on your clit, helping you ride out your orgasm. “breathe, baby.” wanda whispers, a soft reminder in your ear to ground you. you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding and collapse onto the sheet.

wanda ties your bikini top back in place and pushes the damp hair away from your eyes, your skin still salty from the ocean.

“you know, i think i’m starting to like the beach.” wanda smiles.

tags: @ciaoooooo111 @htinha157 @milflovers4 @artemisarroxvolkov @ssasa-romanoff @angelicbrats @vyvvycg

#wlw #lesbian #sapphic #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #marvel x reader #mcu #black widow x reader #black widow #the scarlet witch

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superhoeva · 7 months ago

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"what the fuck is that?"

the small pout you give logan almost matches the timid expression of the ball of fur snuggled in your arms.

"her name is clover," you scold at him before peeking down at the pup with a sweet smile. "and she's our new puppy."

head tilting, logan's eyebrows furrow. "wh-clover? it's not a fuckin' plant, for christ's sake. and where'd you even find it?"

you roll your eyes, hip popping to one side as you stare back at the man with an unimpressed look.

"one of my friend's dog just had a whole litter, and she was looking for nearby owners so they can all stay close and visit each other."

a scoffing laugh jerks logan. no, no. sure, he'd do anything for you... anything except this. this means walks and accidents. scooping shit and torn slippers. teething and begging for food that's his.

no matter how cute either of your faces might be, there's no way this is happening.

"you're lucky i only took one of them, you big grump. here," you tell logan, passing along clover despite his annoyed grumbling. "you two get to know each other a little better, okay? i'm gonna run to the store and grab some stuff to get her through the night, then we can hit the pet store tomorrow and spoil our girl, huh?"

the end of your sentence rises a good octave, as you plant your eyes on the dog logan's holding like he doesn't know how. you scratch gently behind her ears, and the man before you huffs. damn it. you're warming up to each other already.

"i'll be back soon, okay?"

you don't give logan a chance to answer before you plant two quick kisses–one for him and the other for the puppy who looks as sure about this as he feels–and traipse out the door with a pleased grin.

the silence that's left once you're gone is enough to force an eye roll from logan. glancing down, he meets stares with clover (he's not calling her that, by the way)–and huffs.

great.

you're back quicker than logan thought you'd be. that's his only explanation for the sight you're met with upon returning to the house; logan shaking with deep bursts of laughter as clover attacks him with a swarm of kisses.

the two have moved to the floor in the living room, logan on his back and barely able to hold back the excited dog as she wags her tail with almost too much energy.

clover's the first to notice you, skipping away from logan to greet you in the form of a few yips and fast circles around your legs.

logan rolls over, rising to his feet with a stifled groan. all he does is plant a wet peck on your lips and scoop up a happy clover.

"i guess she can stay," the man shrugs, masking his acceptance of the situation with an unbothered expression. "still not calling her fuckin' clover, though."

#older bf!logan #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett fluff #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine imagine #wolverine fluff #logan howlett #wolverine

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luvpixx · 6 days ago

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── .✦ YANDERE BALLERINA WHO'S YOUR PRECIOUS DOLL 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

cw. male yandere, fem reader, stalking, obsessive thoughts, emotional dependency, unhealthy attachment, delusion, self-harm, body horror, unhealthy romance, manipulation, dissociation, identity loss, hallucinations, mental instability, implied violence, emotional degradation, trauma bonding, toxic codependency, unhealthy power dynamics, implied eating disorder.

Yandere ballerina who didn’t even notice you at first.

He was all angles and elegance, carved in pale porcelain and lit by the stage lights like something half-alive, half-divine. A beautiful boy moving like a dream, distant, cold, the type you don’t fall in love with—you worship. You were messy. Loud shoes. Hair too wild. Always five minutes late, always sitting on the studio floor like you owned the dust. He found you annoying. You made the quiet ache in his bones louder somehow.

But you kept coming. Not for him, not really. You were just drawn to the ballet like he was, like something feral finding something holy. You said too much. Laughed too loudly. Looked at him like you saw something real.

Yandere ballerina who started to watch you when you weren’t looking.

He didn’t mean to. The curve of your neck when you tied your shoes. The wrinkle of your nose when you laughed. The way your fingers danced even when your feet didn’t. You didn’t move like a ballerina. You moved like a storm. Ugly. Beautiful. Free.

He hated you for it.

He hated how you left notes for everyone—crumpled things, sugar-sweet, stupid little encouragements—and one day, you left one for him. It just said, You’re not alone. Even if you want to be. He read it until the paper was soft with fingerprints. Then he folded it into a tiny square and tucked it inside his slipper like a secret under his skin.

Yandere ballerina who started to change for you.

You liked the color blue. So he wore blue ribbons in his hair. You liked cinnamon. So he bought cinnamon tea, even though it made his stomach twist. You said you liked how “boys with long hair look soft,” so he never cut it again, even when it tangled at the nape of his neck and pulled when he danced.

He started performing for you—always knowing where you sat, always tilting his face so you could see the expression, the emotion, the raw bleeding beauty he’d never let anyone else witness. You clapped for him like it meant something, and it did. It started to mean everything.

He told himself you were just being nice. He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

But his smile cracked every time you laughed at someone else’s joke.

Yandere ballerina who prays for you.

Not to God. But to you.

He kneels before mirrors, blistered knees on wood, whispering your name like a mantra, a hymn, a curse. He hurts himself in small, soft ways just to remember you love broken things. Cuts his calluses raw. Starves a little. Bleeds into shoes. Dances on torn feet.

He looks for you in the audience, even when he knows you're not there.

He dreams of you coming backstage, holding his face with your messy hands, saying “You were beautiful. You were mine.” You never say that. But one day, you will.

You will.

Because he's the only one who knows how to love you quietly, like rot under roses.

And if someone else touches you—he’ll dance for them too.

He’ll perform with all the softness in his soul. And after the curtains close, he’ll leave behind red footprints, and no one will ever find them again.

Yandere ballerina who starts to erase himself just to fit inside the shape of you.

