#what would’ve changed if he hadn’t gone back for it

[societyfolklore]

Dangerous Notes – Part 16

Title: Dangerous Notes – Part 16

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agreeing to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club, The Armoury, Reader finds herself thrust into a world of old-world glamour and unknown danger. The club’s enigmatic owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making her a permanent fixture on his stage-and in his life.

Chapter Summary: It’s Monday, and you can’t put it off any longer – time to return to your life.  

Word Count:  3.7K

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI,Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually), Emotional manipulation / subtle coercion, Mob activity,   Chapter Warnings:  Nothing! Just feelings and change. Frank stops being a dick but that’s not really a warning… Maybe my dumb ass writing skills atm… yeah I’m going there.. sorry if this feels off..I feel off..

A/N: Dangerous Note is updated Thursday – On a biweekly schedule.  Please be kind, I started my new job this week and my creative brain is crashing out.

You woke early. Not out of obligation, or even habit, but because sleep had never really come. Just a heavy kind of waiting, a suspension in time that left your body restless even when your thoughts had already worn themselves out.

Your apartment was quiet in that not-peaceful way, the kind of quiet where the hum of the fridge felt louder than it should've, and even the pipes seemed hesitant to breathe. Every creak or clink sent your nerves on edge. You lay in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling. Listening for something. A buzz. A ding. Some kind of message. Nothing came.

You rolled onto your side and reached for your phone anyway, already knowing what you’d see. Still nothing. Still him, not reaching out. Not even to say he wouldn’t be. A weight you hadn’t expected settled in your chest.

Only a few days ago, his silence would’ve been a relief. A reprieve. Now it settled like a stone. Unexpected. Sharp. You hadn’t realized how much space he’d taken up until it was empty.

You sat up, pushing the blankets off and rubbing your face like you could scrub the uncertainty from your skin. Today was Monday. You had a job. A real job. One you’d trained for, worked for, a steady beat in a life that now felt out of rhythm. And yet, as your feet hit the floor, you couldn’t shake the sense that the ground had shifted, just slightly, just enough to tilt everything. It wasn’t vertigo. It was something worse- subtle and invisible.

It had only been a week you'd taken off teaching, ten days since Kara had called in sick for you. But in that time, you’d slipped through some unseen doorway. Into a world where music felt like lifeline instead of hobby. Into a place built of shadows and stage lights, power and unpredictability. You’d stood on stages and in backrooms, threading yourself between silences and sidelong glances, pulled further in without quite realizing how far you’d gone. Even now, it felt like the air you were breathing belonged to someone else.

Now it was time to return to normal, or the version of it everyone else believed in. Time to step back into a role you weren’t sure still fit. You told yourself to just focus on being the person everyone thought you were. Smile at colleagues. Grade papers. Keep your head down. Pretend nothing had shifted. Pretend.

You dressed slowly, staring at your wardrobe longer than necessary. The silver bracelet stayed in its box. Too fancy for where you were headed. Too connected to things you didn’t want to unpack yet. You didn’t even reach for it. Instead, you chose a different pair of earrings, something simple, understated, familiar. A little anchor to a version of you that still made sense, or tried to. There was comfort in the routine. A steadiness. But it rang a little hollow.

Pulling on your coat, you caught your reflection in the hallway mirror. The woman staring back looked tired. Guarded. Like someone who had half-remembered dreams stuck to her ribs. Someone still trying to walk through a door that had already closed behind her.

The bus ride was a blur of elbows, bags, and damp jackets. You sat wedged between a woman in a green raincoat and a teenager with music leaking out of his headphones. The windows were streaked with rain, grey clouds pressing down on the city like a lid. The air smelled faintly of wet concrete, forgotten umbrellas, and someone else’s headache. The normalcy of it all felt staged. Like stepping into a version of your life that had been left on pause.

You checked your phone three more times before you got to the school gates. Still nothing. Still silence.

And yet... you weren’t surprised. Not really.

~#~#~#~#~#~

It felt surreal. Like stepping back into a dream you weren’t sure you’d ever really woken up from. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, a background hum that now sounded almost intrusive. The classroom smelled like whiteboard markers, cheap cleaning spray, and that stubborn hint of chalk dust that lingered like muscle memory from older times. Everything felt oversaturated by routine. The familiar was no longer comforting, it was cloying, clinging to your skin like static.

You stood at the front of the room, marker in hand, mid-lesson. Something about minor scales. Your fingers moved on autopilot, sketching out the circle of fifths with that familiar rhythm, like a song you used to love but hadn’t played in years. The board squeaked faintly with every curve. Around you, students scattered through their rows, some taking notes diligently, others whispering in hushed tones or slouched halfway to sleep. A few had smiled at your return this morning, and you’d smiled back. It was nice. It meant something. But it didn’t quite anchor you. Their warmth couldn’t stitch you back into place.

Everything here felt flat. Dull. Like someone had taken the color out of your world and left only the outlines. The chairs gave soft creaks every time someone shifted. The walls, always vaguely off-white, now looked more like tired bone. Even the floor tiles seemed more brittle, like they might crack if anyone stepped too hard. It was a room built for repetition, for control, for order and somehow, all of it felt foreign now.

The windows let in a washed-out light, greying the edges of everything. Even the familiar rows of music stands stacked against the wall seemed unfamiliar, like they’d been placed by someone who didn’t understand their use. This was your normal. Your everyday. But today, it felt like stepping into someone else’s memory of your life, accurate in detail, but hollow in tone.

While the students worked through textbook exercises, your eyes drifted again- to your phone, lying on your desk like a totem. No notifications. No missed calls. Just the same empty screen that had greeted you all morning. It was ridiculous to keep checking. But you still did.

You weren’t even sure what you were hoping to see. He’d never promised to check in. And yet... you kept looking.

Bucky Barnes had a way of lingering. Like smoke in fabric, or static in the air. Even now, in a room filled with teenage yawns and scuffed desks, he managed to take up space in your head. His silence wasn’t peaceful- it was pressing. Like waiting for a second shoe to drop.

You caught yourself thinking about what he might be doing now. Was he in his office? Surrounded by paperwork or people who didn’t need to know how close he'd come to showing you another side of him? Was he pacing, calculating? What did his quiet mean? And why did it matter to you?

You clenched the marker a little tighter and forced your legs to move, stepping between rows, scanning worksheets. You asked a question or two, gave a nod to a student who needed clarification. You moved through the routine.

But the image from last night refused to leave. Him in your dressing room, dressed down and looser around the edges, his voice softer, more worn than you’d ever heard. The sharpness had been gone. Replaced with something heavier. A man under strain, yes, but human, somehow. Vulnerable in the seams.

You rubbed at your temple, trying to dislodge the thought. This wasn’t the place.

And yet, the contrast was too sharp to ignore. Here you were surrounded by predictable chaos, snapped pencils, mumbled questions, over-worn lesson plans and still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were missing something. That you’d left part of yourself behind in that smoky, golden den of secrets and shadows.

The buzzing lights made your headache bloom again. The scent of stale hand sanitizer and dry-erase marker ink clung to your sleeves. You breathed in, slow and shallow. Everything here was controlled, precise, designed to contain and direct. But you didn’t feel contained. You felt like you might slip right through the cracks, dissolve into the gaps between these two realities.

The distance between your two worlds hadn’t shrunk. But it had become more visible. More impossible to ignore.

The students kept playing scales, scratching notes. You stood still at the front of the room, staring at your phone like it might explain the ache in your chest. A different kind of silence now, one that hummed between your ribs.

And when you turned back to the whiteboard, your fingers lingered longer than necessary on the marker’s cap. Like you weren’t quite ready to let go of the silence.

Because part of you was still somewhere else entirely. Caught in smoke and velvet shadows, listening for footsteps that never came.

You spotted him the moment you pushed open the staffroom door, Frank, in his usual corner, halfway through a ham and cheese sandwich that looked like it had been flattened by his own briefcase. He glanced up mid-bite, his expression unreadable for a second longer than felt casual. There was a beat, a long one. Enough for your stomach to tighten and your pulse to skip.

Your last encounter had ended in slammed doors and sharp words, Frank storming out, coat clenched in his fists, his voice still lingering like smoke in your hallway. The guilt from that night had settled heavy in your chest, clinging like the stale scent of unresolved tension. Coming in today, you'd half expected a wall of silence, maybe a clipped nod. Or worse, the slow shuffle of someone avoiding your eyes entirely.

Frank blinked at you mid-chew, then calmly set the sandwich down and dusted crumbs from his fingers. His gaze lingered, unreadable, but not unfriendly. Then, with a casual wave of his sandwich hand, he motioned to the empty seat across from him. Like nothing had happened. Like you were still good. Like the gap hadn’t grown teeth. Like maybe he was offering you a bridge back, instead of making you build one alone.

It was enough to let your shoulders drop a fraction, though the knot in your chest held firm, tangled in everything unsaid, everything you still weren’t sure you could explain. You hovered for a breath, then crossed the room with your tea, your steps slower than usual, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Still, it was a start and maybe that was enough.

Frank swallowed his bite and leaned back in his chair, watching you settle in. "Glad to see you're back," he muttered, not quite meeting your gaze. "Mondays aren't the same without someone else who hates 'em as much as I do. Got sick of being the only one complaining about cafeteria coffee."

You let out a small huff of amusement, grateful for the olive branch, even if it came wrapped in sarcasm. It was familiar. Frank, in his way, was trying. That meant something.

You let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh, sliding into the seat across from him. "I missed the gourmet offerings," you joked, nodding toward his sandwich. "That from the vending machine or your own sad hands?"

"Bit of both," he replied, glancing down like he wasn’t quite sure himself. "Tried to make a proper lunch, forgot it on the counter. This one’s the backup plan."

The tension ebbed just a little more, smoothed by the easy back-and-forth. It was small talk, familiar rhythms, the kind that softened the edges of the last time you'd spoken like static smoothing out into music.

Frank wiped his hands on a napkin, cleared his throat. "Listen. I was a bit of an asshole. I know that."

You blinked, surprised at the directness, your tea pausing halfway to your lips.

"When Mary left for college, I guess I- I don’t know. Felt weird. Quiet, you know? And then you started pulling away too and… I panicked a bit. Not proud of that. Felt like things were shifting and I didn’t know how to stop it."

He shook his head and gave a lopsided shrug, eyes scanning the scratched surface of the table like it might offer him better words.

"I felt protective. Thought something was up. Didn't like not knowing. I overstepped. I'm not good at... all that. Feelings. Boundaries. Whatever. And it’s not your job to explain your life to me, I know that."

You nodded slowly, but didn’t speak. Let him find his footing.

"I know I shouldn’t have pushed," Frank added, his voice quieter now. His eyes flicked away like he hadn’t meant to say that part out loud. "Just… you’re one of the good ones. Didn’t want to see you get burned. Seen it happen too many times. Sometimes you spot the fire before someone else even smells smoke, and you wanna shout, but it just comes out wrong."

Then, true to form, he waved a hand like brushing it all away. "Anyway."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm, like steam off a mug. Forgiveness didn’t need to be said out loud when it already hung between you in the quiet.

You didn’t talk about the Armory. Or the man who hadn’t messaged you all day. Instead, you shifted the spotlight, craving something simpler, safer, something that didn’t come with shadows attached.

"How’s Mary doing?"

Frank’s face lit up like a streetlamp flickering to life after dusk. "She’s good. Sent me a picture of her dorm, god the mess, I nearly had a stroke. Roommate’s some theater kid who sleeps with a stuffed llama."

You laughed, a soft, surprised sound that seemed to loosen the muscles in your face. It felt real. It felt good.

"She made a few friends already. One of ‘em’s even from our side of the bridge. Queens kid. Smart one, too. Says he’s helping her figure out calc."

"Of course she did. Mary could charm the paint off the walls."

Frank grinned wider, a mix of pride and something else…nostalgia, maybe. Or a quiet ache he didn’t say out loud. "Yeah. She’s gonna be alright. She’s got that thing- you know, walks into a room and makes it hers. Like someone rewrote the energy just to suit her."

You smiled and nodded, the warmth in your chest growing. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed this kind of conversation. Something light. Something hopeful.

You sipped your tea, letting the calm settle in like warmth under your skin. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and Frank chewed thoughtfully, elbow on the table.

"She says college is harder than she thought, but she likes it. Sent me a picture of some play she went to, something avant-garde, couldn’t make heads or tails of it. But she looked happy. That’s the important part."

For a moment, it was just a ham sandwich, a tired friend, and stories about a bright kid making her way. For a moment, you got to believe the world was still soft in places.

After work, you made a detour to the grocery store. Your basket was a deliberate exercise in restraint: pasta, tinned tomatoes, a small packet of mince, onions, and some herbs. Your one indulgence sat nestled in the corner, a bottle of wine, nothing fancy, just something that felt like a tiny reward for surviving the return to your old life. And what a week it had been.  But now you have a week of dizzying contrasts, from darkened clubs and backstage whispers to lesson plans and the hum of fluorescent lights. You’d crossed a threshold and come back again- changed, maybe, or at least shaken enough to feel it. The wine wasn’t celebration. It was a marker. A soft acknowledgment that you’d made it through the storm and stepped back into the shallow waters of normal. You’d have to find a way to juggle both now, grading papers and dodging glances, rehearsals and morning bus rides. Maybe not forever. But for now.

Back home, you slipped off your shoes and changed out of your work clothes. At least home still felt like home. You lit a candle, the smell of jasmine and cedarwood filling the space around the flame quickly. You tried to exhale whatever tension you hadn’t managed to shake since stepping off the bus.

You didn’t think about the bracelet. Or the man who gave it to you. Not deliberately.

Cooking came easier. Bolognese was muscle memory. Garlic sizzling. Onion turning translucent. You didn’t even need to think. It was comforting in that way, the same way scales used to be when your brain couldn’t handle anything else. It grounded you.

You stirred, sipping your wine. One glass. Just the one. You still had lesson plans to review. Papers to mark.

"I’m fine," you said to the empty apartment. "Back. Normal. Fine."

Though you weren’t looking forward to having to juggle teaching and performances, it wasn’t going to be forever. Just a little longer. Just until you figured out what came next. 

Your phone buzzed just as you were ladling the sauce into containers. Kara’s name lit up the screen. You stared at it for a second too long. Guilt already bloomed like bruises along your ribs- sharp and fast, layered beneath everything else you were trying to hold upright.

You hadn’t checked in. You hadn’t called. And despite what Yelena and Pietro had said, that Kara truly didn’t know, that she hadn’t meant to drop you into the deep end- you still felt bitter. Not because she’d been careless, but because when you’d tried to speak, she hadn’t listened. She’d talked over you, joked, teased. Maybe you’d hoped she would see between the lines, would pick up on the fear beneath your words. Maybe some desperate, quiet part of you had wanted her to step in. And she hadn’t.

You answered.

"Hey Kar- "

"Hey!" Her voice burst through the speaker, bright and chirpy like she hadn’t noticed a thing wrong between you. She steamrolled past your quiet greeting, ignoring the hesitation in your tone and whatever you’d meant to say. The same old Kara- loud, delighted with her own news, and never quite tuned into the space anyone else took up. "So! I got the all-clear! Back to work tomorrow. Which means you don’t have to anymore! Isn’t that great?"

You froze. Your grip tightened around the phone, your knuckles white. Your voice caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

That was it? You were out, just like that?

"That’s… amazing," you managed, voice brittle at the edges, like glass stretched too thin. "I’m glad you’re feeling better."

"Right? OOO I can't wait to get back at it! Missed everyone SOOOO MUCH." Her voice rang out, all sunshine and exclamation points.

You tried to steady your breath. "I bet- " You started, reaching for something that felt real. "Oh, I left a few- "

"Don’t worry about your stuff, I’ll grab it tomorrow," she interrupted again, breezing past your words. "Maybe I can swing by on the weekend, we could get brunch or something?"

"Sure," you murmured, your jaw tight, like your teeth might splinter if you spoke again. You wouldn’t need your things anytime soon anyway. That thought landed heavy. Crushing.

"Well I gotta go! Got things to prepare for, calls to make! Love you, Chick!"

You swallowed. "Love you too."

You hung up with a smile in your voice and something hollow in your chest. The sauce bubbled gently behind you as you turned away from the counter, wiping your hands on a tea towel you didn’t remember grabbing.

The silence settled thick and stubborn. You weren’t sure what you'd expected- maybe some part of you thought this gig would continue, or that Barnes would call, or that the strange new rhythm of your life would stretch out longer. But Kara was better. That meant your time at The Armory was over.

The box would be packed. The performance nights were finished. No more real singing, no more stage beneath your heels, no more stolen glances in smoky light. It hit you like a quiet wave- this was it. Done. Tucked away neatly like it had never happened at all. You felt hollow, like someone had knocked the wind from your chest and replaced it with silence.

Still, you didn’t move to turn the stove off just yet. You just stood there, spoon in hand, watching the sauce simmer and feeling something in your chest contract like a fist closing around air- tight, breathless, aching for something you couldn’t name.

You poured a second glass of wine, the rich sound of it hitting the glass oddly comforting.

Just one more. You deserved that much. A small indulgence for making it through a week that had cracked the shape of your life open like a split seam. A reward for surviving the turbulence, for keeping yourself stitched together with frayed thread and shallow breath. What a week it had been- longer in emotion than any calendar could reflect.

You found yourself wandering, wineglass in hand, until you stood at the edge of your small living room, looking down at the records. They sat atop their brown paper bag by the player, still untouched, like you might taint them by indulging in what they symbolised. They were stacked too neatly, as if they held secrets. Like they might whisper something if you dared to let them play.

Outside, the traffic thinned and swelled again, a reminder of life pressing forward. You stood still, caught between what you’d known and what you couldn’t quite name. The records called to you like ghosts waiting to be let in.

You stared out the window, chin resting in your palm, the city outside so still it felt like it was holding its breath. It was quiet. Too quiet. You hadn’t realized how loud your life had become, the vibrating tension, the subtle thrill, the noise of The Armory wrapped around every nerve- until- now, standing surrounded by the kind of stillness that used to be normal.

You filled the glass again. Turned on the record player. Let the needle fall with a soft crackle.

Music swelled, warm and familiar. You closed your eyes and let it wash over you, pretending, just for a moment, that none of it had ended. That maybe you were still someone who belonged in that other world. TAGS @mrsnikstan, @sassybearfire, @calwitch, @ruexj283, @yesiamthatwierd, @trojanaurora @hextech-bros

[chrisstvrns]

⌞given enough⌝⸝⸝

now playing: GIVEN ENOUGH: nessa barrett﹒⌗﹒

warnings: angst, breakup, i think thats it?

word count: 983

aftercare writing marathon

you stood in the doorway of his room, watching the way chris sat slumped over the edge of his bed, face buried in his hands. the soft buzz of the city outside barely filtered through the cracked window, muffled by the thick, unmoving air between you. the silence felt suffocating. not new. just… heavier this time. older. worn thin.

"i can't keep doing this," you whispered.

your voice barely carried, but it still cut through the quiet like glass.

his head snapped up. his eyes were bloodshot, tired. “what are you talking about?”

you didn’t answer right away. you couldn’t. it felt like your ribs were closing in on your lungs. you just stared at him, really looked, and god, you wished you hadn’t. his face still had all the pieces you once adored. still had the same sleepy eyes that used to look at you like you were the only thing that ever made sense. still had the lips that used to kiss your forehead just because. he still looked like the boy you fell inlove with when you were eighteen. 

but the version of him you loved wasn’t sitting on that bed anymore.

the version who stayed up late to walk you home. the one who texted to make sure you ate. the one who let you cry in the crook of his neck after your dad stopped calling.

he was long gone.

replaced by this version. distant. volatile. hot and cold depending on the day. warm only when he needed something. and you always gave it. every time. like muscle memory. like second nature. like he was home, even when he stopped feeling like it.

"you come back when you're hurt, or lonely, or pissed off at the world," you said, your voice shaking under the weight of it all. "and i let you in. every single time. but the second i need you..." you trailed off, swallowing down the lump rising in your throat, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. "you’re not there.”

chris stood slowly. ran a hand through his hair. rubbed his jaw the way he always did when he was trying not to lose his temper.

“you’re making it sound like i don’t care about you.”

your laugh came bitter. tired. "no, i'm saying you don’t show it."

he opened his mouth like he was going to protest, but nothing came. just more of that silence that had been filling the space between you for months now. that silence hurt more than anything he could’ve said. at least if he yelled, it would’ve meant he still cared enough to feel.

“i’ve bled myself dry for you, chris,” you said, stepping back like your own body couldn’t stand being near him anymore. “i’ve bent until i broke. i kept thinking if i just held on a little longer, if i just loved you hard enough, loud enough… you'd meet me halfway. you only come to me when you're hungry for something. comfort. validation. love. but you never stay to feed it back.”

he blinked. once. twice. like he was stunned you were finally saying it out loud.

you had rehearsed these words a thousand times, but they still came out trembling.“and i think… i think i’ve hit empty.”

something flickered in his expression. panic? regret? it was hard to tell. but his voice was suddenly raw, desperate. “wait, so what, you’re just walking away?”

you hesitated.

god, how you wanted to say no. to walk across the room and bury your face in his chest and pretend this could still work. pretend he’d wake up tomorrow and love you the way he used to.

“i don’t want to,” you admitted, your voice cracking. “but i’m so tired of loving someone who only loves me when it’s convenient.”

chris reached out for your hand.

and for one second, one cruel, aching second, you let him take it.

his hand was warm, familiar. and for a moment you felt yourself slip. part of you wanted him to beg. to promise. to change. to fight.

but he didn’t.

he just stood there. holding your hand. like that was enough.

and maybe it used to be.

but not anymore.

you looked at the callouses on his fingers, the faded scar on his knuckle from that time he broke a glass of water two summers ago. you used to kiss that scar. you used to trace it like it meant something.

you used to think loving someone meant staying, even when it hurt.

but now you knew better.

you pulled your hand away. slow. gentle. like it was the last fragile thing left between you.

“i need to love myself more than i love you,” you said, barely above a whisper. “becuase i really do love you. even if it kills me.”

you turned toward the hallway. the hardwood floor creaked beneath your steps. you walked quietly, like you didn’t want to wake up the version of yourself who still believed this could be fixed. every cell in your body screamed for him to stop you. to run after you. to say your name like he used to.

but he didn’t.

not this time.

and with every step, your heart broke open a little more. but there was also something else there. not relief. not yet. but something like clarity. something like peace.

and as you reached the stairs, hand braced against the wall just to keep from collapsing, you realized something so simple it hurt.

he never did.

not really.

and you had given enough.

and now, maybe, it was finally your turn to receive.

from yourself.

from someone new.

from the world.

or no one at all.

you didn’t look back. not once. because you already knew.

if he’d wanted to love you right, he would have.

but he didn’t.

and you’re done begging.

────────────୨ৎ────────────

aurora's notes: 10/15!!! five moreeeeee hehe

- aurora ᯓ✮⋆˙

likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated! ੈ✩‧₊˚

to be added to my taglist, comment on this post!