You liked passion. So he started to tremble onstage. Let tears fall when he danced. Let his ribs show. He wanted to look ruined, the way you looked at everything with soft pity, with hands that touched like forgiveness. He was too clean for you before. Now, he lets the dirt in. Under his nails. In his mind. He wears it like perfume. You once said something about loving people who feel like ghosts. He’s trying.

He’s trying so hard to haunt you. To be something you can’t stop thinking about. Like he thinks of you.

Yandere ballerina who follows you home.

Silent as dust. Breath shallow in your shadow. Not always. Just when he feels empty. Just when you laugh with someone else. Just when he needs to see that you still exist. That you’re still real. That he didn’t imagine you.

He watches you brush your teeth. Scratch your ankle. Burn your toast. You are so human it hurts. He’s not. Not anymore.

He tells himself it’s innocent. He just wants to be near you. He just wants to keep you safe. The world is dangerous. Loud. Ugly. If you knew how many people stared at you… how many people didn’t deserve your smile… You’d be grateful for him.

Sometimes, when you fall asleep with your window cracked, he whispers your name into the night just to see if your lips move in your dreams.

Yandere ballerina who starts to disappear in mirrors.

He doesn’t recognize his reflection anymore.

The boy who used to move like swans and silk and purity now stares back with hollow eyes, ribs like prison bars, and lips that bleed when he smiles too hard. He hums the melody of your voice like a lullaby, pirouetting alone in the dark rehearsal room, skin shining with sweat and desperation.

There’s a bruise shaped like your fingernail on his hip. You touched him once—by accident. He pressed your fingerprint into himself so hard it turned blue. And he loved it.

He doesn't eat unless you compliment him. He doesn't rest unless you’re watching. He breaks himself open again and again because he’s sure that if he bleeds beautifully enough, you’ll finally see him.

Yandere ballerina who knows you don’t love him yet.

Yet is the key.

He says it when he cries. When he hurts. When you leave without saying goodbye. He whispers it while slicing ribbons of red into his ankles so he can feel weightless when he leaps—so he can feel like your love, even imagined, gives him wings.

If someone else kisses you, he doesn’t panic.

He smiles.

Because he knows how to perform.

He knows how to take roles from people.

He knows how to take things.

And he is so very patient.

One day, you’ll come to him in tears. The world too loud. Your heart too heavy. He’ll hold you like a dancer holds breath—delicately, fully, with every inch of his soul. And you’ll fall in love with him slowly. The way you fell in love with ballet.

By accident.

By force.

By fate.

Yandere ballerina who no longer knows where the dance ends and where you begin.

He sees you everywhere now. In the curve of the moonlight. In the thrum of violin strings. In the dust hanging thick in the air when the studio is empty and silent, just him and the mirrors and your ghost. Your shape stretches across the walls. Your laughter plays in the echoes. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and sees you dancing with him—slow, delicate, your body pressed against his, breath against breath, heartbeat against heartbeat.

(You’ve never danced with him. Not really. But he’s done it a thousand times in his head. And every time, you love him more.)

Yandere ballerina who starts to speak to you when you aren’t there.

In the dressing room, alone, he kneels on the cold tile and whispers about his day. About how he missed you. About how that other girl touched his arm, and how wrong it felt. How he wanted to cut his skin open and start over. He calls it your name. The little hollow behind his ribs where he keeps all the versions of you that smile only for him.

Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he lays on the floor and imagines you lying beside him, fingers tangled, bones touching. He hums lullabies he never learned, lullabies he dreamed into existence because you deserve a world where you are never afraid again.

Yandere ballerina who starts keeping pieces of you like little sacred relics.

A strand of hair from your brush. A crumpled receipt from a bakery he saw you visit. A ticket stub from a film you saw two weeks ago. He keeps them in a small box wrapped in ribbon, hidden beneath his costumes. Every item is catalogued in a soft, trembling hand. Sometimes he takes them out and lines them up on the floor, arranging them like offerings to a god.

He kisses them.

He cries over them.

He tells them things he’s too afraid to tell the real you, because what if you run? What if you scream?

He doesn’t want you to be scared.

Not of him.

He’d never hurt you. He just wants to be the only thing that touches your soul.

Yandere ballerina who starts losing time.

There are nights he wakes up onstage, barefoot, trembling, mouth whispering your name like a broken record. There are days he finds blood on his hands, pink and sticky like paint, and doesn’t remember why. He stares at the mirrors and sees a stranger. A beautiful boy with cracked lips and bruised eyes who loves too much, too hard, too deep.

He wants to be your home, but he’s afraid he’s become your haunting instead.

And still—he dances.

Even as his feet bleed.

Even as his eyes sink into shadows.

Even as your smile, the real one, fades into something wary, something distant.

(You’re pulling away. He sees it. Feels it. A tremble in the thread that binds him to you.)

But he’s not angry.

He’s grieving.

You’re still alive.

Still warm.

But he swears it feels like you’re dying without him.

Yandere ballerina who swears he'll become your favorite.

Not your boyfriend. Not your lover. Something deeper. Something eternal.

He will be the performance that leaves you breathless. The wound you touch in silence. The beauty that aches so much, you almost wish you'd never seen it. You’ll remember him in the lonely hours, in the quiet dark, and wonder where it all went wrong.

And maybe then—maybe then—you’ll love him. Even if it’s too late.

He’ll still dance for you.

Even if you’re not watching.

Even if you forget his name.

Even if he has to fall to pieces again and again, just to keep the spotlight on your memory.

Because to him, you’re not a person anymore.

You’re the reason he exists.

And he will never let you go.

Even if he has to destroy himself to hold you forever.

Yandere ballerina who forgets how to breathe unless you’re in the room.

He doesn’t even notice it at first. The stillness. The way his chest stops rising unless you say his name. The way his hands shake when you leave, like a marionette with cut strings. The way the world blurs around the edges unless your voice slices through it.

You are gravity. You are the script. He is nothing but the dancer on your stage now.

And the worst part?

You know it.

You know it when you brush your fingers under his chin, just barely—just enough to make him flinch like a kicked dog, breath caught in his throat like confession. You know it when you pull away with that lazy smirk and say, “Don’t look at me like that. It’s pathetic.”

He still does.

God, he still does.

Yandere ballerina who lives for your approval like it’s communion.

You test him sometimes.

You let him get close—brush your hip with his fingertips, rest his cheek against your knee like some ruined angel—and then you go cold. Eyes sharp, voice bored. You say things like “You don’t think I love you, do you?” with a lightness that feels like a blade.

He doesn’t know the answer.

He never knows.

But he shakes his head anyway. No. Of course not. Not yet. I haven’t earned it yet.

And you smile, petting his hair like a reward.

“Good boy.”

Yandere ballerina who can’t perform unless you’re watching.

The instructors start to notice. He collapses in rehearsals, dry-eyed and stiff-limbed. He refuses solos unless you’re in the front row. When you're gone, he’s silent. Empty. A corpse in satin slippers. But when you're there—your arms crossed, your mouth chewing gum lazily like you couldn’t care less—he blooms.

He dances like his bones are glass and you're the only one who knows how to hold him. Every spin is a plea. Every leap is a scream. His body breaks beautifully for you.

He watches for your reaction like a starving man watches a locked door.

Sometimes you clap. Sometimes you don’t.

Either way, he thanks you afterward.

Yandere ballerina who lets you ruin him because it feels like being loved.

You take things from him. Little things at first—his favorite hoodie, the key to his locker, the rosary from his bedside that belonged to his grandmother. He gives them all willingly. You never ask. You just reach, and he empties himself into your hands.

But then you start pushing.

You let him kiss you and then laugh in his face.

You make him fight someone twice his size just to prove he's "serious."

You dare him to break his toes for you—and he does, barefoot, on the cement, crying and smiling at the same time like it’s holy.

And when he collapses in your arms, broken and pink-mouthed, you whisper, “Do you love me more now?”

He nods.

You laugh.

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

Yandere ballerina who starts dreaming of the day you kill him.

Not violently. No—never messy. You’d do it sweetly. Quietly. Maybe with a kiss to his temple and a hand over his mouth. Maybe you’d tuck him into your bed and tell him a story before it happens.

Maybe you already have.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s already dead. If this is some afterlife where heaven is cruel and wears your smile. He wouldn’t mind. He’s not scared of you anymore.

He wants to belong to you completely. Wants to wear your fingerprints like tattoos, wants to be your thing, your creature, your shadow.

If you asked him to tear his heart out, he’d ask which hand.

Yandere ballerina who starts starving again when you don’t touch him.

It’s not about weight, not really. It’s about control. It’s about your hands. About the way your fingers drag across his jaw and your voice murmurs “You’re prettier when you’re fragile.”

And he believes you. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?

He wants to be porcelain for you. Wants to be thin enough to float. Wants to be your delicate little marionette boy who only eats when you spoon food into his mouth and whisper, “Good boy. Stay alive for me.”

Sometimes he pretends your voice is what keeps his heart beating. That if he stops hearing it, he’ll rot.

Part of him wants to test it.

You are not well, either. Not even close.

You don’t love him. Not in the way he thinks. But God, you need him.

Not like oxygen. Like a mirror. Like an echo. Like a secret you can shove into a body and make suffer so you don’t have to.

He clings so tightly. He folds himself into your hands so willingly. He breaks for you again and again and thanks you for the splinters.

And it makes you feel—safe. Powerful. Less wrong.

Because if someone this beautiful can worship someone as ruined as you, maybe you’re not the monster.

(You still are.)

But now he’s your monster too.

Yandere ballerina who starts seeing things that aren’t there.

Your face in the mirror, smiling when you’re not in the room.

Your hand reaching for his in dreams, pulling him into fevered voids where he dances alone on cracked floors soaked in blood.

The sound of your laugh during recitals, even when you didn’t come. Even when you promised you would and forgot.

He doesn’t tell you about the hallucinations.

You wouldn’t care.

You’d probably just say “Cute. You're going insane.”

And then you'd cup his face and kiss his nose, so sweet it almost hurts.

Yandere ballerina who lets you carve your name into his ankle with a broken mirror shard.

It wasn’t your idea.

It wasn’t not your idea, either.

You whispered it in his ear one night when he cried too hard to sleep:

“If you were really mine, I’d see it on you. In you. Like a scar.”

So the next night, he did it. Pale thighs curled under him, hands shaking, eyes glazed and glassy. He didn’t even cry.

He knocked on your door and held out his foot like a stray cat bringing home a dead bird.

You stared.

Then smiled.

Then said, “God, you’re beautiful when you're in pain.”

You kissed the wound.

He came apart.

You keep him on a leash. Not literally. (Yet.)

But emotionally, he doesn’t breathe unless you exhale first.

You test it.

Sometimes, you pretend to leave for good.

Disappear for two days. Turn off your phone. Watch the camera you planted in his room.

You see him unravel.

You see him begging something—God, the mirror, you—for a reason to exist.

You only come back when he’s sobbing in the bathtub with his fingernails ripped and his mouth trembling like an abandoned child.

And then you cradle him.

You whisper, “There, there. I’m here. I’m yours.”

He doesn’t even ask where you went.

Because he's too grateful you came back.

— MASTERLIST ☆

#🐦‍⬛.yandere #ㅤㅤ⠀ㅤ 𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏#yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere x yandere #yandere x female reader #male yandere #yandere boy #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere ballerina #yandere oc

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lieslab · 5 months ago

Text

Call your mom

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Felix X gn reader

Summary: Your best friend finds you teetering on the edge of suicide in the middle of the night.

Genre: Comfort/hurt

Word Count: 2.2K

Suicide and depression resources

Trigger warning: Suicide, depression, self-hatred, brief mentions of pills, guns, self-harm, hanging, fear of life after death, and fear of being alone.