[lullxby]

hello my darling!! i am the same anon who just asked if you’re taking requests, thank you so much for getting back to me!! i’d absolutely love a niccolò x reader imagine where reader is new to collodi and niccolò finds himself intrigued by her. she’s kind of shy because italian isn’t her first language so she has a bit of an accent, but he thinks it’s cute, and finds himself wanting to be around her and know more about her, much to his friends’ surprise <3 thank you so much in advance!! i love your writing 🫶

.✦ JUST SAY YES (n.g.)

IN WHICH… a boy falls head over stubborn heels for the new girl.

W. C. : .9k

PAIRING : niccolo govender x fem!reader

A/N : thank youuuu for this request! i live laugh love writing for niccolo!!

i’m also 100% down to do a little part two with the date, just lmk!

WARNING(S) : none, no ‘y/n’ use!

| BABY MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION |

Niccolo Govender was not the type to settle, in anything. He didn’t settle for just being ‘okay,’ he didn’t settle for doing anything half-way, and he definitely didn’t settle on one girl. Even when in a relationship, he was still messing around behind his girlfriend’s back.

That was, until she came to Collodi. He had been arguing in the hallway with some girl he had hooked up with. Hannah, maybe? Anna? When he got a whiff of what felt like the sweetest thing he’d ever smelt. His eyes had darted up, finding the source almost immediately.

New students didn’t come often, especially not in the middle of the year. Definitely not looking like her. He didn’t even know her name, yet he was already smitten.

His friends watched with surprise as over the weeks he tried to sit with her, waited for her outside of class. All for the girl… to not want anything to do with him. He didn’t know if she was just shy, or if she had heard rumours about him, or what, but he was tired. He was obsessed with this girl, but whenever he tried to talk to her, she practically sprinted in the other direction.

So he kept trying. He refused to back down from the challenge that was her.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and of course, he was waiting outside the door for her. Stalker-ish? Maybe. Obsessive? Definitely. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Tell me your name,” he instructed when he saw her walk out, silently cursing himself for how blunt his voice sounded. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off… again.

His fears were put to rest when she finally, finally spoke up. Sure, it was just her name, but a win was a win in his book. Plus, her voice was just about his favorite thing he had ever heard. He swore he could listen to it a thousand times over and not get bored.

“I’m Niccolo, it’s nice to meet you.” His voice had taken on a dramatized gentleman’s tone as he stuck out his hand for her to shake. He almost withdrew it, nervous the joke hadn’t landed right.

But then that gorgeous little laugh spilled out of her lips and he almost wanted to die on the spot. He would’ve gone a happy man, anyway. He felt a grin tug at the corners of his own mouth at the sound, the tips of his ears turning red beneath his overgrown hair when her soft hand landed in his own calloused one.

Since then, they had been hanging out more and more. She had even let him join in on her little study sessions. He never got any real learning done, always getting distracted by how pretty she looked while she was concentrating.

Suddenly, he felt himself change. He didn’t know when it happened exactly, but it felt like a flip switching to the right side, or a jigsaw piece falling into place. Visions of getting married someday. A dog, kids, a white picket fence all clouded his thoughts whenever he saw her.

He hadn’t even asked her to be his girlfriend, but he wanted to. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He knew he sounded insane. It wasn’t like him at all, but something about her...

He wanted to know more about her. Correction; he wanted to know everything about her.

“Where’d you come from?” He asked out of the blue, watching as she lifted her eyes from the book, how they roamed around his face.

He started backtracking, shaking his head. “I just mean,” he had to pause to think of the right words, “You have an accent. It’s— I mean, it’s gorgeous but I can’t place where it’s from.”

And he tried. Constantly. He listened so closely to her voice, you’d think he was trying to clone her or something.

He listened to her tall, occasionally asking quetsions about her homeland. It was like a landmine— in a good way. She had been so shy, but as soon as she started talking about where she came from, she couldn’t stop.

He’d do anything to keep her talking.

Until, of course, he cut her off.

“Go on a date with me.”

He couldn’t help it, truly. She just looked so pretty. But she had gone quiet again, and for the first time in his life, he felt the need to fill the void.

“Anywhere you want, fuck, I’ll even take you to the bookstore down the road. Get’cha anything you want, just—“ spend more time with me. But he couldn’t say that, so for once in his life, he settled. He settled for a hoarse, “Please,” rather than saying everything he truly wanted to.

To his utter surprise and delight, it worked. Because she was slowly nodding her head up and down. That meant yes, right? His brain had slowed, filled with thoughts of her. Yes, he knew he needed to see more of her, outside of these pathetic study sessions. Yes.

Yes.

Yes, she was saying yes. She was saying yes, and suddenly it was like nothing else mattered in the world other than the fact that she was saying yes.

baby taglist : lmk 2 be added!

[scorchedcandy]

Day 29 - music box

[readwritealldayallnight]

“-other than that, wasn’t so bad.” Simon says, readjusting the material of the balaclava across the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His other hand is busy, keeping yours warm as you lead him down sidewalk after sidewalk.

The two of you have just finished having Sunday morning brunch at a local cafe, something you insisted was becoming ‘tradition’ after the second time it happened. And according to you, after finishing eating, (Simon never wanting to hear a word about you paying for a thing) the next part of this lazy morning routine calls for strolling about at a pace that he would normally find pointless, if not downright frustrating. But for you, he slows down.

“Butcher’s an interesting first job.” You reply, nodding along in thought. You picture a younger Simon, fresh out of school, probably fresh faced as well. He was likely as tall, though not yet as muscular as the military would make him. A meat clever in hand, bloody apron around his waist, he was likely still inadvertently intimidating people back then the way he does now. “I was mostly just taking babysitting jobs until I graduated. Liked it well enough.”

“I actually had to babysit a neighbour one time, when I was younger. Actual baby at tha’ too.” He tells you with a chuckle, slightly shaking his head at the memory.

“What?” You laugh as well, the image in your mind now swapping out the meat clever in a teenaged Simon’s grip for a drooling infant. “How did that work out?”

“Neighbour comes bangin’ on our door, she’s carryin’ the thing, it’s screamin’ its bloody little head off,” You roll your eyes at the way Simon refers to the child, swatting his arm playfully but listening on. “She tells me her husband thinks he’s havin’ a fuckin’ heart attack. None o’ the other neighbours are home or answerin’ the door. ‘Fore I know it, she’s passin’ me the kid, askin’ if mum can watch her while she drives him to the hospital. Next thing I know she’s gone and I’m left with the thing.”

“Oh my gosh! Well where was your mum?” You ask, in disbelief that you’ve never heard this story from him before, half wondering if he’s pulling your leg.

“She wasn’t home, I can tell you that! Only me and the new lil’ orphan were.” He utters, strengthening his grip on your hand as you start to hunch over with laughter.

“Okay so wait, you were home alone? Oh no! How long did you have to ‘babysit’ for?” You giggle.

“Well technically Tommy was there but he would’ve only been a hindrance, told him to stay in his room.” Simon adds, pulling his hand out of yours, only to wrap it around your shoulder, now that you’ve come to a standstill at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. “Fuckin’ nearly 4 hours went by before mum came home and took over. Longest hours o’ my life. I think that might’ve been the day I enlisted actually.”

You elbow his side as you continue to laugh, seeing that he’s teasing you at the end now. You open your mouth to tease him right back, but your eye catches sight of the shop you’ve been standing in front of, jaw dropping wider.

“Simon!” You’re pulling him with a strength he would otherwise be impressed by if he wasn’t so suddenly caught off guard, senses kicking into high alert now as his head swivels in search of the cause of your distress. “How have we never seen this before??”

Oh.

He should’ve known better.

He actually had been avoiding taking you down this street for a little while now, but had been too caught up in his story telling to notice the direction you’d taken in him. His subtle effort of wrapping his arm around you to tilt you away from the storefront obviously hadn’t worked out. He opens his mouth to answer, but can only sigh when you’re already making your way towards the entrance of the pet store.

“We’re only lookin’, right?” He asks loud enough for you to hear as he follows you in.

Wrong.

[a-mint-bear]

Comfort Object

Male Yandere x Reader

You see a really weird "job" post online, and the money seems too good to be true. But you aren't really in a position where you can turn it down...

You hope it doesn't get weird.

Parts: [ x / 2 / 3 ]

---

It was a very… concerning “job” posting.

But desperate times, and all that. 

It had shown up about a week ago, and it wasn’t hard to see why no one had taken the poster up on it as of yet. 

Bedmate Needed

● 11 pm to 6 am

● $25/hour up front

● Riverside Motel

● Room 44

● Not a sex thing

The last note seemed tacked on in a later edit, but it was still… not great.

You’d have to be either a gullible idiot or a desperate one to go for a job like this. Unfortunately, you were the latter. Very much so.

You couldn’t take another night on the street. It was getting so cold out. The promise of a warm bed was almost enough to lure you in on its own. But the money… 175 bucks just to sleep in the same bed as some internet creep?

Despite the clarification in the post, this had to be a sex thing, right?

You hadn’t gone that far, despite everything. It’s not like you hadn’t considered it… but the thought was too terrifying. Making yourself completely vulnerable to a stranger that could just decide you were less than a person and do whatever they wanted to you? You had to draw the line somewhere.

But at this point, you weren’t sure that there was a line you weren’t willing to cross anymore. 

. . .

The Motel wasn’t the seediest you’d ever seen around town but it wasn’t a place you would’ve voluntarily stayed at even two months ago. Back when you had options. 

Creepy post guy opened the door after a couple of knocks, with an awkward, pregnant pause between them. He wasn’t quite what you expected for an internet creep, but he was still a sight to see.

Really bad posture and dark, greasy-looking hair, with the darkest circles under his eyes you’d ever seen. He looked like he was about to pass out at any second, but he held it together long enough to gesture you into the room. 

“Hey…” His voice was low but he sounded nervous. And so, so tired. “You’re… You’re a little early. That’s…that’s fine. Uh, come in.”

You felt his eyes on you as you passed him, and it didn’t help your anxiousness. Not one bit. 

“Hey so, I-I really…I uh, need a shower.” He stumbled over his words with a breathy, nervous laugh. “Unless you wanna sleep next to a… fuckin’ sweaty mess all night. Do you wanna go first or…?”

You must’ve looked nervous because his eyes went wider, digging into his pocket.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to… Oh, uh…here.” He nodded, pressing the money into your hand. “Up front, just… just like I said. You just…just seemed like you maybe sorta needed one too.”

Some part of you must’ve still had an ounce of pride left because your whole body felt on fire with shame, embarrassment so consuming that you froze up. It had been a couple of days…

He just looked away, seeming like he was embarrassed himself. 

“I w-wasn’t gonna like… try to join you or peep on you or nothin’!” He tried to assure you, eyes darting in a panic and talking a bit too fast. “If I, like, go first? I won’t get mad if you change your mind and leave… I get it. I’m not gonna like… go after you or call the cops or nothin’ like that. I just…”

He stared at the floor, nails digging into his arm as he seemed like he was having trouble breathing.

“I really… I really need this.” He was so quiet, but his voice was so desperate.

You couldn’t really be considering this, could you?

He seemed more like a weird, awkward, sad guy than a real danger or some kind of pervert.

And you really did need a hot shower. 

It seemed like a safer bet to have him go first, if you were really going through with this. And it would give you a chance to look around the room for a spot to tuck away your pocket knife, just in case.

When he was in the shower, you did just that. The spot between the mattress and bed frame would be easy to grab at if things got hinky.

If things got all touchy-feely, as you suspected they would, him finding that on you or leaving it in your pocket when your clothes got tossed wherever would be really inconvenient. 

Steam rolled out of the bathroom when he stepped out, shirtless but with sweatpants and a towel around his neck. He was thin, almost alarmingly so, but you could still see muscle, enough to pose a problem should he decide to overpower you.

This was your last chance to back out, before you’d be vulnerable to this odd stranger.

But even if you left, the money wouldn’t last long, and it’s not like you had any other options. 

You were so grateful that the motel tub wasn’t disgusting, but you would’ve gotten clean regardless. Two days worth of sweat and funk was washed away and it felt so heavenly… But it was hard to relax when you were trying to stay hyper alert of any noise that could be that man trying to get in or even eavesdrop.

But…

Nothing. 

You finished your shower and brushed your teeth, doing everything you could to feel clean that a motel bathroom could provide. And there was no sign of the guy. 

But you had to go back out there eventually. You supposed you could lock yourself in here and get a full night’s sleep indoors, even if it was on the floor of a motel bathroom with your back against the door, but part of you just said “fuck it” and warily peeked around the doorway into the bedroom.

The lights in the room were dim, but warm. He was sitting on the end of the bed, one knee tucked into his chest, staring at the tv as the bright colors of a nightly talk show reflected in his eyes, but something told you he wasn’t really watching. His eyes met yours and you froze.

“It’s almost eleven…” He mumbled, his head resting awkwardly on his shoulder. His hand ghosted over the spot on the bed next to him. “… Will... will you stay?”

So many thoughts raced through your head. What would happen if you laid down beside him? You could probably deal with sex… even if it felt a bit wrong. But if he wanted to hurt you?

Your brain reminded you:

What do you really have to lose?

When you told him you would stay, sitting next to him, you could see him relax. Just a bit.

“If you still want to leave-”

But you cut him off, almost afraid he would talk you out of it after you’d made up your mind.

Avoiding his stare, you told him you had nowhere to go.

The bed was cold, it might take a bit to warm up with the two of you in it, but it was the least of your concerns at that moment. 

“So it’s...” He’d spoken up so suddenly, you hoped he didn’t see you flinch. He was staring at the ceiling, seeming just a tiny bit calmer. “... it’s fine if you just… lay there or h-hold onto me, or play on your phone or whatever, anything is fine. Just… just don’t leave ‘til mornin’. Okay?”

A worrying pause, but you told him you understood.

And that was that. He laid next to you unmoving for almost an hour before you had the nerve to move at all, shifting slowly to your side to face him.

His eyes were shut, his breathing even, but somehow you knew he was still awake. It was like he was trying to sleep but it just wasn’t coming to him. He looked so worn down, like he could just keel over any second. It definitely made him less intimidating, but you weren’t letting your guard down, no matter how much your body was screaming at you to just let go.

Despite your better judgement, you wondered if he really was being genuine about this not being a sex thing. It was a relief, sure, but it just raised more questions.

Why were you here?

. . .

You’d stopped looking at the bedside clock a while ago. It had to have been hours by then.

Your anxiety and dread somehow felt quieter under the lull of impending sleep. Despite everything, your body was at least grateful for a warm bed and hot shower, and if you didn’t sleep there now, you didn’t know when you’d be able to sleep somewhere warm any time soon. 

Every moment that ticked by, you felt your resolve slipping. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, just to let go… This whole situation was weird, but you just wanted to sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hoped against everything that he would just fall asleep.

Just this once, he didn’t want to have to follow through with it. But he was so damn tired. There was this ache behind his eyes that he could feel in his bones, his mind never stopped racing… 

He could feel your body heat in the bed next to him. You had either been very scared or very considerate, you’d only moved once since you laid down with him. 

He hated that he had to do this. He felt sorry for you, he really did. But it was drowned out by the buzzing in the back of his brain. The constant whispers in his ear. 

There had been so many before now, it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten caught. But this was a huge, dangerous city. Everyone in it was just a blip to anyone paying attention. 

He could feel their skin under his palms buzzing at the back of his brain. How their eyes stared into his, burning with betrayal, fear, helplessness. How he saw them fade away.

How it was the only thing that worked to let him finally sleep. The only thing that quieted the whispers, at least for a little bit. 

Some booked it after getting the money. Some just showed up and straight-up robbed him. Some tried to leave in the middle of the night, thinking he was asleep. But if they stayed and fell asleep, that was that.

He told himself that he gave them all a chance. 

If you managed to stay up all night, you’d be safe. But he really needed this… It was already day three, and he’d never made it past day five without completely losing it. Trying to fight this, it was too hard. The longer he stayed awake, trying to avoid what had to happen, the worse he felt. The louder the voice got. The deeper the ache in his bones. But the more often he did it, the easier it got. And that was worse in a different way. 

It was wrong. He wasn’t so deep in it that he couldn’t see that. The morning after, he always hated himself and what he did. 

But as the days went on, it would all creep back in. And doing it again felt less and less horrifying to him. 

You were scared. He could tell. And you had every reason to be, he told himself. But it just meant it would take you longer to fall asleep. 

He could wait all night. And if you made it the full seven hours, you weren’t what he needed. You’d be free from him, from this. Hopefully you wouldn’t come back, no matter how badly you needed the money.

He wondered what you meant by having nowhere to go.

But he tried not to wonder too much. It would make this harder. 

He could hear your breathing getting slower, your body relaxing into the bed. You wouldn’t last much longer. 

His eyes shot open when he felt you suddenly touch him, tucking your forehead into his shoulder. You weren’t quite asleep, a cuddler? He almost laughed to himself when half-asleep you looked a bit frustrated, like it wasn’t enough.

You muttered something about being cold, lazily scooting your body closer to him up the bed. He felt his breath catch when suddenly, his head was pulled to you, tucked into your chest as your arm circled him. He was suddenly the little spoon, but facing you. He could hear your heartbeat. 

He wanted to say something, wake you up or wriggle free to make what he had to do easier on you when you fell asleep. He felt a hand in his hair, playing with it and idle gentle nails on his scalp. 

It was… nice. Everything felt calm, the buzzing and horrible thoughts were still there but they were being drowned out by the warmth of your skin, the thump of your heart in his ear.

You were mumbling something. He held his breath, trying to hear.

You told him, or whoever you were dreaming about, maybe even no one at all, that he was okay. That he was safe. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes open. Something was different this time. He felt all his control slipping away, and for once, he wasn’t scared. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke to a sunbeam across your face, and the strange man in your arms, sound asleep. According to your phone, it was 10 am. You were grateful for the extra hours in a warm bed, but would he be mad? Did he have somewhere to be?

You couldn’t remember anything past drifting off next to him, but the two of you were tangled together, he seemed so comfortable.

Now that it was over, and your anxieties were much quieter, you really got a good look at the guy. He wasn’t… unattractive, you supposed. He was all elbows and ribs but laying against your chest made him look so soft and harmless. 

Wasn’t the worst way you’d ever made 175 bucks.

You wondered if he’d shell out the extra 100, or if that would be pushing your luck. 

Either way, it would be best to wake him up.

Gently scratching at his scalp, you told him it was getting late.

You watched as his eyes struggled to open, and for a few calm moments, he just laid against you. After a beat, he gasped and jolted up, head swiveling around the room in a panic.

“I…” He seemed really out of it, almost scared. “I actually…”

He stared at you, eyes wide. You told him it was ten in the morning, hoping everything was okay and if it wasn’t, that he wouldn’t take it out on you.

He grabbed you by the shoulders, and for a moment you were sure something bad was going to happen, but somehow, it was even worse.

He was crying.

Breaking down, sobbing hard as he just kept staring at you. Even with the odd night you’d just had, this was somehow the weirdest part. 

Despite yourself, you asked him if he was okay. He pulled himself together and you were startled again when he touched your face, his thumb gently grazing your cheek. It was tender and sweet, and it was freaking you out a little. Just a tad. 

“You… It was you…”

All you could think to ask was if you should get going, maybe trying to make it seem like you had someplace to be, or were at least trying to be considerate of his time. But it didn’t seem like he was taking the hint. 

He grabbed your hands in his, the sudden contact made you jump. He pulled them to his chest, he was too close. The way he was looking at you…

“Can we… Can we do this again? Like tonight? Please?” He was practically begging, the look in his eyes changing. That nervous, achingly tired gaze was hopeful. And so warm.

“You can have the room, if that’s what you need!” he offered, maybe somehow having picked up on your current situation. “I can pay more too. Just p-please…”

He held your palm to his cheek, staring up at you.

“I need you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a bit of a different one from me, but i kind of liked how it turned out

that feeling when your new yandere was totally gonna off you but you were just too comfy

he's never gonna let you go. you're the only thing keepin him from killing again, ya know?

i don't have a ton of yanderes that actually kill, as odd as that seems. but this guy is one of them

he's not supposed to be a huge commentary on any particular mental health conditions, i did a bit of "research" into psychosis induced insomnia (using that term VERY loosely), but like does he hear voices because he can't sleep, or can he not sleep because he hears voices? who can say? certainly not I, the dummy who made him

i wrote this one pretty much right after my last big deadline ended, but it got reworked a bit cause it just needed some tweaks:

the yandere started out as tired but crass, kind of a dick, and when he switched after that good night's sleep it felt off. It felt more interesting if he was a bit pathetic and creepy, it felt like less of a red flag for the reader to stick around

the reader was originally going to be a straight up s*x worker that got hired by the yandere for him to kill, but it didn't really feel like my place to make that commentary on violence against s*x workers or to more or less soften it with a yandere love interest. it just didn't feel right for something so unserious

but ive been having horrible writer's block lately, so i thought i'd finally put this one out. i need to read/play some yandere stuff and get inspired. let me know if you have any recommendations y'all ✌️

[ohtobeleah]

Purgatory // Jack Abbot

Part 1of2

Summary: A patient brought in with the Pittfest mass casualty event experiences a psychosis of some sort. Jack Abbot doesn’t know it but while he’s elbow deep in saving some guys bowel…you’re attacked while just trying to help.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x Nurse!reader. Violence against women. Angst/whump.mediocre medical knowledge. Hurt!reader. Established relationship. Age gap marriage. Older male x younger reader.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author Note: This guy…this fucking guy.. Truly, I could write about him for hours, if not days on end. I love him your honour.

Next Chapter

In the practice of medicine, change is inevitable. New surgical techniques are created, and procedures are updated. Levels of expertise increase. Innovation is everything. Nothing remains the same for long, and we either decide to adapt to the change…

Or we get left behind. 

“Sir,” You sighed as you tried your best to have the man in the hospital bed cooperate. “I’m just trying to–” Before you had a chance to finish your sentence, to let the man who’d been brought in during the worst mass casualty event you’d ever worked, that you were just cleaning him up a little in a low period, he was on you like a bad rash. 

“Hel–!” You tried to scream, but two large, bloodied hands wrapped themselves around your throat as the unidentified male, mid-fifties possibly, tackled you to the ground. “H–!” 

*Crack* The sound was jarring. *Crack* The back of your head was repeatedly being slammed into the laminate floor. *Crack* You couldn’t breathe. Your lungs felt like they had been set alight, burning with a deep desire to take in oxygen. 

“Get away from me!” The man yelled as he released one of the hands he had tightly gripped around your neck, only to draw it behind his head and lay a full fist of force against your nose. 

“SECURITY!” You heard Dana shout as she caught sight of the assault happening across the way. She couldn’t tell who it was under the man who’d gone rogue. But it felt too late now…

Everything was a blur. You couldn’t breathe as blood trickled down your throat. The swelling had already begun to take effect. You coughed and rolled onto your side as the man was removed from you in a flurry of blurs. You couldn’t hear the commotion going on around on, but you could see the shadows behind swollen eyes and broken skin. 

“Y/n!?” Robby was the first voice that managed to break through the perpetual ringing. He was just a shadow, mixing with the fluorescent light beaming down on you. “You’re not okay, but you’re gonna be.” You could barely make out what he was saying. If you could, you would’ve panicked at the sheer heaviness in his tone of voice. The worry, the panic that his best friend’s wife had just been attacked. 