A/N: It's the first day of 2025 and if you're struggling with thoughts like these, please stay alive. I had a weird urge to drop this which means, at least, one of you is struggling right now. Please pick up the phone and call someone. Stay alive. I know it seems so hard when you're drowning, but you really have no idea what good things are waiting for you. They will find you, I promise <3

_ _ _

At midnight, Felix’s eyes shot wide open without a reason or why. He had just been asleep and yet, as he laid with his cheek pressed against the warmth of his pillow, there wasn’t the usual sleepy haze. It was almost as if he just opened his eyes and hadn’t been sleeping for the past few hours.

He laid there trying to figure out the reason for it, but none came. The steady sound of his breathing filled the room and he glanced over. The full moon was out tonight and she was watching over everyone, at least, that’s what he thought.

He didn’t know why your face appeared in his head. Somewhere deep in the subconscious realm and far from his understanding, something tugged on him. It ushered him to go and it forced him out of bed. In the darkness, almost like a shadow savior, he slipped on his slippers and rushed out of his room.

It was the one thing he actually liked about your shared apartment building. Your apartment was just down the hall. All he had to do was leave his unit, turn left, walk straight, and turn left again. The path was so familiar that he could do it in his sleep.

He tugged the wooden door shut behind him and didn’t bother locking it. He jerked on the oversized hoodie and rounded the corner, that’s when he saw you. The look on your face, it was one he’d never seen before.

The length of the hallway was barren at this time of night. Lights were secured above your head and dimmed down for the evening. The dimness couldn’t hide the tears pouring down your cheeks.

You couldn’t breathe with your thoughts piling up again. You’d been here before, but this time was different. This time, you were sure if you stepped foot in your apartment building, you wouldn’t come back out alive.

So you paced over and over and over again. Stuck between the urge in giving it all up and trying to find the strength to continue. Living was hard and it was even worse when your own brain hated you.

How much longer could you last? Too stuck in your head, you stamped yourself as a burden. You cut holes in your own heart and let yourself drown in your own hurt. Blood stained your hands and it was always all your fault.

A lump sat in your throat and the tears wouldn’t stop dripping. You wanted to keep going. You wanted to try again. You wanted to bite down on that small sliver of hope and cling to it, but you were also tired. This self-destructive cycle led to nowhere. You were tearing your mental sanity to shreds and your muscles were quivering from trying to keep your head held up one more day.

Just one more day. Just one more try. Just a little more. Another step. Another meal. Another memory creeping back from the depths of your mind and rerunning. Your brain was on fire and screaming.

Torn between letting go and staying here, you were breaking down. The oil in your machine ran out months ago. Every step weighed a thousand pounds. Your bones creaked and your soul ached. You longed for inner peace, but it never showed up.

Your dreams were dead. Your brain stamped them out weeks ago. You deemed yourself the family failure. The unlovable one. The kind of person that people steered themselves clear from because you were just too much.

The weight of your thoughts was breaking your back. Your brain screamed at you to stay, but you couldn’t find peace in sleep anymore. Where people found joy in the rainbows and sunshine, you couldn’t find that anymore either. You ran out of love to give a long time ago.

Wouldn’t it just be better to give up? To finally rest. To go to sleep. Swallow pills. Pull a trigger. Slice the vein. Step off the stool and let your windpipe close forever. The hurt was temporary and god, it’d hurt, but the peace afterwards…

You didn’t know what came after this. Maybe it really was heaven or hell. Maybe the rumors were true and you’d burn for eternity for killing yourself. Maybe you’d wake up in another life and in the arms of a new mother. Shiny eyes of another father would be cast upon you.

Or maybe it’d just be nothing. An eternal darkness and no matter what happened or where you went, it’d just be black. You’d cease to exist. You’d have all this and then nothing ever again.

You didn’t hear Felix the first time that he called your name, but you felt him. You smelled the familiar scent of minty toothpaste and eucalyptus. Your teary eyes reached up to find his and his heart shattered.

He cupped your cheeks and his heart squeezed with terror. “What’s wrong?” He whispered as he wiped away your tears.

You tried to speak, but your words turned into a whimper that got stuck in the back of your throat. How were you supposed to tell your best friend that you wanted to end everything? How were you supposed to tell them that you were so tired, you wanted to go? It was time for you to go.

Maybe it was selfish to not think about the hurt you’d cause him, or maybe it was selfish for him not to see the hurt that harbored in your heart. Would he ask you to stay if he knew you were drowning inside yourself? The darkness swallowed you whole and no matter how much you tried to swim to the surface, you never made it.

Did he know this was the last time he’d see your defeated face? Would he remember the bags smeared beneath your eyes? Would he know that your eyes would close soon and they’d never reopen? The next time he’d see you, if he was lucky, you’d be clutching your own cold corpse in the cramped casket.

His freckles were like constellations and if you were lucky, maybe you’d land upon the stars. Maybe the weight of everything would cease to exist and the lack of gravity, from wherever you landed, would make you float. The warmth of those brown eyes was home. Wherever you ended up, you wanted to feel that similar warmth.

“Talk to me,” he pleaded softly. “What’s wrong?”

Your bottom lip quivered. Why did he have to find you at this time? You tried to keep him out of the convoluted mess of your head and heart and yet, here he was. He stood in front of you like the savior you’d been praying for, but now it was too late.

The flip in your head was made. It was time for you to go. This world wasn’t meant for someone like you. You opted to roll the dice, spin the wheel, and pull the slots. You’d take your chances in the next life.

“Nothing,” you hoarsely uttered. “I’m just having one of those nights, you know?”

You were way too calm about this. He watched how frantic you were when he first rounded the corner. Your eyes looked around desperately, like you were searching for something that wasn’t there.

“Why are you lying to me?”

His voice was a sweet honey and you desperately wanted to free fall. You wanted to melt into the floor and never exist again. You couldn’t stay near Felix for too long. He’d give you another reason to stay.

“I-I should go to bed. You’re in your pajamas, you should go get some sleep.”

His head shook and his messy blonde hair shook with his head. “No way. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what’s going on with you.”

Your mouth opened, but words didn’t come out. How were you to truly explain this weight in your heart? How could you bare the shell of this body? If you admitted it all, would he call you selfish? Would he break off this friendship and leave you alone forever?