“Someone get me Dr. Abbott!” Robbys voice echoed across the entire expanse of the Emergency Room department. Everyone heard the urgent desperation in his voice. Everyone besides Jack…who was someone across the department, elbow deep in saving some guys bowel from needing to be removed. “Tell him it’s his wife!”

Whittaker was the one who dropped what he was doing, albeit not as important as finding Dr. Abbott, but nevertheless, he knew whatever it was that it was bad. Jack hadn’t anticipated one of the new kids to come charging in like it was life or death the way he did. 

“Dr. Abbot! Something happened, you need to come and–” 

“Someone better be dying for you to be taking any of my time away from this man, Whittaker, what is it!?” Jack didn’t shout, nor was it laced with anger. It was a response of pure and total control over the situation. Jack was as calm as they come under crisis. It was just who he was. He saw the solutions in chaos like a puzzle he could put back together. 

“Your wife–” Dennis choked on his own words like he was afraid to deliver bad news. Ironic that delivering bad news to loved ones of patients was a part of the job. “She uh–” 

“She what, Whitaker? My wife, what?” Jack never faltered. He never looked up from where he was working magic. Blood-stained gloves halted to a standstill, however, when the words that left Whittaker’s mouth next knocked the wind right out of Jack’s lungs. 

“She was just attacked, Robby has her in trauma two now, it’s bad, like real bad, sir.”

The air grew thin, the walls began to cave in. Jack Abbot was, on a regular day, as calm as they come under pressure. 

He saved his breakdowns for the roof in the early hours of the morning. He’d spend a few minutes watching as the sun kissed the horizon with a warmth that could only be rivalled by your own. 

He’d hedge his bets, cut his losses and accept what reality had dealt and delivered. All the while continuing all the reasons why he couldn’t take that leap. Always circling back to the most important of all. 

You. 

But when that guiding light is challenged, Jack's body language alters. His normally rigid, ex-military stance softened for a brief moment. 

Jack's heart was breaking. He could feel it being ripped apart inside his chest cavity. The thud of his heart was nearly loud enough to echo off the walls.

“What?” No one had seen Jack Abbot so flustered before. His eyes softened in a moment of what must have looked like weakness. But to Jack, it was love. Pure, that’s my best friend, love. The kind of love that’s deep in your bones, love. The kind of love that haunts you, love. “My, my wife?” 

It was a softness only reserved for you, a side to Jack Abbot that was hidden away behind the safety and security of his own perfectly designed Volt system. His expert ability to compartmentalise only ever falters around you. 

He can’t control it. Jack Abbot had a weakness, an affinity of affection. An addiction to the release of Oxytocin he received whenever you paid him any mind. It had always been like that, a little catch and release. Cat and mouse. Jack loved to watch you walk away because he knew you were always coming back. 

But now…you were hurt. You were hurt, and he was stuck in his own head thinking about the first time he saw you. How you lit up the entire night sky and hung every star just for him to feel comfort in the darkness. 

Your laugh, how it’s the only therapy he’d ever need. The deep cackle that’s not cute, but infectious. You’re like a shot of espresso, keeping Jack on his toes and never allowing him to fall completely off the deep end into permanent geriatric grumpiness. No matter how far he teetered over the edge.

Jack Abbot was just lucky enough to be living in general, but to be living in your world was just the luck of the Anglo-Irish. He wasn’t sure if he could live in a world without you in it. 

The thought consumed his entire being. A world without you. A life without you. What if he never got to hear your voice again? Or tell you how much he fucking loved you. The contrast between the heat of Jack's skin and the coolness of his wedding band resting upon his heart couldn’t have been more stark. 

“Is she—“ Before Jack could ask if you were okay, he was cut off. 

“Go,” Dr. Ellis damn near ordered. “I got this, go.” She reaffirmed as Jack felt her shove him over, there was no extra time that could be wasted. It was all Jack needed to find his centre of gravity again and get a hold of himself. 

His composure.

“Who attacked her?” But as the surge of panic softened, a wave of uncontrollable rage began to boil deep within Jack. His eyes scanned the utter chaos that was the emergency department, searching for whoever it was that had hurt you. “Where are they now?” 

No one gets to hurt Jack Abbots wife and gets to continue breathing. 

“Uhhh—“ Whitaker stammered, unsure of whether he should disclose that information or not. “He’s with security now, behavioural health two.”

It was a deep-rooted, all-consuming need to hook it left and make a B line directly for behavioural health two. Who did this guy think he was? Huh? Attacking people, no…attacking his wife like this? It wouldn’t be without consequence. 

“Dr. Abbot.” 

“This the guy?” Jack asked one of the security guards with a look of rage behind his exhausted eyes. “I need to speak with him?” 

“The cops and McKay are in there with him now.” 

“It wasn’t a request.” Jack snarled as he tried to make his way into the room that held the man who attacked you.

“JACK!” It was Robby who had yelled. “NOW!” You were in a rough way, Jack would tell by the tone in his friend’s voice. 

“Y/n,” Jack whispered to himself as he looked over at trauma two. “Oh, oh no no no no no.” It was a mumble only to himself, but everyone could feel the heaviness that followed Jack Abbot across and through the emergency department chaos. 

Change. We don’t like it, we fear it. But we can’t stop it from coming. We either adapt to change…

Or we get left behind. 

“She needs to be intubated, get her up for a head CT, we’re looking at some major blunt force trauma here, needs–needs burr holls to relieve the intracranial pressure.” 

“Y/n!” Jack barreled in like a hurricane-force wind. “What the actual fuck happened here, man?” 

“She was with a patient, Y/n? Can you hear me? It’s Robinovich here, don’t you make this difficult for me,” Robby spoke through panicked words as he worked on you as fast as he could. “Guy freaked, psychotic episode, probably a bleed on the brain–”

“Ja–” You barely mumbled as blood spilled from your mouth. Jack heard you, though. He heard you loud and clear as he made his way to your side. His hand was immediately in yours as he made sure to be aware of his spatial awareness as his colleagues worked on you. 

“I’m right here,” Jack cooed as he took in the sight of your face. Beaten, bloodied and bruised. “You’re okay, I’m right here, just hang on for me, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

“I, love–” You were in and out of consciousness, fighting against the pull of whatever it was threatening to pull you away from the surface. 

“Pulse is thready, she’s crashing,” someone announced as all the bells and whistles sounded off at once. You were indeed crashing, right in front of Jack. 

“Sweetheat? You stay with us, you hear me?” Jack was feeling the panic creep up his spine again. “Are you shitting me? What the hell do you think you’re doing being alone with a patient like that?” Jack knew if you were listening, you would have jabbed him back. Of all people to be giving you a lecture on hospital protocol, it shouldn’t have been him. 

You called him a Cowboy for a reason.

“If you die on me, i’m gonna be so fucking screwed here Y/n, get your shit together,” It was Jacks love language. “Robby, get her back!” 

He kept searching for some sort of eye contact, that deep-rooted ability of his that you at times often regarded as his superpower. That intense gaze, the one able to break through anything and reach your very soul. 

But Jack couldn’t see you through you, he couldn’t see anything but the blood that covered your beautiful face. The face he dreamed of at night, when all was said and done, and there was nothing left to do. 

“Working on it, someone get me neuro, NOW!” 

“O.R. is prepped and ready upstairs.” 

“Okay, let’s get her stable and on the move.” 

“I’m coming.” 

“Like fuck you are, brother,” Robby sighed, never missing a beat as he continued to stabilise his best friends wife. The love of his life.”You can watch from observation, but you can’t be in the O.R., hospital policy we—“

“Don’t work on family, I’m not, I’m telling you I’m—“

“If we can’t get her back, you’ll be in there, let me get her back, I’ve got her.” It was a promise Robby shouldn’t have made. But he knew you and he knew you well enough to know that this was not your exit music moment. 

Jack simply held his lips into a tight line of silent panic. He never let go of your hand, opting to walk you all the way to surgery. 

“Wait,” He begged right before the double doors automatically opened on your arrival. Everyone stopped moving as Jack leaned in to whisper something in your ear. “If you die on me so help me god, I’m walking right up to that roof for the last time and you damn well know it, don’t do this to us,” Jack begged. “I love you with all that I am and have.” He said one final time before letting go of your hand. Grazing across your wedding band as he let you go. 

“Let’s move people!” Someone beside your side yelled as all Jack could do was stand still, as you were wheeled away from him. 

“Oh god,” It was immediate, the sudden feeling of sickness. The wave of nausea hit him like a freight train. The nearest fake plant was the best course of action. With one hand on the wall in front of him, Jack emptied the contents of his stomach. It wasn’t much, mainly stomach bile, but the sentiment remained the same. “Fuckk-.” 

The thought of losing you made Jack Abbot's stomach churn. 

It hurts to adapt to change; anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. It’s utter bullshit. But change is inevitable, good or bad. It haunts us like ghosts of our former past. It can taunt us like a small child who thinks you’re having the time of your life. 

But when change is brought about, it’s better to adapt than deny that it's happening in the first place. 

—----------------------

There’s a reason surgeons learn to wield scalpels. They liked to pretend that their hard, cold scientists. They like to pretend that they’re fearless. But the truth is, people become surgeons because somewhere, deep down, they think they can cut away that of which haunts them. 

Weakness, frailty…death. 

Jack woke with a stark jolt. He was sweating, running a fever. The darkness was all-consuming as he tried to gain his bearings. He was in bed. The bed he shared with you.

“Christ,” Jack sighed to himself as he laid on his back in the middle of the night. A hand ran down his face as he collected his thoughts. That had been one of the most intense nightmares, one of the most realistic ones, he’d ever had. 

“Something tells me he had you on do not disturb.” Jack heard you mumble from beside him, wrapped up in a mess of covers and sheets. “Probably, don’t think that guys ever paid much mind to me, has he, sweetheart?”

When you didn’t respond, Jack frowned. You were just talking. Were you talking in your sleep? But you were talking directly to him.

“Y/n, you awake?” It was a question laced with hope. Jack hoped you were. He couldn’t stop thinking about your bloodied face in his nightmare. The way you lay there, lifeless, not breathing. “Hey, c’mere for a minute.” Jack nearly begged as he slowly but surely moved closer to where you were in the bed you shared together. 

With a gentle kiss to your exposed shoulder, Jack maneuvered you from where you were lying on your side to your back. It was then he realised he was still in a living hell. 

“Remember?” Was all you said as blood spilled out of your mouth and down your chin. A bloodied smile was permanently seared into Jack's memory as pure horror washed over him. “You couldn’t protect me, you couldn’t save me. What’s the point of being married to a doctor if you can’t save my life?” 

“No, no this isn’t real,” Jack tried to reason with his mind as he hovered over your now lifeless body in the bed you shared. “Stay with me, sweetheart, stay with me!!” 

But you didn’t move, you were lifeless and cold. So fucking cold. 

“Jack?” He heard through a whisper, a mumbled distance away, “Jack?” There it was again. This time, though, a hand on his shoulder accompanied the male voice, coaxing him back to reality. “Jack, wake up, bother.” 

With a jolt, Jack was waking from where he’d fallen asleep. Right beside you with his head on the spot beside your hand. His in yours. His back ached like no tomorrow, but his hips hurt the worst. 

“I must’ve fallen asleep.” Jack sighed as he tried to regain his composure. The thought of you dead beside him in bed had rocked him to his very core. But it was always the same dream ever since you were attacked. 

I could hear you screaming from the second I stepped out of the elevator,” Robby sighed as he checked your vitals. All the signs pointed to good news. “Have you spoken to your therapist about all this yet?” he asked with a frown of concern from above his glasses. 

“Nope,” Jack explained as he let out a sigh and stretched out in the chair he was sitting on. “Can’t bear to bring it up, might jinx her.” 

“Well, the swelling is mostly stable, she’s regaining strength, and her pulse ox is great, the only thing keeping her under right now is, well, her,” Robby shrugged as he crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s gonna wake up, man.”

Jack didn’t respond right away. He let the silence linger in the air. He watched your steady heartbeat on the monitor. He eyed off your vitals, the way your chest rose and fell with every breath you took unassisted. He was still on edge, but was able to talk himself through it. 

He’d watched you recover over the last week since the attack. Jack hadnt left the hospital once. He’d become what he hated most. A border. But he couldn't bring himself to leave even just for a few minutes. Not when you were here. 

It took a village. Dana had organised someone to collect all the essentials Jack and yourself might need during your stay. The house was probably a mess and the content of the fridge was well past used by, but that wasn't important right now. 

He’d stay here beside you watching you heal. Watching you get stronger. Watching you slowly come back to him like Robby had promised. But no one had any idea how you would react when you finally woke up. There was worry of mental deficits from the head trauma. But Jack knew you well enough to know you were a real fighter. 

He finally knew what it was like for you when he’d lost his leg. A part of him he’d never get back. Jack wondered if you'd feel the same way after, if a part of you died that day. He was anticipating it really. The onset of depression post traumatic events. The PTSD that would haunt you like a ghost. The sleepless nights. The recklessness. The suicidal tendencies. All of it, he knew about it and was prepared for it. 

Only difference is you weren’t. But boy were you a fast learner. And oh boy did Jack understand the other side of it now. How it felt to watch the person you love suffer so much. 

“Here,” Again Robby's voice broke Jack out of his trance-like thinking state. “Drink this, eat this, don’t argue,” A juice box lands in Jack's lap, so did a half eaten sandwich. He looks up at his friend, perplexed…but already knows the answer. “I ate the other half in the elevator.” Robby still explains. 

“Thanks.” Is all Jack has left in him to say. He’s exhausted, but won't say that out loud. Won't admit it to anyone but himself. Robby can see it written in the lines on Jack's face. He can see it in the growth of his facial hair, the bags under his eyes. 

“Have a shower before she starts to stir,” It's one of the last thing Robby says before he leaves. “You look and smell like shit, she’s probably not waking up just to be polite you know.” He doesn't wait for an answer, but as he leaves and heads down the corridor back to the elevator, he knows Jack is smiling behind him. Shaking his head. 

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” Jack sighed, popping the straw into the small juice box. The sugar is a much needed relief for the man running on empty. 

It isn't just surgeons, the truth is, Jack didn't know anyone who wasn't haunted by something…or someone. And whether we try to slice the pain away with a scalpel or shove it in the back of a closet…

Our efforts usually fail. 

—-------------------------------------

Jack Abbot went into medicine because he wanted to save lives. He went into medicine because he wanted to do good. He went into medicine for the rush…for the high…for the ride. 

But what he tends to remember at the end of most days are the losses. What he lies awake at night, replaying is the pain he caused or failed to cure. The lives he ruined or failed to save. So the experience of practising medicine, for Jack Abbot, that is, rarely resembles the goal. 

The experience is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down. 

“One slight gust and you’d be done for, you know?” Jack knew it was you the second he heard the approaching footsteps. 

“What are you doing up here?” Jack replied, all the while he still had his hands tucked away in his pockets. 

“Oh, I dunno,” You sighed as you ducked under the railing. Coming to stand close to but not close enough to where your husband stood. “Heard some lunatic was up on the roof, didn’t take much for me to realise that the lunatic in question was probably my repeat offender.” You rubbed your hands over your face like you’d had enough of today. Coaxing your husband off the ledge of the roof was not something you had on your bingo card for today. “What are you doing up here, Abbot?” 

It was a loaded question, but a question that deserved a genuine response nevertheless. Jack shrugged, unable to look his wife in the eye for once. Something he was really fucking good at doing. 

“Guy lost his leg in a car accident.” You didn’t need much more than that, but Jack continued. You didn’t interrupt. “My call to amputate, we weren’t gonna be able to save it.” You could feel the heaviness weighing on your husband’s heart as he explained what led him to the roof. “Pains been unbearable ever since.” 

You didn’t speak, you didn’t respond, but you sure knew what you had to do. There was a deeper meaning behind the reason Jack made you carry a pocket knife with you. One that wasn’t permitted by the hospital. You casually reached into your back pocket to reveal the small pocket knife. 

“You know, a wise man once told me that you find comfort in darkness,” You said as you knelt down carefully and knew back your arm with just enough force that the blade of your knife would pierce the titanium foot of your husband’s prosthetic leg. “There, should start to feel some slight relief soon.” 

Jack sighed. It never worked when he did it himself. Nor did it work if he knew it was coming. It had to be spontaneous, quick and off guard. You did just that.

“I needed that more than you know.” It was another way of saying ‘I love you’ But you already knew that. 

“Oh trust me, I knew, otherwise we wouldn't be up here standing on the edge of a building.” Jack knew you were right. You knew him better than he knew himself most days. 

That’s why you were his wife. His life partner. His better half. 

Jack let a moment of silence pass the two of you by as you moved to stand beside him once again, both watching the sun gently kiss the horizon. He raised an arm up and over your shoulders. Drawing you close to his side as he left a gentle, but meaningful, kiss to your temple. 

He adored you, far more than you would ever know. Jack was thankful for the way you left the knife in his foot. The more he looked down at it sticking out of his prosthetic, the more the pain alleviated. The more the tendencies subsided.

“You’re pretty good at this comfort thing, you know.” He prayed the roles were never reversed, was there a version of Jack that could offer the same kind of comfort, strength and grace that you could? 

“Comes with the territory,” Was all you said as you let your head against Jack's shoulder. “But seriously, we should totally get down before you spiral again.”  You bumped Jack's hip with your own. He smirked.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Jack teased as he kissed your temple once more. Choosing to leave with you via the stairs rather than over the edge. 

As the warmth of the water cascaded down Jack's exposed body, he stood leaning against the wall. Prosthetic leaning against the doorframe. He needed a moment. 

The scent of your body wash adorned him, using the toiletries you hadn’t had a chance to use yourself yet. Sure, Jack had kept you as clean as you could be during your stay, but wet wipes weren’t the same as your black plum and vanilla scented everything. 

Your wedding ring hung around his dog tags, right next to his. Robby had taken it off before surgery. It had become Jack's comfort blanket. To thumb at the circular silver ring. 

But as the steam threatened to allow Jack's muscles to relax, he heard it…the warning alerts. 

“No,” He gasped. Panic rose inside his chest as he fumbled to switch the water off and wrap the towel around his midsection. Fuck a shirt, this was a hospital and everyone knew basic anatomy. “No, this cannot be happening—not now.“ 

The sight that Jack saw when he stepped out of the bathroom was nothing short of horrific. There you were, surrounded by doctors and nurses alike. Some Jack knew, some he didn't. But they all shared a common goal… 

Avoiding the experience that is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Part Two: Coming Soon. Please leave me something to encourage that to come sooner :)

[omniphilic]

⠀⠀⠀⭒󠀠󠀠󠀠 ( ´ཀ` ) YOU LOOK HUNGRY ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mark actually makes it in time for dinner, but he thinks missing it would’ve been less embarrassing than getting bricked up at your table.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a.k.a ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Amber’s Mom Has Got It Going On

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀> all characters involved are 18 and older. the following fic contains ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mark grayson thirsting over someone at least 20 years his senior. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

warnings & tags | i guess it is implied the reader is poc. but idk if u are white just imagine amber is biracial (or imagine the one from the comics ig) 🤷🏾‍♀️ inconvenient boners, the perverse mind of a sweet suburban boy (he's thirsty), mishandling of an embarrassing situation, male masturbation, scent kink, misuse of cow print panties. mark thinks of cheating on amber (spiritually?), you're not in on it <3 you are a baddie minding your business. reader is a good mom (serious). reader is said to have fat/pudge/curves at least once. mark is uncircumcised. the reader is referred to using titles that align with she/her/hers, you are considered Amber's 'mom'. PORN WITH PLOT i take the premise extremely seriously lol. 7.3k words.

yapper notes | i went to a music lounge and a young woman (very beautiful alt girl) sang a song dedicated to her ex called 'you look hungry' and i immediately got the idea for this fic . shout out to the big homie @on-hit for helping me every step of the way with it they are an AWESOME beta reader, and to my inspirations @sophsthebest @slutla @batsovergotham @nana-au @arieswritez who have been making me go CWAZY with their mark content. first fic is dedicated to yall <33 taglist | @zomqiez

“—k hungry.” His glass clinks off the wood of the table when you set it down, the sound snapping Mark back to reality.

Mark blinks out of his stupor, memories of the time and place rushing back to him. “I’m sorry Mrs. Bennett—what’d you say?” Smiling awkwardly, Mark realized then and there he should not have agreed to this. He should have found some way to tell Amber he couldn’t make it.  He should have bailed and asked mom to make some shit up so he didn’t have to be seated across from you at this dinner table. The flu excuse was a classic—although, he hadn’t seemed sick earlier that week. Scratch that, couldn’t work. Food poisoning, though? He was sure that could’ve worked well enough to have kept him the fuck home. 

He knows that Mom probably wouldn’t have done it, though. She’d have gone on and on about honesty—sincerity. The things that make or break a relationship. He would’ve had to tell Amber himself anyway.

He secretly hoped Cecil changed his mind about having reassigned him, but dashed the thought as quickly as he had it. Mark Grayson would never hope to be that lucky.

“You look hungry.” Your emphasis. It draws out the grit in your voice; that saccharine drawl lances through his thoughts and spears him right in the chest. His heart pounds with the roar of a war drum, disconcertingly loud in his ears and you’re standing so close—just to pour his water—that he worries for a moment you can hear it too. He prays to God you don’t notice how tense he is or how red his face has gotten since you’ve stepped into his vicinity. 

What is he so flustered by, anyway? Is it the smell of your perfume that’s got him short circuiting? The faint tickle of your breath on his ear? The mere thought of you being anywhere near him?

The answer is D: all of the above. 

Having come to this conclusion, it sets the facts in stone--

He really is fucked. 

He’d be surprised if he still had a girlfriend by the end of the night cause his eyes have been glued to you since you opened the door, caught on your every word. Amber was over the moon about it at first. He’d been housebroken in five minutes tops; yes and ma’am his two favorite words.

“Hungry?”

It's hardly anything but you light up anyway, your shock giving way to a restrained excitement and in an instant your demeanor entirely made over. Your eyes became alive and bright, smile lines gentle crescents on your face as your grin spans ear to ear. 

You have been doing most of the talking. He can’t get his thoughts in a straight line when you look him in the eyes so instead of being tongue-tied, second guessing and editing every genuine reaction, he made himself set dressing; he was your coat rack in the corner, the ottoman that held your drinks, your plaid couch cushion. He observed the banter between you and Amber and acted like some stranger, or her shadow as opposed to ‘her little friend.’ You had tried to coax him out of his shell.

Nudged his shoulder. A quick What do you think, Mark? just to see if he’ll bite. He only nodded politely. Kept eye-contact but hardly emoted; you don’t think this kid has blinked for the past five minutes. I think it’s just fine, ma’am. No dice. Cool and calm, but it feels too curated. Contained.

You think he doesn’t like you at first and that is entirely on him. The bit of sadness in your eyes and the odd glance from Amber fills him with dread, but ultimately he decides it’s worth it. It was far better than you getting too close and finding out he actually likes you—a lot more than he should. He feels the rage of his hormones itching at his hind brain; a stirring in his pants just because you brushed his shoulder.

During all your pleasantries he was preoccupied. Busy exercising dwindling self-restraint, jaw tightened and fingers dug into his palms so hard he’s sure he bled a bit.

Behind his eyes is his rational mind resisting the urge to ogle. Eye contact is the bane of him but so is your body, each curve and sharp edge unfortunately (mournfully, even) hidden beneath the threshold of your neck. He dared not look any lower. 

He’d done more than enough staring when Amber first showed him your picture. She brought up the whole dinner idea and flashed a pic of you offhandedly, said it was from your birthday.

He should’ve called it there. He should’ve wisened up and cut his losses, because this was a bad fucking idea. 

He was staring for wayyy too long; being rendered slack-jawed in front of your girl for any amount of time by anyone who’s not her is immediately and unignorably suspect. However, you are the girl’s mother, and Mark is praying Amber thinks he is in his right mind and does not jump to the conclusion that, briefly, he wondered what your tits looked like sans top. 

“She’s…” Hot. “Beautiful. I see where you get your good looks from, babe.” Amber laughed at that, missing the single drip of sweat that had to have been sliding down his temple. She elbowed him, paltry laughter coloring her speech. “Okay good, cuz’ that was a test.” Mark squints at her, hands closing in at her waist and gently pinching her fat, teasing. “Testing me? What are you vetting for? What—” He had laughed from the nerves, picked at a loose thread on his jeans to diffuse his inner tension. “Do people say crazy shit about your mom to your face?”

He’d been peering at the picture from beneath her thumb when she shook her head. “You’d be surprised! Some people booold as fuck.”

Mark was busy looking, didn’t respond right away. “Yeah… that’s, that’s wild.” 

Did you get knocked up fresh out of highschool? There are some natural lines of age that accentuate your smile and reach your eyes, but none of that even matters; it’s like your aura is timeless, your confidence striking, he could feel your joy, and he smiles back at you like a dumbass.

“You good?” She’s noticed it, the shift in the energy. 

SOUND THE ALARMS! He’s been caught. It’s over. Amber hates his guts thinks he’s disgusting and is never going to speak to him again—

“Yeah! I’m just super excited to meet her. She seems like a lovely woman.” When she smiles back, the flood sirens stop, hazard lights go out. “She is! Mom of year material, swear to god.” 

“...yeah.”

Good grief, what the hell would his mother say? Catching him drooling over a woman twice his age—he hoped she’d at least laugh before she smacked him upside the head.

But he feels as blameless as he does shameful.

Because look at you. As far as he’s concerned, dinner’s already been served.

His mouth is dry by the time it catches up to his mind. 

“Yeah, I know that look man. You’re starving.” You step back from around him and walk towards the oven, and he justifies his staring by convincing himself he was already looking over before you walked there. He gulps.

Your pants cup your ass so perfectly; two beautiful cheeks, teasing him from under thin denim— “Uh.. yeah, I guess I am. Thirsty, too. Thanks for the water,” he cheers at you and you shake your head, putting on cow print oven mitts. They match your apron, your drink coasters, and utensil grips. There’s a joke there somewhere: something something, mommies and milkies.

“Don’t mention it! But sorry for the wait; dinner doesn’t usually take this long to start—I have no idea what that girl is doing up there.” You open the oven. “Oh! Before I forget: if you want anything other than water, or if you want seconds, just let me know sweetheart.”

He eats you up with his eyes, you don’t know he’s already on his third plate.

Your voice—suave, smooth—soothes and excites him. You speak with the cadence of a song, your expressive lilt or husky croons tickle his brain in just the right way. You are genuine, cordial, have been since he’s stepped foot into your home. Amber is always coming over with little lunches, post-it notes with squiggly hearts attached. You sign everything in the same flowy script, for my beautiful daughter; since you have learned of his existence, you’ve tacked on and her little friend in parenthesis, packing the snacks Amber told you he liked. 

You’re attentive. Thoughtful. You’d even gotten him a gift for his birthday before you even met in person. He refused to accept the present at first, but Amber said it’d be a bigger hassle to try and get you to give it back, from one of those shows Amber said you liked written on the card attached. 

A limited edition shiny, which he can’t fathom you found for any price cheaper than an arm and a leg. Amber said you had a friend and just thought he might like it.

It was really… sweet. How much you wanted them to work out. He senses that same sincerity in your every action. In every smile or wave, in the time you took to prepare him a beautiful dinner—and you’re right, he actually is hungry—all in an effort to get to know him better. You’re not some cougar, or some hyper-nymphomaniac slut who’d try to seduce her daughter’s boyfriend. Which was unfortunate, for him.

You are just a good mom. A great one even, and a better host besides. Mark is just some fucking pervert.

While you’re pulling the trays out of the oven, he is glued to your every movement, tilting his head to get your best angles. Your spread is immaculate.

The gentle swing of your hips, and fuck—he swears he can see the outline of it. The subtle flare of your pussy lips, shrink wrapped in your jeans. Either he’s imagining things, or your cunt’s just as fat as he thought it’d be.

Fuck dinner, he desperately wants to skip straight to dessert, peach juice dribbling down his chin. He’d lick you up quick—you’re liquid gold, too precious to waste a drop. “...she’s probably getting cute for her little friend…” You mutter to yourself, which cuts through the fog of perversion, and he takes a sip of his water in a futile attempt to cool off.

His final shame would be getting hard at your dinner table. It’s not like you’re doing it on purpose, it’s just out of your control just like it’s out of his, in a way. You can’t help looking good in your clothes!  That’s why you buy them, for the way they cuddle your supple curves, snuggle between your folds, caressing your fat so well they had to have been tailor-made for you. 

You’d look good in his clothes, too.

His dick twitches at the thought, grip around his glass tightening.

“I should’ve asked Amber what you like to eat but,” You start, still taking trays out the oven.”I guess the invitation was super last minute, so apologies if our meager dinner doesn’t suit your highfalutin’ tastes.” He can hear the smile on the tip of your tongue, your jibes easing his wariness. ”Don’t even worry about that,” he reassures, thinking too hard about what to say next. “It smells way too good in here for the food to not hit, ya’know?” He facepalms internally.

“Well, aren’t you a flatterer? Why thank you, Mark. It’s nice to feel appreciated.” You’re dramatic, palm to chest and flourishing with the flair of a broadway star, and it catches him so off guard he laughs. You’re emboldened by his energy, moving around with an ineffable pep, almost like you’re dancing. It’s silly frankly, watching you butter bread buns as you jam to an invisible concert.

Mark should have been laughing. Should have been prancing around the kitchen alongside you, playing The Good Boyfriend, collecting his brownie points by helping his girlfriend’s mother around the house. Just be a normal fucking person.

But he’s caught. Fish-on-the-hook, rat-in-a-trap, caught. On the swell of your hips, the twist of your spine, the expanse of your neck, the dimples on your back whenever your shirt rides up. The way your ass sticks out when you get on your tippy toes to grab something from a high shelf. Your body is intoxicating and Mark isn’t the drinking type, but since time immemorial have there been exceptions. He’s been making a lot, tonight, so what’s another?

Everything about this is lovely. There’s fresh baked bread, rice and beans on the stove, baked mac and cheese set aside on a cooling rack, and the chicken… he sniffs. 

“Is that cumin?” He asks, in an attempt to distract himself. You make a noise that sounds like surprise and glance back at him. “Yeah! It is. Some nose you got on ya, Mark! You cook a lot or something? Or maybe…just have an uncanny sense of smell.” You tap your nose, smirking, and Mark just shrugs. “I watch my Mom, she shows me how to cook some stuff from time to time. Or when I ask. But I’m not exactly the greatest student, so I don’t wanna waste her time you know.” He laughs. It makes an odd wheeze coming out, and on impulse he scratches the back of his neck as you sample a sauce. “No worries about that, here. I’m an excellent teacher.” Your smugness palpable, you crook your finger at him. “C’mere, I’ll show you a little something-something.”

And he can’t just say no.

So, there he stands next to you, half-chubbed, in front of the stove. You two are hip-to-hip at your insistence—you can’t learn standing all the way back there—the steam in his face not nearly as hot as he is under the collar. “Veggies with lotsa water are a bitch to cook so I don’t even bother. We’re doing cauliflower tonight. Something simple, sumn’ light. Now, the trick is to be loose with it, don’t worry about whether or not you’re gonna fuck it up. Just let it rock,” You look over at him and he is stiff, like he has half a mind to let your hard work burn to a blackened crisp. You grab his hand to try help him stir and he starts to turn pink. You didn’t think the kitchen was that hot.  “Try and relax. Breathe in, breathe out. You got this baby.” You’re fucking with him. You just have to be. 

Are you really that sultry-toned, bedroom-eyed? Or is he seeing things, steam fogging up his thoughts. He begins, trying not to sound so nervous, “Mrs. Bennett—”

“You can just call me by my name, Mark.” You snort. He swallows. “Okay, ma’a- Uhhh,” He stutters and you chuckle. “If that’s too familiar for you, you can always just call me Mom.” You wink and his heart flutters in his chest. “Okay, mom.” He has to keep himself from shivering as the word rolls off his tongue. 

He’s out of place next to you, a milk jug in the candy aisle, clown shoes paired with a cocktail dress. Your softness contrasts his on-edge, he’s surprised he hasn’t cut you yet. 

“Take a deep breath Mark, you don’t need to overthink it. We’re not doing rocket science.” You guide him. In and then out. Your hand crooks his wrist and he forces himself to relax. “Grab the handle of the pan.” It’s easy to do whatever you ask of him. He’s only waiting for you to say jump. 

“Now stir in a slow continuous motion, loosen your wrists but keep your grip on the spoon tight.” 

You’re training wheels falling away as the cogs in his brain start to turn again. He rotates his wrist and keeps going, stirring in time with your humming. The pale cauliflower change color from white to gold. He takes a peek out of his periphery to gauge how he’s doing, and the wry grin splitting your face makes him smile, too. 

“See? You’re a natural when you put your mind to it. Or maybe you just needed a more hands-on kind of teacher?” you hum. 

He short circuits a second. He doesn’t even notice you snatching a simmering cauliflower out of the pan; you have a mother’s immunity to this kind of heat. “Sample your work always. Never serve someone something you haven’t tried yourself.” You blow gently on the piece you plucked and offer it to him.

“My hands are sort of preoccupied, mom.” Saying that feels much better than it should. “I don’t think I can—” Heat at his lips silences him.

“Open.” 

Housebroken was right. He doesn’t have to think about it, he’s blinked and the cauliflower is already grinding under his teeth. The tastes of garlic and onion bloom beautifully on his palette, not overbearing, just delicious.

“Oh shit yeah,” He groans a little, then remembers himself, drawing back in. “Sorry, pardon my language.” Try as he might to dissuade himself, a snake of a smile slithers onto his face. “It’s great.” Mark smacks his lips together gently as you look at him, expectant. He licks the residue of seasonings off his lip and tries not to imagine what you taste like. “I’m wondering if your tongue’s as sensitive as your nose. So what’s the verdict? Give me a run down.”

He sucks his teeth. “Garlic. Onions. Or maybe shallots? Is there a difference? I just assumed they were just kind of smaller onions.”  He can smell the difference but he likes the way you light up when he asks. “Yeah, there is! Shallots are like… a distant cousin. They’re from a whole different family, Allum- something or other.” You reach in front of him to turn down the heat on the stove and you get far too close for comfort.

“Go on.” He thinks for a moment. “I thought I tasted,” You hold out your hand and he instinctively hands you the spoon. “Hm. I don’t know, I thought I tasted something spicy, a little sweet, maybe.” You nod. “That’s what you call the spice of life: Paprika.” Que jazz hands.

“Two outta three isn’t too bad. I’ll make a chef out of you yet Grayson.” You beam and it is blinding, he has to look away. “You’re shaping up to be an excellent pupil.”  He full body perks up at your praise. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging. “Do me a favor Mark?” His dog ears perk up. “Get a cup from the cabinet above you. Then take the pitcher,” You gesture as you slide your oven mitts on. “And put it in the middle of the table.”

“Okay!” He nods so giddily at you that you can’t help your laughter, rich as it flows from you. You’re opening the oven when you say it. You don’t even have the courtesy of facing him as you completely and utterly ruin his life.

“You’re a real good boy, aren’t you Mark?”  

Everything is quiet then—

—SMASH!

The pitcher makes your teeth rattle when it shatters, your head darting to the side so quick it’s a miracle you don’t snap your neck. Mark is standing there a few feet away from you, turned around, water and glass shards pooled at his feet.

“Are you okay?” The urgency in your voice pulls him out of his stupor. “Um. Yeah!” He chirps back, too fast. He is frozen in place. 

“Just! Hold on—” You drop the flan on the counter and chuck your mitts. 

Mark does not move.

His system is shot. All the blood has been evacuated from his brain, he can hardly focus on regulating his breathing—nevermind the words coming out your mouth. “Sweetheart..?” You try, brow arching. “What happened? Are you hurt?” 

“No! I’m fine.” He is on fire. Every muscle in his body coils tight as his fight or flight malfunctions. He freezes.

He’s completely crashed.

Over two fucking words.

Mark is stock still for a second, rock hard dick trapped between his thigh and pants far too tight.

You’re taken aback by his abruptness and quiet for a moment. “Okaaay. Well. Are you going to move over, at least?” You have something like a laugh lodged in between your words, riding closely behind irritation as your eyes follow the rolling stream of water beneath his feet.

“Yes! Yeah, of course, sorry.” 

He doesn’t mean to whimper like a kicked puppy, adorned with shame and all, and Mark hates the way you fold for him. The way you reassure him. It’s fine, crooned in that same saccharine tone because you wholeheartedly give a shit about him. Which is the worst, because he does not deserve your concern. He does not deserve your daughter. He does not deserve you. Least of all your damn dinner.

He was right. He only wished he could’ve been happy about that. 

Mark feels your laser eyes biting into his back, scoring over his skin as he moves out of the mess he’s made.

“Thank you. Now, can you pass me the broom? It’s in front of you.” 

He presses his palm to his mouth and eats his sigh. “Of course,” The throbbing in his pants is growing more insistent by the second but he can’t look down. Can’t acknowledge it or it’ll become uncomfortably real. But it’s not like he can stand still forever. He walks forward and grabs the broom, quick as he turns and hands it to you. You’re not even looking at him, too busy making sure you’re not tracking water underfoot. “I’m so, so sorry.” He starts, but you wave him off, leaning the broom against the fridge as you kneel to sop up the water.

”I didn’t think you were the jumpy type.” You jibe, spritely even as you weave around glass splinter and shards, trying not to scrape your hardwood floor. “But it’s fine—it happens to me too. Sometimes shit breaks,” you shrug. “Pardon my french, but no point bitching about it! ” You chuckle. “I am definitely gonna bully you about it, though.” You really, really shouldn’t; he likes this pair of pants.

His shoulders loosen hesitantly, only to be agitated as he gauges the urgency of his real problem. He is tenting.

His jeans are more heavy duty than the suggestion you call clothing but it’s obvious if you know what to look for. The tautness in the material as his dick fills it out, darkening brought on by the precum crowning his tip.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I just—got worked up.” That’s certainly a way of putting it. “I was worried about messing this whole thing up, but then I went and made a fool of myself anyway.  Real classy, me.”  He laughs as he scolds himself, scratching the back of his head. You don’t see him while you’re bent over, cleaning, but he’s sure as hell seeing you. His conscience hits him with quick onset shame, but there’s not enough blood circulating to his brain for it to keep up with his reservations; he ogles shamelessly.

He has to catch himself everytime he leans too far forward, but it can’t be helped. He has a premium seat at the theatre and the main feature is your panty line, the poor excuse for a thong that creeps down the cleft of your ass, dipping below the horizon of your cheeks.  He envies it.

“I had a feeling you might’ve been a little nervous,” Your voice snaps him out of his perv’s reverie.  “But don’t worry, I like you plenty Mark. ‘M not expecting you to roll over or jump through hoops to impress me. You’re not a dog.” you say, laughing, but you don’t know. 

You rise from where you were crouched on the floor and turn quicker than he was expecting, but it’s easy to play off his staring and meets you with a smile. It is returned. ”You’re good, right? Not wet or anything?” You give him a quick once over and he stops breathing. 

You don’t seem to find what you’re looking for, meeting his eyes once more. “Yeah,” he says when he finds his voice, “Not anything, I’m fine.” You nod, exhaling short through your nose as if to say okay. 

“Great.” You sigh, arms akimbo, as you look at the shattered glass, at the broom, then at Mark. “Come here.” 

Then you’re on top of him. Hugging him. Ruffling the hair on the back of his head, tits pushed up against his chest, hard nipples poking through your bra, hugging him. “Uh, Mrs. Bennett—”

“What’d I say about calling me that?” You pull back, holding his shoulders while he stands with all the confidence of a wet cat, looking bewildered, then bashful. “At least say Miss, it makes me feel younger.” You joke.

“Miss,” He can’t help but comply. “What uh, what are you doing?” You squeeze his arms. 

“...have you never been hugged before, Mark Grayson?” You tease, while he attempts to position his hips as far away from your anything as he can. “I’m doing the Mom thing, you know? Comforting you.” You can hardly keep your laughter in one second, and then the next you’re decadently soothing, voice barely above a whisper. 

“You didn’t embarrass yourself, okay? Mistakes happen. You’ll give yourself an aneurysm if you keep stressing about making a good impression. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already part of the family.” You snuggle into him, rubbing comforting circles on his back. He shudders at your touch. 

You’re just as soft as he imagined, just as plush and warm, but he can’t hug you back, not in his state. You won't let him go.

“I can feel it, you know?”

His heart sinks. “Uh? What’re you talking about?

“Your tension. You’re stiff as all hell, man. You were sorta makin’ me nervous, cause you wanna look like you’re being held hostage.” He briefly looks at the arms girding him, then back to your babydoll face.

Wow. You’re breathtaking. Pillowy lips, spiderwicked lashes, vibrant eyes. You smell softly of coconut, cocoa butter, vanilla, a hint of sweet almonds. 

“Just relax man. Deep breath in, deep breath out.” He complies as his compulsion demands of him, and he, regretfully, relaxes in your arms. He relaxes to the feel, sight, and smell of you.

You made him too comfortable. He let out a sigh, eyes closed as he draped himself over your shoulder.

“That’s it, big guy, just calm down.” You pat him gently. He returns the hug.

Mark knows when you feel it. He knows because it sends a nasty jolt through his entire body when you rub up against it. His body locks up and his eyes widen, mortified. He feels hot, the room almost set to spinning as his mind is overwhelmed; he startles himself, the tiniest groan escaping him, but that is not when you notice, no.

He doesn’t say anything. He just leaves it be, cock throbbing as he tries to wade through the bog of his thoughts, trying not to rock himself against you.

It’s only when you pull back that you see it. You had this half-smile on your face, hand propped on your hip, mouth open like you were about to speak and then,

you looked down.

On reflex. It was quick. Not even a half-a-second long. But then you double, triple take.

He wondered if you thought he was big, naturally, though the state of your face summed up everything you’d never say. The wide-eyed shock, inhale of breath, supple lips softly parted. Then confusion, a furrow in your brow, uncertainty as your eyes flick back to his burning face. A twinge of disgust, but it’s brief as you are quick to school your expression. 

He’s bigger than your husband, maybe, or you’re wondering if this dick has fucked your daughter.

(He’s wondering if you’d take it better.)

If there’s hunger in your eyes, he couldn’t read it. Hell, he honestly can’t look you in the eye long enough to try.

In reality, you’re only surprised his face is so red; you’d have thought all the blood went, well…

“Oh.” You step away from him and tuck your hands behind your back. Neither of you speak for a moment, his wide eyes blinking at your indecipherable expression. 

Then, you attempt to diffuse the tension. “Well.  I'm... sure it happens to the best of us, Mark. It’s no hard feelings, I mean!--” You seem to remember the broken glass then, the thing you should've looked at in the first place, and busy yourself begin cleaning it up.

He doesn't try to speak. The silence resumes.

Until eventually, you try again. “When I met my husband, he had an issue with getting ‘excited’ too, you know?” Around you? Color Mark unsurprised.  “It’s only natural, especially for young men your age! Don’t worry.”

 His face burns with shame, or is it irritation? If old boy’s not in the picture, then maybe he could…?

No, no, he’s getting ahead of himself again.

He eats up your sweetness, and his teeth rot alongside his dignity. “Amber’s not ready, so you can head up to the bathroom while I clean up in here and we never have to talk about it again.  It can be our little secret.” You didn’t have to whisper the last part. He swears you’re just mocking him now. 

“Really?” He heaves sighs like mountains, eyes wily as they connect with yours. “You won’t tell Amber?”

“Really really, Mark. I’m sure she can live without knowing…this,” You gesture to him with your palm and all five fingers. “Ever happened. Especially after last time, she’s probaby--” You touch on something you clearly didn’t mean to, cutting yourself off before heaping refuse into a cow-print pail. “Nevermind. Bathroom’s upstairs, second door on the left, sweetheart. There are some towels too, if you need to, um…?” You trail off. “Uh. Under the cabinet.”

“Okay—I’m gonna go now, if you don’t mind, thank you so much ma’am—” He stands and for some reason you’re not looking him in the eyes anymore. 

“It’s no problem Mark, none at all.” You smile, quickly turning to dump the glass in the trash as he heads out. You catch the back of his head out of the corner of your eye, and let go of the chuckle you were holding onto as soon as you think he’s gone. “...just make sure you don’t poke someone’s eye out with that thing.” 

He doesn’t know where his mind goes after that. He’s hardly walked down the hall and he’s already played it over in his head five times. He’s deluded, mind a broken record, cock trying to jump out his pants and it only gets worse the more your words play over in his head. He walks with great urgency, gait awkward as he skids to the far end of the hall and reaches the base of the staircase.

In the blink of an eye he’s at the top of the stairs and yet, he is not fast enough to miss your rose of a daughter. Amber looks surprised to see him. “You came up to find me?” She was just touching up her makeup by the looks of it, blush renewed, baby blue eyeshadow reapplied, that artificial cherry gloss he likes. He could smell it from a mile off.

“Yeah,” He lies reflexively, “You were kind of taking forever…we thought you got lost on the way back or somethin’.”  Amber sounds so carefree when she laughs. He notices now how her face crinkles a lot like yours does, those same dimples and smile lines feeling intimately familiar now that he’s basked in your presence. She does a little flourish for him, stepping between him and the washroom and posing a little. “So! How am I looking?” She pauses after she takes him in, his cheeks bleeding red, eyes flittering elsewhere.

“Mark, you feeling alright? You’re looking really… hot?” Mark blanks for a second thinking of what he ought to say before she glances down. Amber expression dwells somewhere between humored and pleasant as she stares, openly.

He is going to die.

“Uhh, I’m flattered Mark, but right now isn’t really the best time,” she laughs. He sees now where she gets her humor from. “I’ll make a mental note: deep necklines and low rise jeans got you whipped.” 

He has absolutely no rebuttal to that. You wear it better, though.

God that’s so fucked—

“I, uh-- I can explain,” He starts, but Amber holds her hand up, fingers curling around his outstretched hand. “No need.” He sighs in relief. “The bathroom’s behind me. I’ll be with Mom. I’ve been gone for way too long, she’ll start thinking I died or something.” She smiles and heads towards the stairs.

“Just—give me a few minutes. Don’t wait up.” Amber says something that’s muffled by the click of the bathroom door.

Finally.

He relaxes at the door, the roar in his mind quieted by the change in scenery.