“Felix,” you weakly got out. Fresh tears blurred your vision. You reached out to his stomach and gripped the front of his hoodie.

“What is it?”

“I-”

“You can tell me and I promise, I won’t judge you.”

You didn’t deserve his goodness or his grace. You didn’t deserve this warmth and this sunshine. This savior should have stayed in bed and let your plans unravel, but here he was. You’d been praying for a miracle, for some reason to stay, and here it was, but it made your heart hurt. You were just so tired.

“I want to kill myself.”

His eyes locked onto yours and for a brief moment, silence buzzed between the two of you. You held your breath waiting for a response and he couldn’t breathe. You didn’t have time to react as he jerked you into his arms.

He pressed your head against his shoulder and you gasped. His arms squeezed around you and created a cage of love. “You’re not leaving my sight.”

“Felix,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to speak right now. We’ll go back to my apartment and I think I have your mom’s phone number. I’ll call your mom and I-”

“You can’t!” You jerked away in a panic. Your eyes were wide as you stared at him. “I don’t want to make this a big deal. She’s sleeping right now and-”

“I have to.”

Your head jerked and you tried to shove him away. He caught your hand and squeezed it tight. “Let go of me!” Your voice raised as you pulled away.

“No!”

“I’ll never forgive you!”

“I don’t care!”

“Felix, let go! I’ll stop being your friend! Don’t call her!” More tears filled your eyes. “Please, don’t call her.”

“I’ll call your mom. I’ll call your dad. I’ll call your siblings and I’ll call the cops.”

“You’ll lose me,” you weakly threatened. “I’ll never forgive you and I’ll hate you forever.”

His own tears fell from his cheeks. “Then lose me. Never talk to me again, I don’t care. As long as it means you’re still alive, I don’t care. I’ll lose you either way, just don’t give up on life.” “I’d rather deal with the weight of losing you that way than the weight of writing your obituary. The world doesn’t need me to describe how good you are when it flows from you naturally. Please. Think this through for me.”

You hated him so deeply right then and there. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to swing and shake him. Didn’t he understand what he was doing? He was purposefully making you a burden now. Your internalized hatred of yourself would become everyone’s reality. You truly would be a problem now.

“I know you’re struggling and it’s true, I don’t know how much you’re struggling. The future must seem fickle now, but I won’t give up on you. You deserve the future that you talked about months ago and I won’t stand by and let you rip that chance from your own hands.”

“I will call whoever and I will scream at the top of my lungs to grab the attention of our neighbors. Not because I want to embarrass you, but because I love you. I won’t stop loving you, even if I have to stand here holding you and repeat the words for the rest of the night.”

“Please,” he pleaded, “just give it one more day and trust me. I will find a way to help you. Don’t let whatever demons you’re fighting win.”

It didn’t matter that your neighbors were sleeping. It didn’t matter that you were out in the open. The sobs you had been hellbent on suppressing finally slipped out. Your knees buckled and he slung you against his body.

Your head curled into his body and your shoulders shook. His arms squeezed you and he pressed your head against his chest. The heavy thump of his heartbeat made you cry harder.

Every organ inside of you was alive and every day, they fought to keep you alive. Memories were created from the people around you. Even when things got tough for others, how many times had you dropped your issues and been there when you were needed?

You hadn’t met all the people you were destined to meet yet. Still so young, you had so much time left. So many seasons to enjoy and so many new hobbies to try. Unreleased songs and new movies that you’d love.

Things don’t always last forever and neither would this discouragement and hopelessness. One day, you might be teetering on the edge of ending it all, but the future version of yourself sits on a couch at ease. They’re staring outside, drinking their favorite drink, and contentedly watching the bright yellows, blinding oranges, and soft pinks disappear as the sun goes down.

The night will not unveil the horrors in your head and it will not be feared. It will bring new adventures and the reminder that the sun will shine again. The people you love will be by your side. You’ll find new reasons to fall in love with the world around you. A bad day will just be a bad day and not stain your life worthless forever.

As Felix gripped you, he uttered a silent prayer. Whatever was out there, whether it was merely his own subconscious or a god, it helped him save you. He’d call your family and he’d find you help.

For one more day, you’d continue living, but this time, you wouldn’t be carrying the weight of your sadness and hurt alone.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lina-linny @straykidsstanforeverandever @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy

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#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids drabbles #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz #skz comfort #lee felix #lee felix fanfic #leefelixcomfort #lee felix x reader #lee felix x you #lee felix x y/n

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equallyshaw · 2 months ago

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the space between us | dr robby x reader.

im gonng break yalls heart with this one...enjoy xx

this may or may not recieve a second part lol

warnings: miscarriage. word count: 4.0k

Robby walked into the cabin—one that had been in his family for years—for the first time in months. This used to be the place you two sought refuge in. But lately, it seemed to be one thing after another with Robby. breaking your heart.

He found you now, for the first time in a month, wrapped in one of the wool blankets. Your feet were curled beneath you, a book pressed against your chest. Your tortoise-shell glasses sagged off your nose. You looked peaceful. Calm. Collected. So unlike the last time he'd seen you—back in Pittsburgh. You’d had one of the worst fights in your history together. After the shooting at PittFest, he’d grown distant—more so than usual. With that distance came your frustration, rising quickly. But you'd vowed never to end up like your parents—letting everything fester until it all dissolved into silence and divorce. You wouldn’t let that happen.

Robby set his weekend bag down softly beside the couch. As quietly as he could, he plucked the book from your chest and slipped the bookmark back in. He slid your glasses off, then the blanket, placing them gently beside you. Then, slowly, he picked you up—hoping not to disturb you.

But you were never the deepest sleeper. Especially not since that night a month ago.

You groaned, your body sensing the shift in gravity. Your brows furrowed as your eyes fluttered open. A neck. Your face was nestled into someone’s neck. It only took two seconds to recognize the familiar scent of your husband—green apple, musk, and cedarwood. The smell wrapped around you like a memory.

Robby felt the shift in your body and knew you were awake, but still said nothing as he walked the two of you up the creaky wooden stairs. You groaned again, shifting slightly, and that made you huff.