Even the inside of your bathroom is cute. There is more bovine based decor bathed in warm yellow light. Everything from the soap dispenser to the rugs to the curtains are brown, beige, sand, pink or peach, and it smells utterly divine.

It’s that perfume you’re wearing. Mark should be concerned he has already committed that scent to memory but he’s all bloodhound, thrown caution to the wind, sense on overdrive as he follows the trail to its end, X tucked behind the curtain of your bathtub. 

…

It’s your underwear. He knows it’s yours on account of the cow spots. Not like he could imagine Amber in a number this racy anyway; the crotch is missing, blue frills lining the slit down the center and what he assumed were the leg holes. Modesty was certainly not something she inherited from you, he thinks, as he plucks this choice piece off the rack.

He has to hold it in both hands, feel the cotton under his thumb pad to believe it’s real. The fabric is soft to the touch. He can catch a whiff of the soap you used, the scent of your skin lingering just behind that. He’s not even holding you close and you’re still so potent it makes his eye twitch and head hurt.

He imagines you in them. The smooth plane of your ass filling it out, the squish of your skin under the tension of the elastic. 

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought, and yet…

…

Soon he’s slumped over your toilet seat, arm laid up on the tank as his hand darts down to his pants and undoes the clasp. “Fuuuuck me,“ He groans, some of the pressure relieved as his tent pitches up, freed and now angrily demanding his attention. With your panties in his left hand, he pulls his boxers down with the other, his cock smacking against his stomach with a dull smack. 

He knows he’s big but you must’ve done something to him, spiked his water, casted a spell, something, cause his tip is so red--so leaky, drooling and needy--and he’s soo fucking hard. His cock stands ramrod, twitching as he rubs the tip with a tentative index finger. He makes himself whimper, replaces index with his thumb, smearing his pre-cum in circles until he’s bold enough to curl his hand around the shaft. The slightest touch makes him buck, hips swinging upward as his balls clap against the back of his hand, his expression breaking off into a half dazed smile as his spine decompresses and his body begins to truly relax.

He goes slow, breath catching as he gets used to the feeling of doing this, relieving himself among your things, in your space, your fucking panties folded in his hand, but he can’t care. He can’t care when he feels this wired; can’t care when the feeling of his foreskin dragging back and forth, up and down, and it feels mind-numbing, a match to his skin. He happily burns.

Propriety is dead; all he can think about is you. The way you sung his name and praises. The way your ass looked so perky in jeans. The way your tits bounce with your gait.  “God,” he could cum just thinking about it. He’s already moaning, arm sliding up his shirt to cup his pec, the shlick, schlick of him hammering his fist filling the bathroom; he’s got a steady rhythm up and down his cock, his sensitivity feeling heightened from your affections. He’s still thinking about the way you looked at it.

The way your jaw dropped, mouth hung open like a proposition. If you’d get on your knees to clean up the mess he made, what else could he make you kneel for?

“fuck—”

You called him a good boy. 

Good boy? 

Mark Grayson was everything, anything, but.

He certainly did feel like a dog, though. Panting, half bent over himself and jerking his dick so hard his toes are curling. 

Mark gets himself worked up easily. When it smells like you, it’s easy to get lost in the fantasy, your precious hands wrapped around his fat dick and sucking it for all its worth. He wonders what kind of noise you make—if you suck just as sloppily as Amber. 

You seem like you’d have a tight throat. Tight pussy, too. Maybe he has to give it to you easy, treat you gentle and feed it in slow til’ you’re squeezing on his dick like a vicegrip and mewling for him.  Or maybe—

—maybe, he can just sliiiiiide right in. Fill you out all nice-like, leave you with a real good first impression. You would fit him like a glove, wet cunt soaking him to the bone.

And exactly how would he have you? There’s no shortage of options, just not enough time. You’d live your whole life and never know a moment of peace again, if he got his hands on you.

Then there’s your panties. He doesn’t even know what to do with them, having left them limply dangling between his hand and his thigh as he’s beside himself, because you linger in his bones like bad cold, all ice and teeth and biting. He breathes heat into the air as he lets his head fall back, pretending the tightness of his fist is as good as the inside of your pussy. He imagines the way your ass would squish against his hips when he pounds you from the back. His balls would slap against your clit so good, have your eyes rolling back, ecstasy running a live wire through you, set your system to shock.

He’d probably fold you in half, first, give it to you standing. Thinks about how easy it would be, to pull your hair, flip you around, bend you over. 

He wants to Fuck. You. Up.

You look like a moaner too. He can picture it, your tits smushed up against his chest as he gets your legs slung over his shoulders and breaks your back in.

He can hear the way you whimper out his name, stitched together from the bytes of you he’s stored in his memory. Mark has you wailing, whining, scratching your nails blunt on the flat of his back. 

You whisper his name in prayer. 

Mark. 

Mark. 

Mark.

MARK!—

He feels his balls tighten, just as a fist hammers against the door.

“Maaark!” 

He cums to the sound of Amber’s voice; you two sound so, so similar. Like your voice, too, it snaps him back to reality. He was wholly unprepared for this moment. He can’t stop cumming.

It shoots on to his tummy, thick white ropes of cum sticking to his abdomen before he can think to stop it, and Amber is still hammering on the door, could’ve been for the past five minutes and Mark could not have known. He can’t speak for a moment, throat dry and gummed together at the same time.

“...Mark?” The knocking softens. “Are you okay?”

His cock throbs in his hand as it pumps another load and his mind is stuff chock full of fuzz, vision spacey as he comes down from seeing stars. He can’t bask in the afterglow long, not to the sound of Amber knocking.  Mark’s eyes go wide as saucers, and his mind runs on instinct.

He reflexively wipes the cum off his stomach with your thong. His pupils dilate. Uh…

Guess he can’t take it back now. He cleans himself off, catching the rest of his mess in the sponge of fabric. 

The panties are properly soiled by the time he’s done.

Voice broken like he’d been crying (because he had shed a few tears), he calls back. “I’ll be out in a second.” The knocking stops and the voice on the other end sighs. “We thought you slipped and cracked your head dude; you’ve been gone for a cool 15. Unless you’re taking a-”

Mark opens the door. 

He’s looking pristine; zen, subtle smile breaking his nonchalant demeanor. He looks down at her, expectantly. “You gonna move over, or do I have to make you?” He jokes with a tilt of his head.

Amber quirks her lips at him, then backs up to give him space. He spills out of the bathroom and quickly closes the door behind him. 

“It always take you that long to freshen up?” Mark sucks his teeth as they begin to walk down the stairs. “You can’t talk. How long were you gone for again? Like thirty minutes? Just to put on blush?” She elbows him, giggling.

“It’s my house you dolt, I’ll go missing in it as long as I want.” They can laugh together, finally, and it surprises Amber, the first time she’s seen him unwound the whole night. “What kind of peptalk did you give yourself to make your little problem go away, huh?” She asks at the last second; he uses them crossing the threshold of your kitchen as an excuse to keep mum.

“Found him, ma!” Amber presents him as he takes a seat at this godforsaken table.

Dinner is just fine. Perfect, you could say. There’s a light in Mark’s eyes you haven’t seen all night, his conversation lively and engaging. No more yes ma’am, no ma’am; no ma’am at all for the rest of the night. 

That’s not to mention the food itself. It’s immaculate, meat fall-off-the-bone tender, beans seasoned and flavorful, garlic buttered bread so good it’s got his thighs squeezing together.

But he still can’t help but think:

You’d taste so much better.

FIN

Later…

Home.

At home, he can lock himself in his room and no nosy girlfriend will come knocking. 

At home he can kick his feet up, play with his balls and beat off to the thought of you without interruption. 

But it’s odd. He smells himself, the room around him. It smells like you still, somehow. Mark thinks he’s just caught on you, olfactory giving him false signals, but before he brushes it off as a red herring, he catches another whiff of you.

Then another.

And another,

Until he’s tearing up his room looking for the source of it. Until he finds himself staring at the pair of khakis he wore. Until he’s picking them up, and realizes the outside of the pocket looks greasy—or damp.

He slowly reaches in, revealing a sad, sad pair of panties, surely missing the ass that filled them out. At first he has the sensibility to be horrified, but while holding them, cum smeared and all, he sniffs. He stifles the little groan that slips from his lips. 

Yup, that’s you alright.

He looks around like he’s being judged by the shadows, the light filtering in through the curtains. 

He closes them.

The world shouldn’t have to bear witness to his depravity.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀all writtens are penned by ©️omniphilic !

thank you so much for reading! drink some water (cause ik you thirsty), remember to reblog, & stay tuned for more writing. comments, questions or thirsts? send it to my inbox or leave a note below!

[ttjisung]

POISON p. jisung

idol!park jisung x fan!reader

in which you were convinced ndas were simply a made up concept for fangirls to get off to, that was until you you were asked to go backstage at jisung's request.

cw: mdni! smut, fem!reader, fingering, oral (f receiving), spit, p in v, protected sex :3, slight angst, jisung is down bad, overstimulation, everything is consented to!!! ^_^ i think that's all... for now. wc: (3.4k)

You were in a lucid dream. You were sure that was it – a very realistic dream in which the concert staff approached you with a request to wait until after the encore, and then follow them backstage.

Being honest, you weren’t even aware that NDA’s truly existed, labeling them as a made-up fangirl fantasy; yet here you were, in your light green and quite revealing outfit, waiting for further instruction from the two security guards that found you when you took a small bathroom break between the group’s wardrobe changes. 

Had it not been for the way your hands slightly trembled, you might’ve been able to appear confident. You wanted to look brave, because a small part of your brain told you that if you showed any anxiety, you’d be denied. The thought faded as your heartbeat quickened, recognizing Poison playing in the background. Strangely enough, NCT Dream decided to end their concert with that song, although they had already performed it once before already. Any other time, you’d be grateful considering Poison was your favorite, yet observing the members dance sensually in the black and red outfits only worsened your state, as the reality kicked in that one of them requested for you to join them backstage to do only God knows what. 

Several questions ran through your mind, the main one being who? Who of the seven had spotted you jumping along in your floor seat and decided they wanted to see you after they finished up. Truthfully – and maybe embarrassingly – you wouldn’t mind any of them. Had it been any other band, you’re sure you would’ve only desired your favorite member, yet that was what made Dream so unique: all of them were perfect. That being said, your mind immediately jumped to members like Jaemin and Haechan, who were known for being flirts. It would only make sense that the more extroverted ones would be the type to do such a thing. 

Lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t realized the concert had ended until the venue’s lights turned on and the loud buzz of the fans slowly faded out. You flinched as someone tapped your shoulder, looking around and coming face to face with one of the security guards you had met earlier, who nodded his head in the direction of the stage. “They’re back there. Let’s go.” Although your eyes were wide with shock and your skin had goosebumps, you simply followed closely behind. It wasn’t until you were led to a changing room door that the reality kicked in – you were about to meet one of your idols, and by the sound of the guards’ words, meeting wouldn’t be all you’d be doing. 

“Alright, I’ll leave now. Just knock when you’re ready, he’s already in there.” Your curiosity mixed with your anxiety at the mention of a certain ‘him’, and once the guard was gone and your nerves calmed down, you lifted your hand to knock. 

Not even three seconds later, the door opened, revealing the member who you had never expected. “Um… Hi… Come on in.” Jisung’s voice stumbled, awkwardly stepping aside to make space for you. This was weird – he truly never even crossed your mind. It’s not like you thought any of the members were innocent, they were all attractive, famous grown men. You weren’t delusional enough to believe they were inexperienced, but for some reason this seemed completely out of character for the tall male who nervously observed you as you stepped inside the room. 

“I’m not sure if they told you why I asked for you.” You shook your head, too dazed by the shock of meeting one of your favorite celebrities, alongside the reveal that Park Jisung of all people was sending NDAs to lucky fans – the realization that you were one of said fans hadn’t even kicked in yet. 

“I-I assume it’s because of… you know.” Hearing your voice grounded Jisung, who was relieved that you were nervous as well, and it wasn’t just him. Although not public knowledge, his fellow members were notorious for sleeping with fans, making him the only one who hadn’t yet. He didn’t think it was his style, too awkward to bravely invite someone like that, yet his mind changed when he saw you. 

You looked so pretty, singing along to his parts, dancing like no one else was there but you and him. You were alone, not accompanied by any friend or relative, making it even easier to avoid suspicion when the guards would approach you. There were doubts in his mind up until mid-concert, yet they faded quickly when he saw you recording him and him only during the first performance of Poison. That had to mean something, right? Surely you wouldn’t mind meeting him after, if you were so focused on him during one of the most inappropriate songs on the setlist. 

Jisung snapped out of it as you shifted tensely, looking away from him with a red face as you waited for him to answer. He found it endearing – you were so shy, even shier than him. He was glad, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of you had you been bold and initiated contact immediately. 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want- I just… You’re really, ummm…” He cursed himself mentally for stumbling, shaking his head and breathing heavily before looking you straight in your eyes with a renowned confidence. If you weren’t, then he’d have to take control of the situation. Picking himself back up, he took a step closer to you, “You’re so pretty, and I couldn’t let you leave.”

You were shocked to hear his change of tone, looking up at him as you processed the words he let out. He thought you were pretty. Your manual breathing now matched the slight tremble of your hands, and you still felt like you were dreaming. Naturally, him inviting you back here was more than enough of an implication to his attraction, yet to hear it up front and coming out of Jisung’s mouth felt different – it felt good. 

“Thank you… I’m a really big fan.” Jisung smiled at your words; obviously you were or you wouldn’t be here, but he chose not to tease you, just nodding and looking at your eyes. “What’s your name?” “It’s Y/n.” He hummed in acknowledgement, moving slightly closer once more, furthering the height difference between you two as he looked down at you in admiration.

You’re not sure if you missed when he was being shy or not. On one hand, he probably wouldn’t make many moves if he stayed reserved, yet with his new self-assured act, you felt immensely overwhelmed by every action of his. 

It wasn’t until Jisung’s hand lightly grazed against yours that you let out a small gasp, shocked by the physical contact, his skin on yours making it all too real. “I…” His words stumbled like before, yet he shook his head, regathering his thoughts and restating what he had said before. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to do anything– I like meeting fans regardless… But I really want you.” The whispered confession at the end that slipped from his mouth was enough motivation for you to finally make your first move, shocking both him and yourself as you moved closer, leaning in and placing your lips on his. 

Not leaving any time for doubt or hesitance, Jisung quickly reciprocated, placing a large hand of his on the back of your neck to push you even closer if possible. The kiss grew heavy as his other hand slipped behind your back and slightly up your mesh shirt, holding your bare waist. If there was a word to describe the scene, it’d be desperate, as his breathing became winded.

You moved your arms that laid limp on your side awkwardly to rest on his shoulders. One of your hands threaded through his hair, pulling it experimentally, and the light groan he let out at the feeling had your arousal growing, encouraging you to pull harder. The kiss became sloppy as he moved his tongue against yours, a small mix of spit falling down your lower lip, towards your chin. 

You pulled away first to catch your breath, yet Jisung chased after you, not wanting to stop. Choosing not to land his lips on yours this time, he opened his mouth, tongue coming out to lick the saliva from your face instead. The gasp that came out of you was interrupted as he moved North, once again engulfing your lips with his. The arm that was placed behind you gripped your waist, moving you alongside him as he moved both your bodies closer to a stray couch that laid in a corner of the small room. 

Jisung pulled his arms away from you for a second, sitting down first before pulling you on top of him. The new position had a heat pooling inside of you as you felt how hard he was, only growing harder as he shifted you so you’d be directly on top of his clothed dick. 

His knuckles were a harsh red color, raw from the strength he placed on your hips once he held you again. This time, instead of simply laying there, he put his hands to use, moving you against him. The friction made both of you release a soft moan, the sounds increasing from you as Jisung grew eager once more, this time leaning into your neck and sucking harshly. 

Out of instinct, your hands moved towards his hair, once again pulling it. Jisung faltered, letting out a sound that vibrated against your neck. His hands stilled for a second before continuing his actions. “Need you so bad, baby. ‘Been looking at you since the show started.” His desperate words clung to your mind, rambling as he grinded you against him, one particular tug against his covered erection causing you to shut your eyes closed in pleasure and anticipation. 

He felt and looked big, the fact that his dick was contained meaning it could only get bigger. Matching his desire, the image of it made you restless, needing to feel it in you. Your whines shifted slightly, sounding more needy, and Jisung took it upon himself to lift you off of him. He held your body with ease before placing you on the couch next to him. 

He was standing in front of your sitting figure now, appearing taller than ever, and the image slightly intimidated you, yet excited you as you saw him take his jacket off, throwing it on the floor. Your green skirt was next, tossed somewhere irrelevant as he kneeled in front of you, each hand on one of your thighs. He looked up at your face, admiring how pretty you looked – lips swollen, your hair a bit messy, and your cheeks flushed red. Returning his attention to your thighs, he looked back down, spreading them and moving closer. 

Jisung’s face matched your red one as he breathed over your clothed core, feeling as though he was in heaven. Feeling restless with desire, he finally moved his mouth over your panties. It was sloppier than the kiss, the arousal that soaked through the fabric meeting his spit, surely leaving a wet spot. Although his actions were eager, they were calculated, soon enough having you whimper as he attached himself to your clothed clit, moving his hands softly up and down your inner thighs – a contrast to his hips that were harshly bucking against the bottom of the couch, desperate for release. You tasted so good, the thought of how you’d taste with no barrier overwhelming Jisung’s mind until he finally pulled your panties down, being met with the view of your pussy. 

Almost in awe, he leaned in until both his nose and mouth were against you. The feeling of his direct touch caused you to move, instinctively shifting away from him, yet you weren’t able to get far before Jisung’s grip on your thighs grew, pulling you even closer back into him than you were originally. 

He was right – you did taste better. Feeling you twitch in his hold encouraged him, and he dove in, finding your clit almost immediately once again. One of his hands let go, yet moved back to hold you as you tried to wriggle away, overwhelmed with the pleasure. 

Jisung looked up at you, staring with an anguished expression until you maintained his eye contact. “Please… Don’t move, please.” You honestly weren’t trying to, you just weren’t used to the attention you were receiving; nonetheless, you nodded. Taking that as a signal to continue, he moved his head down, grazing his tongue against your folds as he attempted to move his hand away again, this time met with your compliance. 

The stray hand moved towards your core, using two of his long fingers to spread you open, gaining more access before moving against your hole. The wince that you released didn’t go unheard by Jisung, as he put more pressure on your clit to distract you from the slightly painful stretch of one of his fingers moving inside you, reaching knuckle-deep as he began to thrust in and out.

Blinded by all of the stimulation, you didn’t notice him adding a second finger until he began to stretch you out even further, mirroring a scissoring-motion. Jisung felt like he could cum simply from the feeling of your walls clenching around him. 

The feeling was overwhelming, and you could tell you were close. “W-Wait… Jisung… I’m gonna…” Your words were ragged, slightly panicked as you tried to move away once more. He moved his arm from your thigh to your stomach, pressing you down into the couch as he continued. “Ji… I’m gonna-” “It’s okay, baby. You can give me more than one, right?” His words sparked something in you, and before you knew it, you released. He kept thrusting his fingers inside of you, helping you ride out your high before you finally came down. Your breathing was uneven, and you looked at him through half-lidded eyes, basking in the feeling until he interrupted, standing up and taking his shirt off. His pants were unbuckled, pushed off of his legs with haste as he moved to hold you again.

Apparently self-conscious about the fact that you had come and Jisung hadn’t, you looked at his discarded pants before speaking up. “I can do the same… If you want.” He quickly shook his head, placing you on his lap again. “I just want to feel you, please.” You nodded, moving your hand down towards the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head – the tank top you had worn instead of a bra getting stuck with the mesh fabric and coming off as well. 

A whimper escaped Jisung as you revealed yourself to him, your tits right in front of his face, so full and inviting once you straddled him again. Not even bothering to hesitate, he quickly attached his mouth to your nipple, both hands stroking your lower back in soothing movements. You were growing needier and needier as he continued, desperately needing to feel him. You bucked against him, and his mouth released you to let out a whimper at the sensation. 

One hand let go of your back, pulling off his boxers until he was finally bare against you. You could feel him against your stomach, standing tall. A part of you was too nervous to look down and perceive it, yet the other, stronger part took over. His dick was prettier than any other you had seen, the tip slightly red from the blood rushing. 

The hand that remained on your back squeezed you in place as Jisung leaned over to grab a stray condom, probably one that fell out of the pocket of his pants. He moved the package up to your mouth, eyes intently looking at your lips, and you took the signal to bite the plastic, ripping it open for him. His fingers lingered on your lips for a bit, dazed and turned on by the sight, yet he quickly snapped out of it, moving the condom down and rolling it on himself. 

Once his hand became free of the rubber, Jisung’s arms lifted you up until you were hovering on top of him. Although you were on top, he felt a need to be in control, so he took it upon himself to move you, sinking you onto his dick which pulsed inside of you. The stretch was too much, and your mouth opened as a choked gasp came out, feeling every vein that ran up his shaft. You fell forward onto him, face landing on the crevice of his neck. It was clear you were a bit unprepared, shaking at the feeling of him, and Jisung grew concerned. He didn’t want this to end already, so he racked through his brain for another solution before finding one. “Go ahead, baby. Bite me.” One of his arms moved up to wrap around your neck like he did earlier, pushing you even further into his. 

You were scared you’d hurt him, clearly showing your hesitance, yet he continued to push you into him, so you caved. Your teeth grazed his neck until you were fully biting into him. Expecting Jisung to groan in pain or move away, you were shocked to hear the unholy moan that came from his mouth. He thrusted up into you unconsciously, unable to hold himself back any longer as you clenched around him, biting down on his neck harder every time his dick hit deeper. Reluctantly, you moved your mouth away from his neck, now blinded by the shifting pleasure as your stomach flipped. Both your moans echoed through the room as he bounced you on top of him.

His hand moved down from your neck to your clit, rolling circles to push you further over – succeeding as you came for the second time, collapsing onto him. Your head fell on his chest, and he held you there gently as he continued chasing his high, cumming with one last dragged out whine. 

You’re not sure if it was post-nut clarity, but after a minute of catching both of your breaths while he cradled your body you began to overthink. Jisung was a celebrity – no matter how good the sex might’ve been (and by the looks of him, it was good) he was on tour, leaving your city the day after.

Shaking your head, you ignored all the thoughts running through your head, choosing to enjoy the little time you had left with him instead of worrying. After another minute of weirdly romantic ‘cuddling’, Jisung lifted you up, placing you on the couch. He left for a bit, returning semi-clothed with a shirt of his in his hand. You recognized it as the shirt he was wearing at the encore when they said their goodbyes to the crowd. His other hand held a towel which he used to clean you up, movements exceptionally soft as you winced when he dipped the cloth lower. Once he finished, Jisung put the shirt on you. It was baggy, covering you until mid thigh.

“That was… It was really nice.” His timid voice came back as he stared at you, sitting on the floor next to the couch. You nodded, sitting up on the couch and facing him as well. “I’m sorry I can’t walk you out. The guards said I’m not allowed, but you can borrow my jacket if it’s cold.” 

You fought the disappointment rattling in your head as you nodded again, taking it from him as well as your own bundled up clothes, and thanking him. Your skirt was quickly slipped on, the protective shorts that came attached hopefully being enough to cover you. Jisung led you to the door, walking with you until you reached the exit of the building. He looked sad, and somehow the expression calmed you down – it wasn’t just you who appeared upset with the anti-climatic situation.

He waved goodbye, and you waved back quickly before stepping out. He was right, it was cold so you slipped his jacket on, fitting you big as well. It wasn’t until you walked towards your car in the venue’s parking lot that you realized an article of yours was missing - your panties to be specific. You scoffed, imagining Jisung sneaking them away before giving his clothes to you. 

Once you got home, you warmed up quickly with your AC, deciding to take his jacket off. As you shook the fabric off, a small note fell out of the pocket, and you swore once again that you were in a dream as you read the words written on it.

‘I think I’m going to miss you so here’s my number. Please message me when you see this. - Ji.'

a/n: i'm seeing jisung live again at smtown soon so my brain is running... thinking thoughts... he was so fine irl i can't wait to see my man again i'm going to run on stage and you will NOT be able to drag me off of him. anyway here are some of the thoughts i'm thinking ^_^ i hope you guys like

[xoxo-sarah]

If the Roles Were Reversed

My Wife part 2

Part 1

↝a/n: I have been given so much love for the first part and I can't express how grateful I am for it. It fills me with so much joy when people express how much they like my work. I have been asked to make a part two and who am I to say no?

↝pairing: season 1!Daryl Dixon x wife!reader

↝warning: season 1 episodes 3 & 4, angst, death, arguing, gore, zombies, typical twd stuff, not proofread, Ed

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

↝⎙ 1.25.25

Daryl Dixon masterlist

“You can't go, Daryl. Listen to me-” You threw your hands around, watching Daryl pace in front of you. The peaceful expression he once had, when he had reunited with you, was wiped clean off of his face.

He was told the news about Merle and instantly became furious. No matter how much you tried to calm him, it was no use.

His brother was out there. Daryl argued that Merle would be out there looking for him if the roles were reversed.

“Listen, there are too many.” You stepped closer, trying to make him understand, “After the racket everyone made trying to leave, I bet there’s even more now.”

“They left my brother on a roof.” You could tell he was trying his hardest not to yell at you. He was never one to take his anger out on the one person he loves more than anything in the world. He was always gentle with you, just like you deserved.

Sighing, you didn’t know how to counter that. As much as everyone who was waiting on the other side of the R.V wanted you to talk some sense into your husband, Daryl had a point. After all, he had gone out to find you, even against Merle telling him not to.

If it had been Daryl who they had left behind, you would’ve already been in the city, searching. Even if you had to go by yourself, it wouldn’t matter.

None of that changed the fact that it’s dangerous. You couldn’t let him go.

You just got him back.

“He was out of control, you know how he can get. I don’t think they had a choice.” You whispered, trying to convince yourself just as much as him.

Daryl’s nostrils flared, as he tried to calm himself. He didn’t want to lash out on you, he never did. But he was about to break. “Merle is a prick, but he’s my brother.”

With that, Daryl walked around the R.V, shoulder checking Shane, who looked disappointed that you hadn’t helped de-escalate the situation. Daryl was stubborn, there wasn’t much you could do.

Carol quickly went back to what she was doing, not wanting to seem like she was being nosey. Which didn’t do much considering everyone in the camp was waiting. After the brawl that had happened when Daryl was told about Merle, everyone was interested in how this whole situation would turn out. Everyone else tried hiding their obvious interest as Daryl came into view. You walked behind him, head hung low, defeated and slightly scared.

Daryl walked toward the box truck, ready to leave.

Rick walked over to you, “So?”

“You shook your head, “He’s not gonna change his mind. I tried.”

He nodded in understanding. Lori looked on at the interaction. She had been the one to offer Rick showing Daryl the way to Merle. She was adamant on it, but at the same time mad at him for leaving. It was almost like she was testing him, seeing if he would actually leave his family to be the heroic cop from before. She wanted him to choose her and Carl over ‘the right thing to do’.

Rick cleared his throat, “It’ll be alright,” he nodded fiddling with the gun holster before turning back around.

Glenn backed the box truck closer, Daryl impatiently standing in the back. You walked toward him when the vehicle stopped. He squinted down at you against the beating sun, watching as you climbed into the truck.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Going with you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Four’s enough.”

You didn’t care if Rick, Glenn, and T-Dog were also going. You had stayed in the city for a while, you knew your way around. Plus, you would be going for a different reason than the rest. They were going for Merle, you were going for Daryl.

“Stay here.” His voice was softer now. Truthfully, he didn’t want anything to happen to you. You were safer at the camp, with people you had grown comfortable with in such a short amount of time. “They’ll need somebody who knows how to hunt for somethin’ to eat. Fish is gonna get old fast.” You cracked a smile at his slight humor at the situation. Still, you didn’t want him to leave.

Daryl stepped closer, bringing you into his arms, his head resting on yours. The stench of sweat, dirt, and god knows what else didn’t bother either of you. He didn’t care that you didn’t smell like the sweet shampoo he loved, and you didn’t care that he didn’t smell like the body wash that you had bought him the last time you had gone to the store, or the cologne you loved.

“Keep an eye on everybody,” He kissed your forehead, mumbling against the skin, as he stayed close. “Don’t let anyone mess with ya.”

“When do I ever?” A smile threatened to make an appearance. But it wasn’t the time. He was worried about his brother.

Rick walked by, casting a glance back at the two of you, nodding. Inhaling deeply, you moved away from Daryl, jumping down from the truck. He sent you one more look before pulling the roll-up doors down. You stood there, listening to the box truck’s engine start. You continued to stand there even after the truck faded into the distance.

-

Dale watched as you fiddled with the rag he had given you to wipe the sweat off your brow. You kept fidgeting; ever since Daryl left.

He was quick to offer you to help him keep watch, but you were elsewhere ever since you climbed onto the roof of the R.V. You were trying, Dale could tell. But he saw the gears turning in your head, greased with the terrible thought of what could happen to your husband. The thought of Daryl always overpowered any other thought.

His greyed eyebrows raised as you shot up from your seat.

“Think i’m gonna go help with the laundry. To keep myself busy.” Dale didn’t say anything, only moving out of your way so you could climb down.

Making your way to the quarry, you focused on the voices in the distance and the sharp rocks under your feet. You walked past Ed, who sat comfortably in the back of the car, smoking while keeping an eye on Carol. He glanced up, taking a drag of his cigarette. Ignoring him, you carefully navigate your way down the rocks toward where Carol, Jacqui, Andrea, and Amy sat.

“Can somebody explain to me how the women wound up doing all the Hattie McDaniel work?” Jacqui grumbled, watching Shane and Carl fail at catching frogs, their laughter echoing.

“The world ended. Didn’t you get the memo?” Amy wrung the water out of a shirt, flicking hair out of her face. Carol glanced back, looking at Ed. She saw you walking toward them. Sending you a small smile. “It’s just the way it is.” Her eyes fell back to her husband.

“Care for some help?” You squinted at the group through the sun beating down into your eyes. Jacqui motioned to a turned over bucket, “Please.” Giving a tightlipped smile, you sat down ,grabbing a scrub brush and a piece of clothing.

The way the women conversated put you at ease. It was familiar. People at the office that you worked at, were exactly like them.

“I do miss my Maytag.” Carol said, scrubbing clothes against the old washboard.

“I miss my Benz, my Sat Nav.” Andrea added.

“I miss my coffeemaker with that dual-drip filter and built-in grinder, honey.” Jacqui smiled.

Amy pouted, “My computer…and texting.”

“I miss my t.v. And wine. Especially after a long day.” You groaned, remembering the days after work; where you would come home, take your shoes off and get wine and a movie ready. Daryl would come home a little later and join you.

Your reminiscing was cut short by Andrea, “I miss my vibrator.”

Stopping your scrubbing, you looked up at her, a surprised chuckle leaving your lips.

“Ohhhhh.” “Oh my God!”

Carol glanced back at Ed, “Me too.”

You laughed harder, along with the others.

“What’s so funny?”

Just like that, the atmosphere was ruined. Ed walked down, instantly taking the joy out of the air.

“Just swapping war stories, Ed,” Andrea looked back at him, before looking over at Carol. “Yeah.”

Ed walked closer. From your spot beside Carol, you could feel Ed looming behind. Carol instinctively folded in on herself, head sinking into her shoulders.

“Problem, Ed?” Andrea glared at him.

“None that concerns you,” He took another puff of his cigarette, “and you ought to focus on your work. This ain’t no comedy club.”

Andrea huffed, plopping the brush in the tin bucket.

“Just trying to make the best out of a bad situation.” You looked at him, face blank. He stared down at you. You waited for him to say something else. Surprisingly he only blew the smoke out, throwing the butt away. He stepped back, lighting another. Rolling your eyes, you turned back to the laundry. Andrea stood, walking toward him.

“Ed, tell you what, you don’t like how your laundry is done, you are welcome to pitch in and do it yourself. Here,” She threw the soaking wet piece of clothing in her hands at him.

He threw it back. Andrea gasped. “Ain't my job, missy.”

Amy stood, wanting to de-escalate the situation. She touched Andrea’s arm, “Andrea, don’t.”

“What is your job, Ed? Sitting on your ass, smoking cigarettes?”

You glanced at Carol, who sat quietly, still working.

“Well, it sure as hell ain’t listening to some uppity smart-mouthed bitch. Tell you what,” He motioned for Carol, who was out of her seat in a second. You grabbed her arm before she could fully stand up. You could see the fear and timidness in her eyes.

“C’mon, let’s go.” He continued to beckon her.

You stood, keeping a soft but comforting grip on her arm.

“I don’t think she needs to go anywhere with you, Ed.” Andrea continued.

Carol glanced up from the ground for a split second, meeting your eyes. She didn’t want to cause any more trouble. She would be dragged back to camp by Ed if that meant nothing else would happen. She knew Ed, what he was capable of.

“And I say that’s none of your business.” Ed beckoned for Carol again. “Come on, now. You heard me.”

Carol moved away from your grip. Andrea turned to her, “Carol,”

“Andrea, please. It doesn’t matter.”

Ed glared at the interaction, “Hey, don’t think I won't knock you on your ass, just ‘cause you some college-educated cooze, alright?”

Andrea scoffed at the audacity of the male in front of her. You stepped forward, grabbing Carol by the shoulder. You weren’t about to let her go with him when he was clearly becoming hostile.

“Now you come on now or you gonna regret it later.”

You softly said her name, ignoring her husband’s glare, and stepped closer to her in a protective manner.

“So she can show up with fresh bruises later, Ed?” Jacqui piped up for the first time since Ed walked over. “Yeah, we’ve seen them.”

Ed chuckled, “Stay out of this,” his harsh gaze pierced through his wife. “Now come on! You know what, this is none of y’all’s business. You don’t want to keep prodding the bull here, okay? Now I am done talkin’. Come on!”

You cringed at his words, moving in front of Carol as he walked closer. He ignored you, reaching around to grab at her arm with a harsh grip. The embarrassment was clear on her face. He pulled, knocking your balance slightly off as he yanked Carol from behind you. Her shoulder crashed into yours, feet moving in a jumble over your own.

“No. No, Carol. You don’t have-”

Carol muttered something under her breath, ignoring Andrea.

Ed swung around, spitting in Carol’s face. “You don’t tell me what! I tell you what!” His grip tightened, jagged nails biting into the soft skin of her upper arm. She whimpered quietly at the force. He raised his hand, striking her against the face. Gasping, you caught her as she fell back, grabbing her reddening cheek.

Everyone clamoured; Andrea hitting and pushing him away, you cursing him as Carol started crying. She fell further into you, as you held her protectively, hauling her away from him.

Ed was pulled back and thrown to the ground, before being dragged by the back of his shirt. Shane threw him further into to the ground, before throwing a punch, and another straight after.

“No!” Carol cried, trying to get away. Shane kept throwing punches, more skin breaking every time his fist hit Ed’s face. Carol covered her mouth, body swaying.

“Shane, stop!” “Enough! Enough!” “Just stop!”

Shane stopped, pointing a finger in Ed’s swollen and bloodied face. “You put your hands on your wife, your little girl, or anybody else in this camp one more time, I will not stop next time. Do you hear me?” He grabbed Ed’s face, squishing it in the process. “Do you hear me?!”

Ed slurred, “Yes.”

Shane let go, pointing again. “I’ll beat you to death, Ed.” With one final punch, he stood, kicking the man on the ground and walking away.

“God!” Carol cried, using strength you had never seen from her before, to break from you, running over to her husband.

-

The tension in the camp was suffocating after that. There was a tiny victory after Andrea and Amy went fishing and brought back dinner, but it was short lived. Jim had been found digging graves, which disturbed a lot of you.

Night fell and everyone began eating the fish-fry.

You smiled at Sophia as she passed the pan of fish. She was well-mannered; all thanks to Carol. She was a shy girl, but became a seemingly different kid when she was around other kids. She found friends in a world that would probably take them away before you could blink. She, along with the other kids, didn’t understand what was out there, all of the bad. They held an innocence that would be demolished in front of your eyes.

“I gotta ask you, man. It’s been driving me crazy.” One of the men that you met in the city, Morales, spoke up, directing it at Dale.

“What?”

“That watch,” he pointed at the watch on Dale’s wrist.

Dale smiled, “What’s wrong with my watch?”

Morales continued, “I see you everyday, the same time, winding that thing like a village priest saying mass.”

“I’ve wondered this myself.” Jacqui smiled.

Dale threw his hands up playfully, “I’m missing the point.”

You looked between him and his watch, the fire casting a warm gleam over it, brightening the brown leather.

“Unless I've misread the signs, the world seems to have come to an end. At least hit a speed bump for a good long while.” Jacqui shrugged her shoulders.

“But there’s you, everyday, winding that stupid watch.” Morales raised his eyebrows at the old man.

“Time- it’s important to keep track, isn’t it? The days, at least. Don’t you think, Andrea? Back me up here.”

They shared a knowing look, their faces glowing in the fire from where you sat. She sent him a seemingly warning glare, but his smile didn’t falter.

“I like- I like what, um, a father said to son when he gave him a watch that had been handed down through generations. He said “I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire, which will fit your individual needs no better than it did mine or my father’s before me; I give it to you not that you may remember time, not that you may forget it for a moment now and then, and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it.””

Huh,” Morales nodded at the answer, not really expecting it.

Everyone sat in silence around the fire, before Amy broke it, “You are so weird.”

Laughter echoed as you took a swig of beer. It wasn’t wine, but it wasn’t pure water so it would do.

“It’s not me. It’s Faulkner, William Faulkner.”

Amy rolled her eyes at Dale.

The older man chuckled, “Maybe my bad paraphrasing.”

Amy stood, walking away from the fire. Andrea stopped her, “Where are you going?”

“I have to pee.” The younger sister raised her brows, “Jeez, you try to be discreet around here.” She quickly walked off, toward the R.V.

Dale turned to you, “What about you? You fiddle with that on your wrist.” You looked down at the bulky thing around your wrist. “Was my dog’s collar.” Dale’s smile turned sad. While rushing out of your house, you had grabbed the collar from the leash you would walk her around the block with. Her name was embroidered; a gift from Daryl when he first surprised you with a puppy.

You tightened it into a bracelet, holding her memory close. Truthfully, you had forgotten about it being on your wrist. You didn’t notice how much you fidgeted with it. Dale did, when you were on watch with him.

You didn’t think about the dog for long.

The R.V door opened, and Amy stepped out. “We’re out of toilet paper?” She yelled. Before she could get an answer, a hand grabbed her forearm from behind the other side of the door. She stood in shock as a walker moved closer to her. She screamed, feeling the walker bite down.

Your head instantly snapped up, eyes growing wide at the sight. More walkers came from each direction, limping forward. Everyone screamed, jumping up. Parents grabbed their kids, others grabbed weapons. Gunshots echoed, making your ears ring. You were quick to instinctively reach for your gun. Unfortunately, that gun was still in Glenn’s bag with no bullets.

A hand on your shoulder had you swiveling around, pushing the walker that simply snarled at you. Pushing with all your strength, you didn’t wait for it to hit the ground before you were running.

Another walker stumbled toward you from behind, dirty nails digging into your skin. This walker was closer, a stench wafting into your nose before you could push it away. You tried, but from the angle in which the walker had grabbed you, you could only push its head away, fingers avoiding its snipping teeth.

You screamed, still hearing Shane unload his gun in the distance.

Andrea wailed, watching another walker bite a gash out of Amy’s shoulder, right where her neck meets it.

The grip tightened on you, making you hiss. Their nails were long and had the bite to prove it. One final hit had the walker staggering back, grip falling off. You turned, running toward the R.V, where Shane, Lori, Carol, Morales, and their families were. More gunfire rang out.

Making it to the vehicle, you turned back, seeing Daryl and the others coming out of the woods. He was the first out, head snapping in ebery direction. The other were soon to follow.

Daryl spotted you. He looked around, making sure no more walkers were around, before running toward you. Your bodies collided, knocking the breath out of your lungs.

He pulled back, “You hurt?”

“No, i don’t think- I don’t know.”

You were in shock, your jumbled words and wide eyes proving it. You couldn’t think. You rubbed where you were scratched.

In your time since the world ended, you had hidden in the top floor of a building. If you were ever met with danger, you always had a gun or knife handy.

Tonight, you were completely unprepared.

In the dark, you couldn't tell if the skin of your arm was broken. Clinging back to Daryl, you turned your head to where Andrea laid beside Amy. Blood pooled around them. Amy’s body went limp, sending Andrea to sobs. Closing your eyes tightly, you turned back to Daryl, pushing your face into his neck. He held you close, hiding the shake in his hands.

He had heard your scream.

That’s what had him running through the woods with only you in mind, leaving the other behind.

Part 3

•2021-2025 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I don't give permission!]

Tags from the last chapter who wanted part 2: @notmirnda @vomiting-blood @i93jjk @multifandomfan @gaudesstuff @cymbalta-slut

[umamaki]

FALSE GOD ! caleb x reader

CONTAINS l&ds caleb, female reader, hurt/comfort, explicit smut, pwp, size kink if squint, caleb gloves mentioned, car sex, gendered pet names, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, edging, brief inappropriate use of evol, language, possessiveness, make up sex yay, lmk what i miss. wc 1.4k

NOTE i had an itch and i scratched it… 

divider by saradika_graphics

“There’s my girl.” 

The roof of the parking lot is supposed to be empty. Your car is the only one parked and you certainly hadn’t heard another pair of footsteps accompanying yours just now. 

You don’t allow yourself a chance to be startled by the familiar voice cutting through the night’s silence as the revolver once snug in your waistband is aimed at their throat. 

Nothing—nothing could’ve prepared you for who was at the other end. There did not exist a single universe where you would’ve been able to correctly guess, unless it’s one where dead men come back alive.

“Caleb?” It was barely a whisper, but the soft wind carried your voice to his ears. You falter and step back. The gun still points at him but it’s your arms that only slightly weaken. 

“So it really is you,” he looks different, matured. He’s grown taller and gained weight. There’s a mix of desperation and relief in the way he looks at you, “you haven’t changed a bit, Love.”

There’s a hint of a tease in his tone, but he doesn’t mean it. He watches you with bated breath, gauging your reaction. 

You finally snap out of it.

“What the fuck, Caleb? I thought you died!” Anger overcomes your initial shock. Betrayal, too. You raise the gun back at his throat, your grip on it tightening. 

“And here I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

“I don’t know where the hell you’ve been. But you know, you really had me fucking convinced.”

“Don’t be so naive. I did what I had to do.” 

“Like what, lie? To me? That’s bullshit and you know it.” His face gets blurry with every tear that begins to cloud your vision. You hastily blink them away, just to see him in clarity again. “You were my best friend.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He steps forward. He uses one hand to lower your gun away from his body, and the other to wipe the tears flowing down your cheek. He bows down to where his face is level with yours, “so let me make it up to you.”

He finally embraces you. His face is buried into your shoulder and he holds you so tightly that you can hardly muster up enough breath to tell him to relax. He smells like home. 

“I missed you, you know. I missed you the whole time. You’re my girl, after all.” He looks you in the eyes and there’s earnest in every part of him, you don’t doubt it. 

“I thought I lost you,”

“I’m here now. Let me take care of you, make up for the time we lost, hm?”

He ghosts his lips up over yours but waits for your confirmation. You don’t hesitate to close the gap. He immediately devours your mouth with his, kissing you back with such fervor that you are firmly pressed against the side of your car. 

You think you feel drops of rain fall down on you, but Caleb is quick. He opens the your back door and positions you at the entrance. 

“And look what I can do now,” his hands settle on the top edge of the door and you’re not sure why that is, until you feel an invisible force thrust you to lay across the back seats. The top of your head brushes against his knuckles but it doesn’t hurt. 

The door is slammed shut and Caleb is immediately back on you, wasting no time in kissing and sucking a trail down from your jaw to your neck. 

“We probably shouldn’t.” He’d changed over the time he was gone, that part was true. He carried around an air of danger and sin. However you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just the least bit tempted by it. 

“Yeah? Says who? There’s no one else here but us.” You gasp when he nips your neck where your pulse is, soothing it with his tongue afterwards. “You’re a big girl now, aren’t you? Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

His hands circle your inner thigh. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing to you. You’re practically soaked through to your pants. You regret what you said and shake your head, taking it back. 

“What is it? Use your words baby,”

“Don’t stop. Please, Caleb, don’t stop.”

He parts from your neck and lowers himself to make out with your tits through your clothes. The pressure coming from him and the friction of your clothes rubbing against your sensitive nipples causes a moan of pleasure to escape from your lips. 

You kick off your shoes and he helps with pulling both your pants and underwear off with one fluid motion. He positions your thighs to rest atop each of his shoulders, sloppily kissing the inside of them. Your hands naturally find themselves grasping his hair. 

“This all for me?” He begins with a tentative lick to your clit, but it’s not enough. You pull him closer to your heat through his hair, all the confirmation he needs to fully make out with your pussy. 

“Ngh—Caleb…” You whimper his name in between moans. Your heels involuntarily dig into his back, hard, but still he doesn’t budge. He sucks on your clit and licks at your folds with the same intensity as before. 

“You taste good, baby. All mine.” He rises to kiss you, failing to neglect your lower half as his gloved fingers plunge themselves in your aching hole, thumb rubbing circles on your clit. 

The warmth inside you increases with each thrust of Caleb’s fingers. Your moans become louder and you become limp in his hold. You’re ready to reach your climax, so when he abruptly rips his fingers out of you, you can’t help but let out a whine. 

You’re out of breath and confused. In your haze, he pulls off his belt and frees his hard cock from his pants, stroking it for a moment of relief. 

He was big. Not surprising, given the way his body fills up the enclosed space of your car. Everything about him was so, so big. 

He appears to be able to read your mind. “You can take it, can’t you?” To that you answer with a nod, eyes not leaving his length. “Good girl.”

You’re still sensitive from when he fingered you and the subsequent intrusion is a mix of pleasure and pain. He takes satisfaction in seeing you take him so well, inch by inch. He likes how your pretty mouth hangs open and how your belly rises and falls with each labored breath. 

After what feels like an eternity, he’s stretched you out to the hilt. You’re convinced you’ve never felt so utterly and completely full as you do now. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He presses a hand down on your stomach solely to feel himself inside you. 