He brought you into the bedroom that looked like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie. Honestly, the whole damn house did. He pulled back the comforter and set you down gently, tucking you in. You sighed, curling toward him and clutching the pillow. Robby lingered for a moment, watching you, torn between leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and walking away. He chose the latter, turning off the lamp and quietly shutting the door behind him.

Once closed, he sighed, leaning his head against the antique wood.

Why the hell was he here? Why were you? Why had he let it go so long?

He cursed himself. He should have come out here the moment he realized where you'd gone. He should’ve listened to Dana. He should’ve been honest. But most of all, he should’ve asked you what was really going on.

Because he knew. You were hiding something.

—

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed. You sighed, knowing Robby must’ve taken one of the guest rooms.

Stretching slightly, the all-too-familiar wave of nausea hit. Stress. Trauma. Guilt. Each morning, it returned like clockwork.

You dreaded sleep, because it meant waking up to nightmares. You dreaded mornings, because it meant facing the truth.

Your eyes squeezed shut as your mind drifted to that night.

November 15th.

It was 2 a.m. when you jolted awake. Your body felt... off. Then you felt it: warm liquid, too much, coming from where it shouldn’t be. Your heart pounded as your body moved on instinct. You pulled on your robe, slippers, grabbed your phone, your keys. You couldn't think. You couldn’t let yourself think.

You drove yourself to UPMC Mercy, unable to call Robby. You couldn’t look him in the eye—not to say you were pregnant, not to say you had known for two months, and not to say you were losing the only viable pregnancy in your six-year marriage.

The emergency room was almost empty, thank God. You waddled up to the desk, told them, "I'm having a miscarriage." They moved quickly. A doctor confirmed it shortly after. A woman. Gentle. Understanding. She sat with you, grieved with you, offered her hand and her comfort. She had been through it too.

"Do you want to call your husband?" she asked softly.

You shook your head. "He’s working," you whispered.

Instead, you called your sister. She came quickly, held you as you sobbed, brought you home. Robby had a double shift that night, anyway.

You cried for hours, screaming at the ceiling, begging the universe to explain what you did wrong. You stared at your wedding ring and wondered: Would it still be worth it to him—after this? Would you still be?

—

Present day.

You shot up from the bed and darted into the marble-tiled bathroom. The sound of the toilet seat clanging echoed through the house. You threw up—painful, bowlfuls of bile. Robby, who hadn’t slept, was on his feet in seconds. He pulled back your hair as you heaved.

Twenty seconds. Then it was over. You sagged to the floor, groaning.

He handed you some toilet paper, and you wiped your face in silence before flushing. Then you lowered yourself onto the cool tile floor, cheek pressed against it, your arms instinctively cradling your stomach.

Robby stood frozen. Alarmed. Confused. Horrified. What the hell was happening?

Then it hit him. You must be pregnant.

But the night before, he hadn’t felt a change in your weight. No bump. No signs. Nothing in the cabin that hinted at it.

He started to spiral.

“Stop overthinking,” you mumbled, voice shaky, eyes still closed.

He kneeled beside you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. One eye opened—just a sliver—but enough to stop him. He froze, then backed off.

You checked the time: 7:58 a.m. Shit. You had work.

The nausea lingered, but you dragged yourself to your feet. Robby watched silently, helplessly. He couldn’t find an answer. Couldn’t figure out what this was—beyond pregnancy. But even that didn’t add up.

You shut the bathroom door without a word—like he hadn’t once known every inch of you. Like he hadn’t once been allowed in.

With a sigh, he headed downstairs to make coffee.

You dressed in quiet haste—pulling on a long-sleeve sweater, leggings, and wool socks. January in Pittsburgh was merciless, more so out here in the woods. You shot off a quick text to your boss, apologizing for running late. They waved it off.

You rushed down the stairs, claw clip half-done, and ducked into your office. Robby heard the familiar clatter of the door shutting, signaling another wall between you.

He sat with the coffee, staring at it.

Running through the last six months. Then the last three. Then that fight. He couldn’t make sense of it.

Your reaction. The screaming. It wasn’t like you.

Not toward him.

After ten years, he knew you. He knew every tell, every quirk. He knew when you were lying. Knew when something was off.

And right now? Everything was off.

Pitt Fest. He remembered the way you clung to him when he finally came home. You were overwhelmed by the fact that Robby hadn’t messaged you—nothing at all. He’d gone radio silent, which was understandable... but it still terrified you.

For whatever reason, your mind convinced itself that he’d changed his mind that morning—while you were fast asleep—and had gone to Pitt Fest with Jake instead.

That’s why they hadn’t responded. That’s why he hadn’t texted.

You held onto him like you couldn’t bear the idea of letting go, and you hated when he had to leave the next day.

Guilt seeped into Robby now, as he remembered.

It dawned on him—his distance had caused a fracture in your marriage. A fracture that was growing. And it absolutely killed him.

He was pulled from his thoughts when he heard your voice floating up from the first floor, your laugh contagious as you greeted the new hire with warmth and charm.

A small smile tugged at his lips. Warmth fluttered in his chest.

God, how could he be so dumb?

How did he miss the signs?

His distance hadn’t just affected your relationship—it had changed you. And now, it felt like a knife twisting in his chest, over and over again.

—

Rob had kept himself busy all day, giving you the quiet you needed as you worked through meetings, phone calls, and emails.

When the clock on your screen finally turned to 5:00 p.m., you stretched, arms over your head, relieved to be done for the day. You thought about how Rob had been in the house all day, yet you’d barely noticed. He’d kept to himself—projects, cleaning, fixing things. Almost like he wasn’t there at all.

You picked up your Yeti, your used coffee cup, and your glasses, then stepped into the hallway, adjusting the runner rug before heading into the kitchen.

You were surprised to see Rob at the stove. He never cooked. Not that he was bad at it—you just always gravitated toward it first.

He sensed your presence and turned slightly, offering a small, soft smile before turning back to the stir fry he was making.

You swallowed nervously, walking toward the sink across from him. You stepped sideways, filling your Yeti with ice and water, trying to ignore the heaviness between you.

Rob said nothing—just waited silently, his posture saying he was willing to wait forever if it meant you might speak.

When you didn’t, he turned again, voice quiet. “Dinner should be ready in about five.”

You nodded, lowering your Yeti.

But as you glanced toward the stove, you felt it—again.

It rushed through you like a tidal wave, all over again.

You set your thermos down with a loud clunk and bolted down the hall toward the powder room.

Dropping to your knees, you heaved again. It always came when you weren’t focused on anything else—like your body was waiting to remind you. To force you to remember.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as the flashbacks began. The guilt. The anger. The heartbreak.

Why? Why was the universe so cruel?

You didn’t hear Robby’s footsteps, didn’t realize he was there until he was beside you, pulling your hair gently out of your face again. And this time, you let him.

His quiet kindness wrapped around you like a blanket.

Even in sickness and in health, you thought.

You sniffled as the nausea ebbed. Gripping your temples, you sobbed—hard.

Rob watched you fall apart, and pulled you into his chest.

You melted into his arms as he wrapped them around you.

The familiar weight of him, the way his chest felt like home—it steadied you, just a little.

Robby’s heart shattered. The way your body responded to everything that had happened—the pain, the trauma—it broke him.

And he hadn’t been there.

"I’ve got you—it’s okay," he whispered, over and over.

But it didn’t help.

You shook your head and pushed yourself off of him.

You couldn’t let yourself get pulled back in. Not again. Not only to end up worse.

He softly said your name.

Like saying it too loudly might break you. Might break both of you.

You shook your head and stood up.

In silence, you turned to the mirror, cupped your hand under the faucet, rinsed your mouth, and spit.

Without a word, you walked out and back into the kitchen.

You made your way to the butler pantry, eyes scanning the wine bottles until one caught your attention.

You grabbed it—and turned to see Rob standing in the doorway.

"Can you please?" you asked, your voice cracking.

So small. So tired.

You looked up into his eyes—full of concern, full of questions.

"Please. Move. Michael," you said again, this time with sharpness.

You never used his first name.

Not even when you were angry. You always used your shared last name.

But never Michael.

He stared, realization slowly washing over him.

You were hurting deeper than he thought.

“What’s going on?” he asked gently, your name falling from his lips like nothing had changed.

You shook your head. "I don’t want to talk about it."

"Why?" he asked, hands now on his hips.

You sighed, rolled your eyes. “Because I don’t want to fight.”

"I don’t want to go through what happened last time. Not again." Your voice darkened.

Rob stepped back, startled.

Your tone. Your stance. Your fire. It wasn’t like you.

"Please, honey, talk to me." He pleaded.

But you just shook your head.

If you told him the truth, you were convinced he’d leave you. No hesitation. No second thought.

He stepped aside and let you pass.

He watched you walk by, his chest aching.

“If you—if you won’t open up to me,” he said, your name laced with pain, “I... I have no choice but to leave. To go home. I can’t talk to a brick wall. I can’t keep begging—”

"Brick wall?" you interrupted, low and dangerous.

When he didn’t answer, your voice rose. “Brick wall?!”

Anger and disbelief danced across your face.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t even fucking start.”

You turned away, opening the cabinet to grab a wine glass.

Robby watched your shaking hands, your trembling lips. The crease of your brow. The silent words mumbled under your breath. The way your whole body quivered.

You groaned as the bottle refused to open, pressing it to your chest with a whimper of frustration.

Robby stepped forward and gently took it from your hands.

“No! Give it back!” you demanded, reaching—but he held it out of reach.

“Not until you talk to me.”

You growled. “Incredible.”

His brow lifted, teasing.

“I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. To. You.”

Still, he didn’t budge.

“If you must know—call my sister.” You said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t everything.

His brows furrowed, but before he could ask, you turned away.

He called after you, but you kept walking.

If he wasn’t going to let you drink, you were going to sleep.

He grabbed your arm, gently but firmly, and you froze.

He said your name again, softly.

“I don’t want to talk to your sister. I want to talk to you. I want you.”

You sighed, pinched the bridge of your nose. Bit the inside of your cheek. Ran your hands through your hair.

Tears burned in your eyes.

This is what you wanted, right?

You wanted him to fight. To beg. To try.

Robby saw something shift in you—a deep pain cutting through your features.

Robby sensed, then saw, deep pain wash over your features. Your forehead creased in thought.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen this way," you began, your eyes closing momentarily. You reopened them and met Robby’s gaze. "This—none of this was supposed to happen, if it’d worked out," you whispered softly, barely audible. If Robby hadn’t been paying close attention, he wouldn’t have heard.

"It was never supposed to be like this," you repeated, a tear slipping down your face. Robby immediately, without hesitation, wiped it away, but like clockwork, he pulled his hand back.

You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself.

"I don’t want to talk to a brick wall, Michael. I want you to respond to me, to hear me out. Listen to me. And—and actually try to change, to work on things, to attempt to make things better. Because if you don’t—" you paused, your voice trembling, "I can’t be the one to stay. I can’t keep trying to keep you together when at times, it seems like you don’t want to be. You seem to want to let whatever happened pull you under and break you apart." You paused, gauging his reaction. All he gave was a stoic response.

But inside, your words were beginning to hit something.

"You allowed me to leave, Michael. You didn’t even come after me! You went a month in silence! How do you think that makes me feel as a wife?" You screamed at him, just like you had the night you two fought.

But this time, you weren’t concerned with the end response. If he walked out, that would be the last time he walked out of your life.

You shook your head, pointing to your chest. "You didn’t fight. You haven’t fought in months. You haven’t even tried a little bit to fix our marriage. I—I cannot be in a loveless marriage, one that doesn’t have communication. I will not be a doormat and allow you to walk in and out of my life as you please. I love myself too much," you confessed, adamant, filled with anger.

Robby stood there, taken aback. But he knew there was more still buried deep below the surface. He looked down at the wooden floor beneath you, shaking his head, emotions threatening to creep up. His mind flashed back to the aftermath of Pittfest. He clasped his eyes shut, trying to shake that image.