“Just, move. Please—” You’re growing desperate and restless. 

“Is that the tone you want to use with me?” He draws back so only his tip remains inside you. “But since you said please…” You scream when his cock slams back in and starts going at a ruthless pace. You hear lightning strike in the distance.

“Fuck fuck, Feels s’good Caleb—” 

“That’s it, pretty girl. You’re doing so well. Missed this so much.”

Your orgasm comes fast this time. It’s blinding and encompassing and it takes all your breath away. He takes you through it, continuing his pace and rubbing your clit for added relief. He follows suit soon after, finishing inside you with one last thrust and collapsing on top of you without pulling out. The weight is comfortable, warm. 

Your windows are covered in a layer of fog and the rain outside has become a wet downpour. The muffled sound of raindrops surround the two of you and you think you could fall asleep in this exact moment.  

“I’m still mad at you.” Your hands find their way back to playing with his hair.

He chuckles and his whole body vibrates as he does, “I know, Babygirl. I know.”

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 06

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, fluff, angst, arguing :’(, jk’s an asshole in this i’m sorry, (eventual) explicit sexual content, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.6k

notes: okay first of all, i’m SO sorry for the wait. second of all, this chapter was meant to be much longer but i split it into two :< anyways, likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are sooo appreciated!! enjoy (?) reading my angels <33 (and pls don’t hate me </3)

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⤷ chapter six — tv

“and i’ll be in denial for at least a little while / what about the plans we made.”

The kitchen is quiet, only filled by the soft buzz of the fridge and the distant sound of waves. You take a slow sip from your mug, fingers curled around the ceramic.

The coffee's still warm, just the way you like it — strong, slightly bitter, just enough milk to soften the edge. You’d made Jungkook’s the same way you always have. You didn’t even think about it. Just moved through the motions like you’ve done a hundred mornings before.

But that was nearly half an hour ago.

His mug is still sitting on the counter. Steam long gone, surface barely warm. You glance at it for the third — maybe fourth — time, as if expecting it to have vanished. It hasn’t. It’s still there, untouched.

And so is the space beside you.

You haven’t seen him since waking up.

You’d stirred sometime around eight, alone. No arm slung over your waist, no weight shifting the mattress beside you, no sleepy grumble against your shoulder. Just cold sheets and a quiet room. The fan was still spinning overhead lazily, and the only thing on the nightstand that hadn’t been yours was a single bottle of water.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a few minutes after that.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t let yourself get used to waking up like that again. If you hadn’t let it feel like something.

But you did, because you always do, with him. Even now.

So when you eventually got out of bed, you made two cups of coffee. One for you. One for him.

You tell yourself it was just habit. But that’s only half-true.

Because the other half — the part you don’t say out loud — is that you were kind of hoping he’d show up.

That you could sit across from him, trade casual conversation, build your way back into something steady enough to finally ask the things you’ve been swallowing down since the breakup. Finally ask the things you wanted to ignore last night when you kissed him.

What happened?

What changed?

Why did it feel like he was ready to spend the rest of your life with you, and then suddenly, he wasn't?

You’ve been sitting with those questions for weeks. Letting them settle into your bones. Last night had started to smooth out the edges. That kiss, the way he held you, the weight of him tucked against your back — none of it felt like someone who’d let go for good.

But this morning?

This morning feels like the reset button was hit again. Like you’re back at square one.

And it’s starting to scare you.

You take another sip from your mug.

It’s not just that he left. It’s the fact that you have no idea where he went, or why, or when he’s coming back. It’s that your questions are still sitting in your chest, unanswered. It’s that his coffee is still sitting in front of you, lukewarm.

It’s that you keep hoping for something that keeps slipping away.

And sure, it could be nothing. He could walk into the kitchen any minute and prove that all of your overthinking was for nothing and place a kiss against your temple as he silently confirms that you guys are finally okay again. But as you stare down at nothing in specific, eyes unfocused on the ground, you can't ignore the feeling that it's not going to be that easy.

A hand waving in front of your face breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Hello? Earth to ___?"

You blink and turn to find Kiara standing in front of you, one brow raised, one hand waving dramatically in front of your face.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling back a little, caught off guard. “You scared me.”

She grins. “I said your name twice. Thought you died standing up.”

You force a breath through your nose, trying to ease the tension from your shoulders. “Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Clearly,” Kiara says, folding her arms as she leans back against the island across from you. “You were staring at that coffee like you were possessed or something.”

You glance back down at Jungkook’s mug. The coffee inside has gone a dull, murky brown. It's oddly fitting.

“Just thinking,” you murmur.

Kiara gives you a long look, tilting her head slightly. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

You expect her to pivot the conversation, maybe ask what time you’re heading to the beach, or what’s for breakfast.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, softer now, “Is everything okay with you and Jungkook?”

Your stomach drops, and you're too slow to catch the surprise on your face before it shows.

She doesn’t look accusatory. Just curious. Maybe a little concerned.

You think about what Jungkook said — that your acting sucks.

Clearly, he was more right than you gave him credit for if this is the second time someone has thought that something was off between you two.

You give Kiara a tight smile, trying to play it off. “Of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end and Kiara’s face shifts. Her eyes narrow, expression flattening just a little.

God. You suck at this.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

And when you glance past her, you realise Ari and Yasmine are both in the kitchen now too. You didn’t even hear them come in. They're hovering by the counter, not pretending they didn’t hear the conversation. Yasmine raises her eyebrows at you as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

You laugh, the sound a little too loud and a little too fake.

“No, seriously. There’s nothing going on. We’re totally fine,” you insist. You try to make it sound breezy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But there’s this edge of strain in your tone that even you can hear now.

Yasmine exchanges a quick glance with Ari. Ari raises a single brow.

“____,” Kiara says, and her voice almost sympathetic. “We love you to death. If anything if going on, you can tell us. We will fight that man if needed.”

You snort at the ridiculousness of the offer, trying to ignore the way they're all watching you.

“Okay, maybe don’t plan my best friend’s murder right in front of me,” Jimin says around a half-yawn, wandering into the kitchen. His hair is a mess — flattened on one side and fluffy on the other — and his hoodie is inside out. His expression, though, is amused as hell.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It’s half a laugh, really — short and quiet, but enough to break the tension hanging over you. Your shoulders drop just slightly.

“No one said murder,” Kiara replies, looking entirely unbothered. “We said ‘fight.’ With fists. Maybe knees.”

“Maybe a little arson,” Yasmine adds, chewing on the edge of a strawberry she pulled from the fridge.

Jimin walks past them and reaches up to grab a granola bar from the top shelf. “You know I’m contractually obligated to defend Jungkook’s honour,” he says through a yawn, unwrapping the bar. “Even if he’s being an idiot. Which, to be fair, is frequent.”

“Then maybe pass that message along,” Ari says, deadpan.

He finally glances toward you then, eyes briefly scanning your face. He doesn’t say anything — and thankfully, he doesn’t ask — but something in his expression softens. Like he can see the way you’re slightly curled in on yourself, even if you’re trying to fake calm.

The semi-circle of concern around you shifts a little to make room for him, and he steps into it without hesitation, granola bar still in hand. It’s oddly comforting, how casually he folds into the space — like maybe if he acts normal, things will be normal.

And you’re grateful for it. The way attention slides off you and onto Jimin’s sudden presence.

You sip your coffee again, and it tastes slightly better now. Or maybe it’s just that your heart’s not pounding against your ribs anymore.

“Actually, I actually need to tell you guys something,” Jimin says once he’s halfway through the bar, mouth still kind of full. “Before everyone disappears into the sand for the rest of the day.”

You tilt your head, turning slightly more in his direction.

Jimin finishes chewing, wipes his hands on the front of his hoodie — inside-out tag flipping up in the process — and leans casually against the counter.

“Okay,” he starts, tone turning slightly serious. “This doesn’t leave this room. At least not yet.”

Immediately, all of you perk up.

“Oh my god,” Kiara says, leaning in. “Are we finally getting the tea?”

“Someone’s pregnant,” Yasmine whispers like it’s a wild theory, eyes wide.

“Wrong group,” Ari deadpans.

You snort.

“No one’s pregnant,” Jimin says. “But something is happening. And it’s big. So, swear you won’t say anything to Haeun.”

You all nod in varying degrees of seriousness. A chorus of “obviously” and “duh”s.

“Seokjin’s proposing.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Not because no one saw it coming — but because even when you expect something, hearing it said out loud hits differently.

“No way,” Ari breathes.

“Finally,” Yasmine grins, clapping once. “She’s going to lose it.”

“I knew it,” Kiara says, not even pretending to be surprised. “He’s been acting weird since we got here.”

“Super obvious,” Ari agrees. “He kept spacing out yesterday during volleyball. I asked him if he was okay and he just said, ‘Just picturing things.’ I thought he meant, like… strategy?”

You set your coffee down, half-smiling. “That man has never strategised a day in his life.”

Jimin nods, serious. “Exactly. So, the plan is— he’s doing it the day after tomorrow. Right at sunset. On the back deck. He wants to keep it lowkey but still romantic. Just the group, nothing flashy. He’s got this whole thing with the fairy lights and stuff. It’s very... Jin.”

Yasmine clasps her hands together with a little squeal. “Do we get to be part of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at her. “Actually, he wants you to take pictures. Nothing major. Just candids. And the rest of us just need to, like, not make it weird.”

“What do you mean not make it weird?” Ari asks.

“I mean like… don’t swarm them,” Jimin says. “Don’t make it a whole scene. Just let it happen and then we can scream after she says yes.”

You all nod.

“God, they’re gonna be so annoying and in love,” Kiara sighs. “Good for them. Can’t wait.”

Jimin’s expression softens as he talks — and you can tell how much this means to him. How long he’s probably been sitting on it. How relieved he is to finally let it out. He’s one of Jin’s closest friends — the fact that Jin looped him in says everything.

“Wait, does Haeun know anything?” Ari asks.

“Not a clue,” Jimin says, grinning. “She thinks she’s just getting a sunset drink on the deck with Jin tomorrow before dinner. Meanwhile, he’s been carrying around the ring like it’s a live bomb.”

“She’s gonna be a mess,” you say quietly, voice warm.

"They're both gonna be a mess," Kiara replies, and you smile.

Honestly, it feels good to think about something else — to imagine someone else’s future for a while. One that's good and certain.

Not murky. Not lukewarm. Not tangled up in old habits and unfinished questions.

And just as that lightness settles in — just as you feel your chest unclench, just a little — the glass doors behind you slide open with a low hiss.

Everyone freezes.

The sliding door clicks back into place, the sound of it too sharp in the sudden stillness. Jimin’s eyes dart past you. Kiara, mid-sip of her drink, lowers her glass. No one says anything.

Your breath catches as you look over Yasmine's shoulder.

Please not Haeun, you think. Pleasepleaseplease.

Jungkook.

Helmet in one hand, motorbike keys hooked around two fingers on the other.

You're heart tugs with relief.

You’re glad he’s here.

Not because things are fine. Not because you know what you’re going to say. But because not knowing where he was all morning had started to eat at you, slow and annoying and persistent. Like something you couldn’t scratch out of your skin.

Jimin’s the first to speak.

“Fuck, man,” he says, twisting toward the door. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Haeun.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

He steps further into the kitchen, the door soft-clicking shut behind him, and sets the helmet down on the island with a dull thud. The keys land beside it with a jingle. The whole group relaxes and the conversation starts backs up, but you’re barely tracking it.

Your eyes stay on Jungkook.

And his eyes don’t quite stay on you, but they flicker. Once. Then back down.

He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a mug from the same shelf you used earlier.

You pause, glancing at the mug still sitting beside your own on the counter. You hesitate for a second before you slide it toward him with your fingertips.

“Here,” you say. “I made one for you already.”

He pauses mid-motion, the clean mug in his hand, and his eyes drop to the one you nudged forward, then back up at you.

“I’m fine. Thanks though." He gives you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh.

Okay.

Maybe he just wants tea or something. You've never known him to be a tea person, but you don't dwell on it that much.

You're already moving to shrug it off when you catch a glance — just over the rim of your mug — of him moving back toward the coffee pot, and you watch, with a slow-burning disbelief, as he starts making the exact same cup of coffee that’s still sitting in front of him.

Same brand. Same scoop. Same splash of milk from the fridge. He reaches for the sugar and adds the same amount.

You stare.

Seriously?

You don’t say it out loud, but it hovers in your expression. Long enough that Ari, who’s been half-listening while peeling a clementine beside you, gives you the smallest nudge with her elbow.

You don’t even glance at her.

Your eyes are still on Jungkook.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

The air shifts around you and it feels like you’ve suddenly dropped into a scene you weren’t given the script for. Because it’s not about the coffee, really. It’s never just about the coffee.

It’s about how easily he dismissed it. Dismissed you so easily, as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

And maybe it’s petty, but come on. You made that cup for him. It wasn’t some random gesture. You got up, went through the routine, thought about what he’d want, even left it sitting there like a peace offering. And he’d rather go through the whole process again himself than take what you’d already done for him?

Fine.

You sip your own drink again, and try tune back into the conversation.

Jimin is talking about how Seokjin tried to smuggle the ring through airport security without Haeun seeing. Kiara makes a joke about hiding it in his shampoo bottle. Yasmine laughs so hard she nearly drops her bowl of strawberries.

And for a moment, it’s fine.

You even smile a little. Force yourself to pull your eyes away from Jungkook and land somewhere safer — like Jimin’s dramatic re-enactment of Seokjin’s TSA panic face.

But when your gaze flicks back, just for a second, you find Jungkook leaning against the opposite counter, sipping his freshly made coffee like he didn’t just say a whole lot by saying nothing.

And you don’t say anything either. Because what are you going to do — call him out for rejecting your cup of coffee?

So you let the conversation keep moving. You nod along. You laugh in the right places. You keep your expression neutral. Maybe a little too neutral.

But your jaw is just the tiniest bit tight. And your fingers wrap around your mug a little firmer than before.

Guess you weren't just overthinking after all.

The rain starts as a mist before quickly turning into a steady downpour.

You and Haeun are halfway back from the beach by the time it hits properly. She doesn’t bother running, and neither do you. You just glance up once at the thick, grey sky and laugh a little under your breath. She grins beside you, jogging lightly as she shakes water out of her ponytail.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she says, smug.

You’d been adamant about it, insisting that it would be warm as usual when you asked Haeun to come swim with you. She’d shown you her weather app and you’d waved it off with a dramatic, “Those things are never right.” Now, soaked halfway to the bone and blinking through the drizzle, you’re starting to eat your words.

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

By the time you step inside the house through the glass sliding doors, your legs are lightly dusted with sand and your hair is sticking to the sides of your neck, still damp from the ocean, and now slightly tangled from the breeze.

It’s warmer in the house, and for the first time since the trip started, everyone is inside. No one has slipped off to the beach or disappeared with a book to some random corner of the deck.

You brush your fingers through your hair absently as you kick off your flip flops near the threshold. Haeun’s already moved toward the kitchen, mumbling something about tea, leaving you to linger for a second by the open space where the wooden floor transitions into the living room rug.

Jimin and Taehyung are on the floor by the coffee table, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths with miserable aim and laughing at their failures. Ari’s curled up with Namjoon on one end of the abnormally large couch that takes up almost half of the room, the two of them watching something muted on the TV while Kiara and Yasmine scroll through their phones on the floor beside them, bickering about which photos to post later.

And there's Jungkook.

He's sitting on the other end of the couch, knees propped up, thumbing idly through something on his phone.

He looks calm. Not relaxed, exactly — Jungkook doesn’t really do relaxed when he’s spaced out, but his shoulders aren’t hunched like they were this morning, and his jaw isn’t clenched. He just sits there scrolling.

You hadn’t seen him on the beach. You’re not even sure where he’d gone off to all morning, after the coffee exchange that had been awkward enough to replay itself in your brain on loop.

It’s not that you’re trying to obsess, but it’s hard not to notice when someone you used to know inside out starts moving like a stranger.

You take a slow breath, brushing your hand down your thigh once — a nervous gesture you don’t bother disguising — and cross the rest of the living room, stepping carefully over Taehyung’s outstretched legs as you make your way toward the couch.

There’s an open space beside Jungkook and you decide take it.

But before you can even properly sit down or bring up your knees to get comfortable, Jungkook's already standing.

You watch as he crosses the living room and drops down into the armchair beside Yoongi without a single word, disbelief painting your features for a second before reel your expression back to neutral.

You don’t look at anyone.

You definitely don’t look at Jungkook.

Instead, you keep your gaze pinned to the muted television in front of you — some vaguely familiar movie playing with the subtitles on — and try to ignore the way your heartbeat has picked up in your ears.

It’s not a big deal. Not technically. Maybe he just wanted to sit by Yoongi. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Again.

But still.

Still.

You cross one leg over the other, trying to breathe through the stiffness now crawling up the back of your neck. You can feel a strand of hair clinging to your collarbone. You reach up and tuck it behind your ear just to do something with your hands.

“Hey,” Jimin says suddenly from the floor, glancing back toward you, “you two get caught in the rain?”

You force your mouth into a small smile. “A little.”

“Dumbasses,” Taehyung says fondly, tossing a kernel of popcorn that smacks Jimin square in the cheek. “Told you it was gonna pour.”

“It’s barely even raining,” Haeun calls from the kitchen, voice slightly muffled from the distance.

You hum in agreement, mostly to say something, but your voice barely makes it out. You don’t think anyone notices.

Except maybe Kiara, who glances at you briefly from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough to make you shift in your seat.

You try not to look again. At him.

You fail.

Jungkook’s posture hasn’t changed — one arm resting on the armrest, the other slung low in his lap. He’s facing the TV, but his gaze isn’t fixed on anything in particular.

This isn’t normal. Not even close.

Not that anything has been normal since the breakup, but this is different. Cold in a way he’s never been with you — even when you fought. Even when you broke up.

It’s the kind of distance that doesn’t come from anger. It’s more deliberate than that.

And you really don’t know what you did to deserve it.

The rain doesn’t last. It trails off sometime after the movie ends — not that you can remember a single scene of it — and by the time it does, the sky outside is starting to dip in colour.

You keep your eyes on your hands, loosely folded in your lap, while the rest of the group starts to migrate back outside into the pool and the beach. Someone tugs open the back door and lets the salt-heavy breeze rush back in. Kiara walks past and ruffles your hair lightly, says something about joining them soon. You nod, even though you’re not sure you will.

You don’t even register Jungkook until he’s moving past the arm of the couch.

“Jungkook,” you say.

He stops just in front of the door to the front.

He doesn’t turn fully. Just glances over his shoulder, enough to let you know he heard.

You stand before your courage can second-guess you. “Can we talk?”

A beat of silence passes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

It takes you a second to process his words.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting.

“I just—” Jungkook shifts, hand flexing at his side like he’s trying not to clench it. “I think we’re handling things fine. Everyone still believes us, right? That’s the whole point.”

You stare at him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He exhales, but doesn't respond.

“I’m not talking about the deal. I’m talking about you— us— and the fact that you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“I haven’t—”

“Yes, you have,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “You wouldn’t even look at me this morning. You’ve barely said more than three words since last night.”

“I thought you wanted space,” he says quietly, finally turning around to face you. “I figured, after yesterday, that it’d be easier if I just gave you room.”

“Easier?” you echo. “For who?”

He swallows. His gaze drops. You can see the tension in the way his shoulders pull in slightly, like he’s trying to fold himself smaller.

“I’m just trying not to make this harder than it already is."

Your chest tightens, something sharp rising behind your ribs. There’s a line between being careful and being cowardly, and you don’t know when Jungkook crossed it — only that he’s already miles past it now, still walking away from a conversation he won’t even let you have.

“And moving when I sit beside you— what’s that supposed to be?” you ask. “Because if that’s you being careful, it really fucking sucks.”

His jaw twitches.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Jungkook? Because you’re not talking to me. You won’t even look at me.”

His lips part like he wants to say something before he stops himself.

You wait, but he doesn’t answer.

He just stands there in silence, eyes unreadable, like he’s scared whatever comes out of his mouth next will be the wrong thing.

And that frustrates you more than anything else.

Because you just want the truth, not silence. Even if it hurts. Even if it means hearing him say that he doesn't love you anymore. Because at least, then you’d know.

You cross your arms slowly, swallowing the lump that has started forming in your throat.

“You can’t just fucking kiss me one day and ignore me the next.”

“Look, I’m—” He exhales harshly. “I’m sorry the kiss didn’t mean anything, okay?

You freeze.

Something inside you falters, buckles under the weight of it. You try to breathe around the burn clawing up your throat, but the room suddenly feels too stuffy.

You press your nails into your palms. You can feel your pulse there — quick, shallow, and it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment. You don't trust yourself to speak, so you don't.

Jungkook's voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “We only have to do this shit for one more day. That’s it. I’ll stay out of your way until then, and when it’s over, we can pack our bags, go home, and you never have to talk to me again.”

You stand there for half a second too long. Long enough for the silence to feel thick again. Long enough to think — maybe he’ll take it back, or stop you. Maybe he’ll say something else.

But he doesn’t, so you turn.

You walk away, footsteps too loud against the hardwood. Your throat is tight, your chest worse. You make your way outside and up the stairs into you room, shutting the door with a quiet click — not because you're calm, but because slamming it would mean he still matters enough to make you angry.

And right now, you're trying not to let him matter at all.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall, trying to will yourself not to cry.

You don’t win that one. Not completely.

But you wipe away your tears before they can stain your face, because if anyone comes looking, you’ll lie. If he comes looking, you won’t open the door.

Still, you wait for the sound of footsteps outside the room.

None come.

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ dad johnny 'soap' mactavish

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ johnny's teenage son comes home crying

cw : angst, comfort, can be read in the same universe as this.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  collection

The house was quiet.

It was a rare moment of peace in the Mactavish home. Seven kids, it hadn’t been easy, but there was nothing Johnny would change about his life. He loved the noise, the mess, the laughter, the tears… all of it. If anything, he would’ve had even more kids. But that hadn’t been possible.

The last pregnancy had taken a heavy toll on you. After six deliveries, anyone would’ve thought your body was used to it. And with modern medicine, it should’ve gone smoothly.

But it didn’t.

You lost a dangerous amount of blood. The baby had nearly died, choking on his umbilical cord.

It had been a nightmare, for you, and for Johnny. It changed everything. Any desire for another child vanished overnight. He went as far as getting a vasectomy. He wasn’t going back to condoms, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to put you through any contraception that might mess with your body.

So, a vasectomy it was.

Now Johnny was enjoying a cigarette, sitting with a cup of tea in the middle of his kitchen. The night was winding down. His babies were safe in their beds, his wife sound asleep, warm, soft, waiting for him.

Only one was missing.

Callum had gone to a party tonight. He was due back in ten minutes, so Johnny waited. He always waited. He needed to know where all his bairns were before he could close his eyes. That nagging feeling never went away when one of them was out for the night—sleepovers, school trips, didn’t matter.

He couldn’t help it. It was just in him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys in the front door, right on time. He’d raised them well, his babies.

Johnny smiled softly, but the smile vanished the second his fifteen-year-old son stepped into the kitchen. Callum looked devastated, tired and scared. Johnny’s heart cracked at the sight.