"It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Wasn’t supposed to happen," he began, eyes closed, emotion thick in his throat.

"This wasn’t supposed to happen, babe," he said, reopening his eyes and meeting your gaze.

"But you let it," you replied without hesitation. He deserved that.

"I know I blocked you out after Pittfest. I know I pushed you away, keeping you in the dark and going silent. You didn’t deserve that. Not for one minute," he confessed, biting the inside of his cheek.

"That’s something I’ll have to live with. You weren’t the only one traumatized that day, and you didn’t deserve how I acted afterward. I’m sorry for that. Truly, deeply. I am," he said, and you hated the way your heart broke for him. For both of you.

"But you shouldn’t have left that morning," he added quickly, and you cocked your head to the side. What the hell is he on now?

"Why? Why did you yell at me the way you did? Why did you scream at me, as if you were trying to break me?" he questioned, and you tore your gaze away from him.

With just a shake of your head, you replied, "I don’t want to talk about it," before walking past him and back into the kitchen. You made your way to the kitchen island, which steadied you just a bit.

"You wanted to break me. Why?" Robby asked from the doorway.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the ceiling, a dark chuckle escaping your lips. It quickly turned into sobs.

Robby, without hesitation, made his way over and pulled you into his arms. And once again, you melted into them.

You melted into what you considered to be home.

"I wanted you to hurt the way I was hurting," you began between sobs.

His eyebrows furrowed at your words, but you continued, "I wanted you to feel a bit of what I was feeling inside. The pain and turmoil."

You hated the way you treated him, how you took your pain out on him. Even with how he acted before, it still hurt. You weren’t that type of person. Robby knew that, of course.

"It was so much more than what was going on between us. So much more," you began, but paused. Fear crept in. Your gut was on high alert. If you told him, he’d leave.

Robby stilled, waiting on pins and needles for what would come next.

With a soft whimper, you confessed, "I had a miscarriage." The months-long secret finally off your chest, and with it, your knees gave out.

Robby didn’t have a chance to process the words before you were falling, and he went right with you.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen," you said through broken sobs.

"When?" Robby asked softly, lifting your chin to speak, searching your eyes for any clue.

"November," you stated. One month ago.

His heart broke. You had carried that alone all this time.

"When? How? What happened?" More questions flooded his mind.

"Softly," you began, "You were working a double on the 15th. I was sleeping, and at 2 a.m., I woke up." You continued, as if it was nothing spectacular. "I woke up and felt the blood, and I knew. I didn’t need a doctor’s confirmation. I was two months along. I went to the ER," you said, but he cut you off.

"But I would have seen you," he said, confused.

Why hadn’t he seen you? Why hadn’t anyone notified him?

You sighed heavily, "I didn’t go to PTMH. I—I went to UPMC Mercy." You sobbed into his chest, and he watched from above, stunned.

You had chosen a different hospital. You chose a complete stranger over Jack or anyone at Pitt.

His face shifted from confusion to realization, and a soft, subtle understanding washed over him. He didn’t know what to say or how to say what he wanted properly.

"Why didn’t you come see us? See me?" he asked, as if it wasn’t understood.

You sniffled, "Because I couldn’t bear to look up and see your disappointed gaze. I couldn’t put myself through another heartbreak that evening. I couldn’t put myself through more disappointment," you confessed, the weight of your words hitting him.

"You didn’t trust me enough to respond in any other way? You believed I would have been disappointed?" he questioned, looking down at you. You nodded.

"I was terrified to look you in the eye and tell you that our first viable fetus had failed. I was already a failure to myself, and I couldn’t be one to you. I couldn’t handle it. That was it," you explained, trying to make him understand. It wasn’t that you didn’t want Jack or anyone else to care for you, it was that the look on your husband’s face would have been too much.

"I was only two months along, Michael. For the first time in our marriage, I had fallen pregnant. And all I wanted to do was keep them safe and healthy, and I couldn’t even do that. I’ve failed you, and I’ve failed myself," you said shakily.

Robby lifted your chin once more. "No. You are not a disappointment. You weren’t then, and you most certainly aren’t now." He tried so hard to get you to believe those words.

It all made sense now. The fight. The silence. The walking on eggshells. And most importantly, the vomiting now.

He couldn’t imagine the pain, guilt, and trauma your body had gone through. That killed him. Absolutely wrecked him.

"You have never been a disappointment, my love," he said, searching your eyes.

"We can always try again. We can find another doctor. We can adopt. We can—" you cut him off with a shake of your head.

"I’m exhausted from trying. I’m exhausted from getting opinions, Michael. I—I think I’m done," you paused as you sobbed.

You’d never said those words out loud before, but they’d been in your mind.

Your husband held you close, trying to comfort you and silence your cries. He so desperately wished he could take away your pain, your anger, your disappointment, your guilt—all of it.

"I’m so sorry," you choked, and Robby shook his head.

"No," he spoke softly. "Don’t be sorry. I could never be upset over this." He cried.

"This isn’t and will never be your fault," he comforted.

You felt lighter with the words spoken, the emotions finally released. Robby held you for another hour, and by the time he heard soft snores beneath him, he smiled softly.

He slowly picked you up, just like the night before, and carried you upstairs. He set you down on the cream-colored bed, pulled the comforter over you, and turned off the light on the nightstand. Before he could turn around, you reached out and grabbed his hand.

Without opening your eyes, you spoke: "Stay."

And Robby did.

He’d never need to be told twice.

He pulled you in, as if his life depended on it. He pulled you in, as if he’d never get the opportunity again.

You snuggled into his chest, your eyes fluttering closed.

Robby gazed down at you, through the moonlight peeking through.

"I love you," you whispered, filled with hope.

Robby smiled, as if this was the second best day of his life—outside of your wedding day.

"And I love you more," he kissed you with passion and adoration, as if he’d never, ever get enough of it.

sooooo, that happened. hope you enjoyed if you survived! please comment, like and reblog if you did -- the support would be amazing xx

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