He stood up quickly, hurrying over to him, eyes scanning from head to toe, searching for anything, an injury, a burn, a scratch, anything that might explain why his boy looked like that. His hands landed gently on Callum’s shoulders as he met his son’s tear-filled blue eyes.

It happened in an instant, Callum burst into tears and threw himself into his father’s arms.

If there was one thing Johnny had always been good at, aside from demolition, it was being a dad. He never raised his voice, never laid a hand on his bairns. He hugged them, kissed them, made sure they knew they were loved. Even his teenage boys weren’t ashamed to ask for a hug now and then. That’s how Johnny knew he was doing something right. His was his kids' safe place. 

He held Callum tight, steady and strong, the way he always had.

“What’s going on?” Johnny whispered, anxiety chewing through him like acid. He’d take a bullet to the head a second time if it meant keeping his babies safe. “Are ye hurt, baby?”

Callum shook his head between sobs, his whole body trembling. He clung to Johnny like a drowning boy clutching a lifeboat, desperate and terrified. Johnny could feel the panic radiating off him, could hear it in every broken breath.

Something had happened. Something bad. And Johnny’s gut twisted with a fear he hadn’t felt since his days on the battlefield.

That’s how they stayed for a few minutes, standing in the kitchen, the clock ticking toward midnight, while the youngest cried heavy, aching tears into his father’s shirt.

It was a sight Johnny never wanted to see, one of his grown bairns breaking like that, crying their heart out. To him, they were sacred. Precious. Pure souls who shouldn't have to carry pain of any kind.

Not his kids. Not ever.

“Tell me what happened,” Johnny asked gently, his voice low and steady. “Ye ken you can tell me anything.” He whispered again, softer this time, trying to soothe his boy. 

One hand moved slowly up and down Callum’s back, the other gently stroking his hair, reassurance in every touch.

“It’s Ethan…” came the answer, barely louder than a breath. If Johnny hadn’t been listening so closely, he might’ve missed it.

Ethan. Simon’s son. Callum’s best friend.

“Is he hurt?” It was the first thought that hit Johnny like a punch to the chest.

Those boys were tied together like true brothers. He couldn’t imagine Ethan ever doing anything to harm Callum. And he couldn’t imagine Callum breaking like this unless something serious had happened.

Johnny trusted Simon, he knew the kind of father he was. A bit more stern than Johnny himself, maybe, but firm in love and always ready to listen. Their sons had grown up in that shared foundation.

If something had happened to Ethan, Johnny needed to know. He had to.

“No,” Callum whimpered, barely above a whisper, looking up at his father.

There was something in his eyes. Something Johnny hadn’t expected. Fear.

Johnny’s chest tightened. It wasn’t fear for something, it was fear of him. And that shattered him.

For a moment, he just stared, eyebrows furrowed deep, trying to understand. Hadn’t he always been gentle? Hadn’t he held them through every scrape and heartbreak, never raising his voice, never judging? Hadn’t he proven, time and again, that he would protect them from anything?

How could his boy—his boy—be afraid of him?

“Tell me, baby,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick as he pulled Callum’s head back against his chest. He wasn’t ready for his son to see the tears gathering in his own eyes. That look, that fear,had cut deeper than anything else ever had. “Ye dinnae have to be scared, Cal. Not with me. Never.”

After those words, Johnny felt his son’s arms tighten around him, so tight it was almost suffocating. Callum clung to him like he was the last safe place in the world, and the tears didn’t stop. His sweet boy, always the pleaser, was trying to stifle his sobs, biting them back so he wouldn’t wake his siblings or his mum. Even in his own pain, he was thinking of others.

That only broke Johnny’s heart more.

“I’m scared to tell you, Dad,” Callum murmured into his father’s chest, his voice shaky and muffled. He still couldn’t bring himself to lift his head from the comfort Johnny gave him. “I don’t want you to think different of me.”

Johnny sighed softly, shaking his head against his son’s hair. “What are ye on about?” he whispered. “Ye could kill someone and ye'd still be my sweet son, Callum.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his boy’s head, slow and steady, hoping it would soothe him enough to speak.

“I need to ken, son,” he added quietly, not wanting to push, but aching for answers. “It’s killing me to see ye like this. Ye can tell me anything. Me and yer mum, we’re never gonna judge ye. Never.”

Callum took a deep breath, sniffing one last time before finally pulling back from the embrace. He looked up at his father, eyes wide and glassy, big tears threatening to spill down his flushed cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose red from all the crying and rubbing.

“Ethan, he…” he started, voice barely a murmur. Johnny could see how much it cost him to even begin. “Me and Ethan… we, um…”

Callum closed his eyes, gathering the last of his courage. His chest rose with another breath, this one deeper, shakier.

“I’m gay, Dad.”

The words slipped out in a whisper, hanging in the stillness of the kitchen like a secret finally set free. The clock ticked quietly past fifteen minutes past midnight.

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny let out a long, relieved sigh.

“That’s it?” he asked, brows lifting slightly.

“What?” Callum opened his eyes, blinking in confusion. “You’re… you’re not mad?”

Johnny frowned, but this time not out of confusion, this time, it hurt. Deeply. That his boy could think he’d be angry, or worse, disgusted just for loving someone. There was nothing his kids could say that would ever make him stop loving them. And certainly not who they loved.

“Baby,” Johnny murmured, shaking his head. He reached for Callum again and pulled him into his arms without hesitation.“I dinnae know what I did, or didnae do, that made ye think I’d be angry because ye like boys,” he said gently. “And I mean this in the kindest way, I truly dinnae care who ye love, Callum. As long as they’re good to ye, good people… that’s all that matters to me.”

He pressed another soft kiss to the top of his son’s head, holding him close like he had when Callum was little, like he always would.

“I was so scared, Dad,” Callum whispered, another heavy tear sliding down his cheek. “And Ethan said he didn’t want to hide anymore, but I didn’t know what to do… so he left, so angry. And he hasn’t been answering my texts…”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Johnny cooed softly. “Everything’s going to be fine, Cal. If Ethan’s anything like his dad, he gets angry fast… but then the guilt eats him alive.”

Johnny chuckled, remembering all too well how Simon’s temper could flare.

“You really think so?” Callum looked up at his dad, eyes wide with hope and trust.

Johnny brushed a stray tear from his son’s cheek and nodded slowly, a soft smile spreading across his face. “I ken so.”

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny gently guided his son to sit at the kitchen table. He filled a small cup with the still-warm tea, adding just the right amount of milk and sugar—just how Callum liked it.

The moment the cup was set in front of him, Callum’s phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Messages. From Ethan.

“Told ye,” Johnny smirked, pressing one last kiss to his boy’s head. “Don’t forget to turn the light off. I love ye.”

And with that, Johnny headed upstairs, feet quiet against the floor. He crept into bed, careful not to startle you as he slid in beside your warmth. Slipping an arm around your waist, he pulled you close, breathing you in. He had longed for this all evening, the comfort of your presence.

But even as he lay there, wrapped in everything he loved, one thought refused to leave him. Callum had been scared to tell them he was gay. And that, that would sit with Johnny for a long while.

“You alright?” you murmured against his neck, your hand slowly caressing his chest, feeling how damp it was with the remnants of your son's tears.

“I dinnae think so,” Johnny sighed, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Callum was scared to tell me something… and it broke my heart a little.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and tightened your hold around him.

“They’re kids, Johnny. They’ve got a whole world outside this house. So many voices in their heads, telling them horrible things. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Your voice was thick with sleep, but still steady, still sure. “Society’s just pure shit, my love.”

Your words made sense. Johnny could shelter them all he wanted, but the outside world would always be vicious. All he could truly do was be their safe place, their comfort, their reassurance. Just like tonight. That was what really mattered.

Because in the end, Callum had come to him. Scared, vulnerable, but trusting. He’d still sought out his father’s arms, his love, his words.

And that meant everything.

“Yeah… yeah,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick with sleep. “Ye're right, my darling.”

©sillyswriting 2025

happy pride month !

[lucy-literates]

Well, Lewis would be possessive of his girl 🤭

Next idea is again with a younger reader (28 years old) and she is Roscoes nanny and they fall in love :)

Greetings :)

A/N: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Hopefully, you enjoy this one too! Ibox is open :)

The Heart He Didn't See Coming

You were hired to take care of Roscoe. That was it.

Just a temporary gig—two months, max—while Lewis figured out travel schedules and recovered from back-to-back races. You’d been recommended by a friend of his physio, and your background in animal behavior and gentle energy made the decision easy.

Still, Lewis hadn’t expected you.

He hadn’t expected the way Roscoe took to you almost immediately, curling at your feet within twenty minutes of meeting you, snorting contentedly as you scratched the perfect spot behind his ear like you'd known him for years.

And he definitely hadn’t expected the sound of your laughter in his kitchen to feel like something he’d been missing.

“You sure you’re not feeding him treats under the table?” Lewis asked one morning, as Roscoe followed you around with that adoring, bulldog loyalty that had taken even him months to earn.

“I only give him carrots,” you replied, turning to him with a grin. “You’re the one sneaking him bites of your toast, champion.”

His smirk deepened. “Can’t help it. He looks at me like I hung the moon.”

You tilted your head. “So do you, sometimes.”

Lewis blinked. You didn’t even realize what you’d said—or maybe you did, because you turned away quickly to refill Roscoe’s water bowl, humming like it hadn’t just made his chest go tight.

That was the beginning of the ache.

It wasn’t supposed to be romantic.

He was older. Busier. Constantly surrounded by people and noise and cameras. You were quieter. Sunshine and calm. Someone who moved through life like it didn’t owe you anything, and still, you chose joy.

But when you walked Roscoe through the paddock at Silverstone—laughing as he tried to chase a golf cart—and handed Lewis a little cloth-wrapped lunch you’d packed for him, just in case the catering was late, he’d stood there for a moment too long, something warm rising in his throat.

“You’re ridiculous,” he’d said softly.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

After that, things got blurry around the edges.

One evening in Monaco, the sky cracked open unexpectedly.

You and Roscoe had gone for your usual walk along the waterfront, but the rain hit faster than forecast. By the time you got home, soaked and laughing, Roscoe was a damp loaf of contentment at your side.

Lewis opened the door before you even knocked.

“Jesus, you’re drenched—get in, quick.” He grabbed a towel and gently rubbed Roscoe down while you toed off your wet sneakers.

You were dripping in the hallway, mascara smudged slightly, Lewis’s hoodie shoved into your arms without him thinking twice.

It was warm. Soft. Smelled like cedarwood and whatever expensive cologne he wore sparingly but perfectly.

“Go change,” he said, “you’ll catch a cold.”

You returned a few minutes later, barefoot and wearing the hoodie over your leggings. Roscoe was curled in his usual spot by the couch, and Lewis looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You should’ve called me,” he said. “I would’ve picked you up.”

You blinked. “You were busy. Besides, it’s just rain.”

He shook his head, then patted the spot next to him on the couch. “Come sit. You’re always running around after my wellbeing. Let me return the favour for once.”

You hesitated—but then sat.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Not really. But the hoodie was warm and Roscoe was snoring and Lewis’s hand moved gently over your shoulder while you listened to him talk about his next race strategy in that low, rhythmic tone.

When you woke up, your head was on his chest.

And his arm was around you.

Things changed after that.

Not drastically. Just... quietly.

Lingering glances. Soft touches. A new depth to your late-night conversations. He started asking you questions that had nothing to do with Roscoe: What did you want from life? Had you ever been in love? What scared you?

You didn’t ask him the same things out loud. You didn’t need to. You watched the way he talked to his team, how gently he moved around people, how he stood on the edge of the ocean sometimes like he was still searching for something.

One night, as you handed him a mug of peppermint tea, he said it—so softly you nearly missed it:

“You make this place feel like home.”

Your breath caught.

“It’s because you finally stopped running,” you whispered.

There was a pause. Then his hand found yours.

“No,” he said. “It’s because I found something worth staying for.”

You kissed him a few seconds later.

It wasn’t rushed. It was the kind of kiss that built over weeks. Careful. Reverent. Your fingers slipped into his curls, and he hummed softly against your mouth like the moment had been waiting for you both.

Roscoe snorted in his sleep. You both laughed.

The next few weeks were a blur of quiet touches and shared mornings.

He kissed your shoulder while you prepped Roscoe’s meals. You slid handwritten notes into his travel bags. You didn’t go public—not right away—but his team knew. And they all smiled when you were around, like you were exactly what he needed.

But then the press found out.

Photos. Speculation. Headlines: “Roscoe’s Nanny, Hamilton’s New Flame?”

It wasn’t cruel—but it was invasive. You panicked. You didn’t want to be seen as a trophy, or someone temporary.

“I never wanted to be a scandal,” you said one night, eyes shiny. “I didn’t want to be a story someone clicks on.”

Lewis shook his head and crossed the room to hold you.

“You’re not a scandal,” he said firmly. “You’re not a story. You’re the person who brings Roscoe his toy at bedtime and sings along to my awful shower playlists. You’re the one thing in my life that feels real.”

You blinked. He tucked a hand beneath your chin.

“And if the world can’t see that… then I’ll show them.”

Three days later, he posted a photo.

No caption. Just you, Roscoe, and him on a balcony, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea. Your head on his shoulder. Roscoe snoozing across both your laps.

It went viral in seconds.

But the response shocked you.

“This is the softest thing I’ve ever seen.” “I want what they have.” “Protect this trio at all costs.”

Your inbox flooded with kindness. People saw you. And more importantly—they saw the love.

A few months later, Lewis took you to a beach on your day off. It was quiet. Peaceful. Roscoe ran in wide circles, barking happily at the waves.

You sat on a blanket, his arm around you, sun low in the sky.

Then he called Roscoe over.

There was a velvet box tied to Roscoe’s collar.

Your heart skipped.

“It’s not a ring,” Lewis said quickly. “Not yet. I just... wanted to ask if we can keep doing this. You. Me. Roscoe. All of it.”

You opened the box. Inside was a small gold charm: a tiny dog paw next to a heart.

“Yes,” you said, instantly.

He kissed you again, deeper this time.

Roscoe barked once. Loudly. Offended at being ignored.

You both laughed against each other’s mouths.

And maybe love hadn’t come in the way you expected. But it arrived exactly when it was meant to.

With muddy pawprints, fresh tea, and the softest man you’d ever known.

[millermouth]

Joel Miller x Reader Just Coffee

fluffy Joel drabble to help clear my head. I was a barista for 8+ years and loved my regulars, so this is like a little slice of my life when I worked for a family owned coffee shop in the downtown of a city. Hope you enjoy! lmk if you want a ptII cause im thinking hot car sex w these two after their first date.

Inspired by that tlou (game) scene where Ellie asks if Joel used to go to coffee shops, and he admits, ‘All the time.’ And when she asks what he would order, he says, ‘Coffee, just coffee’ 

Vanilla latte, iced—extra pump of vanilla, three pumps of caramel, swirl, whipped cream. Chai latte, soy milk—hot, extra hot. Cold brew with sweet cream, shot of peppermint. London Fog—extra foamy, not too hot.

"Coffee. Just coffee."

You could’ve kissed him right then and there. And he was handsome enough that you wouldn’t even have to close your eyes. He must’ve caught the way your shoulders relaxed, how the sigh left your body like a weight lifted.

“Comin’ right up,” you smiled, ringing him up as he slid a few ones into your very, very empty tip jar.

‘Just Coffee’ guy settled at the small bar, joining the usual morning stragglers—people who took their time with their warm mugs, occasionally ordering a bagel or a scone to go with it. He sat next to your crossword regular, an older gentleman who always had a puzzle in front of him, filling in the blanks with unwavering confidence. Always pen, never pencil.

You left them to it, but your eyes drifted toward ‘Just Coffee’ now and then, making sure his mug wasn’t too low, wasn’t getting too cold.

The morning flew by in a blur of orders and chatter, the shop filling and emptying in waves. By the time you checked back on ‘Just Coffee’ guy, he was gone.

A pang of disappointment sat low in your stomach. You wished you would’ve gotten him talking—he had that air about him, the kind of presence that carried stories. The people who sat at your bar top, the ones who weren’t rushing in and out for their nine-to-five caffeine fix, were always the most interesting.

You were surprised to see him the next day. A smile lifted at his lips as he stepped up in line, cash at the ready in his large, dirt-greased hands. A man who worked manual labor, clearly.

"Coffee," he said, his twang deep and velvety. "Just coffee, miss."

"You got it," you said with a smile, handing him a warm mug of your house roast as he took his new usual seat at the bar.

"Dammit—" the man next to him muttered, scratching his chin with the tip of his pen. Steve, your crossword regular. Under his nose, the day’s puzzle sat partially filled in, his brow furrowed in frustration. “What in the hell is the ‘process of leveling or smoothing wet concrete’? Seven letters?" He called your name, exasperated. "You got any idea?”

"Steve, if I knew anything about construction, I’d be way further along on my home improvement projects," you called over the hiss of the milk frother.

"Screedin’ is the word you’re lookin’ for, I think."

‘Just Coffee’ spoke casually, like it was second nature, his voice rolling low behind the lip of his mug. Steve blinked at him, like he hadn’t even realized the man was there, his wide eyes darting between him and the crossword.

"I think that might just work! How do ya spell that now? S-C-R-E—"

"S-C-R-E-E-D-I-N-G," ‘Just Coffee’ said slowly, the drawl thick and steady as the letters tumbled off his tongue.

You smiled to yourself, glancing his way. Knew he had to be manual labor. But before you could turn and ask him about it, he was already stepping off the stool, giving a quick nod of thanks, and heading for the door.

A couple of ones landed next to his empty mug—more than the cost of his coffee.

He didn’t come the next day.

Or the day after that.

By the fourth morning, you caught yourself lingering by the bar, staring at the empty stool where he sat. The coffee shop was just as busy, orders coming in waves, regulars dropping their change into the tip jar, Steve grumbling over his crossword. But something was missing.

You’d gotten used to those hazel eyes meeting yours across the counter, the quiet weight of his presence. The way his dark, unruly hair framed his face, always a little windswept, a little messy, like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into a long shift. His hands—rough, calloused, dirt still lingering in the creases—wrapped steady around a warm coffee mug.

It had only been a handful of mornings, but somehow, he’d settled into your routine like he belonged there.

And now, the absence of him gnawed at you in a way that surprised you.

You should’ve asked him his damn name.

By the sixth day, you convinced yourself it didn’t matter. He was just another customer, just a passing figure who needed a caffeine fix before moving on. Maybe he found a different coffee spot. Maybe he’d never been the type to stick around anyway.

But on the seventh morning, as you wiped down the counter, movement by the door caught your eye.

You turned, heart kicking up against your ribs.

There he was.

Another worn flannel, same dirt-streaked hands, same heavy-lidded gaze scanning the shop like he hadn’t been gone for a week. And when those hazel eyes finally landed on you, a flicker of something warm and familiar crossed his face.

You pushed off the counter before you could stop yourself.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” you said, trying to sound casual, but you knew he could hear the lilt of amusement in your voice.

“How are ya, miss?” he drawled, stepping up to the counter, cash already in hand. “Been busy.”

You nodded, trying not to stare too long at the way his fingers curled around the worn bills. “Let me guess—coffee, just coffee?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You got it.”

As you poured, you finally asked the question that had been itching at you since the first day he walked in.

“You got a name, or am I just supposed to keep callin’ you ‘Just Coffee’ forever?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly as he watched you.

“Joel,” he said.

You smiled, setting his mug down in front of him. “Well, Joel—hope you don’t disappear on me again.”

His fingers brushed the warm ceramic as he settled onto his usual stool. “Jobs come and go, just depends on the day, hunny.”

Hunny. It was damn near like honey dripping from his tongue in that slow drawl, thick and warm. The way it rolled off his lips curled low in your belly, heating your cheeks as you turned to the next customer, hoping to God he didn’t notice.

The middle of the week was always slow, which worked in your favor today. By the time the morning rush faded, you found yourself wiping down the counters, clearing dishes near the bar, and finally getting the chance to ask Joel about his life.

You rinsed out a mug, letting the warm water run over your fingers as you glanced toward him. He was nursing his coffee slow, one hand wrapped around the mug, the other resting loose on the bar. His posture was easy, relaxed, but you could tell there was something there, something deep in his bones that he carried.

"So, what kinda jobs come and go?" you asked, keeping your tone light.

Joel glanced up from his mug, considering you for a moment. “Construction, mostly," he said, rolling his shoulders like the very word made them ache. "Been a contractor for years—fixin' up places, layin’ concrete, buildin’ what needs buildin'.”

Figures. Those arms—strong, steady—the kind that looked like they knew the weight of real work. His hands were large, rough and calloused, the kind you’d feel long after they touched you. But, Joel was a customer. You weren’t thinking that, of course not.

"Guess that explains why you knew the crossword answer last week," you teased, tossing the rag over your shoulder. "Steve still talks about it like you pulled magic outta thin air."

Joel huffed, shaking his head. "Man’s usin’ a pen for a crossword, and I’m the one impressin’ him?"

You grinned, leaning against the bar. "Hey, knowledge is power around here, Joel."

He let out a quiet hmm and took another sip of his coffee.

Before you could press further, the bell above the door jingled, and you got up hastily to take the newcomer’s order.

“Don’t worry about him,” Joel called over, sitting up straighter, setting down his coffee mug as his gaze flicked toward the man.

He stepped inside, his dark hair long, face clean-shaven, dimples deepening as he took in the scene. Something unspoken passed between the two of them—something that made it hard to tell if they were coworkers, friends, or something else entirely.

Then the man clapped Joel on the shoulder, grinning wide, “So this is what you’ve been ditchin’ the mornin’ crew for, huh, big brother?”

Your brows lifted. Brother.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, eyes narrowing with obvious irritation, but his posture remained loose—like he was used to this, used to him.

“What ya got for me, Tommy?” he asked.

You barely had a second to process before Tommy’s attention shifted to you. His gaze swept over you, warm and playful, before he leaned a little too comfortably against the bar, ignoring his brother.

“Well now,” he drawled, flashing you a grin that could probably talk its way out of a speeding ticket, “if I knew this was the kinda place Joel was sneakin’ off to, I would’ve tagged along a whole lot sooner.”

Joel muttered something under his breath and rubbed his forehead.

You crossed your arms, biting back a smile. “And here I thought he just liked my coffee.”

Tommy let out a low chuckle, tilting his head. “Can’t say I blame him, darlin’.”

Joel let out a long, long sigh, already done with whatever this was turning into. He stood, tugging his jacket over his broad shoulders before clapping a firm hand on Tommy’s back—firm like a warning.

“C’mon,” Joel muttered, steering him toward the door.

Tommy let himself be dragged, but not without a final wink in your direction. “I’ll be seein’ you around, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips as Joel shoved him out the door with far more force than necessary, the bell jingling wildly as they disappeared outside.

Joel glanced back once, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the last two minutes of his life before heading off into the distance.

You just smiled, shrugging as you wiped down the counter.

But things changed after that morning.

Tommy only needed to step through the damn door before Joel was tensing at the bar, a muscle twitching in his jaw, his coffee suddenly the least interesting thing in the room. He continued to show up every morning, still ordered just coffee, still sat in his usual spot—but now, his eyes lingered on you more.

And now, he stayed just a little longer.

Not by much, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did.

You noticed how his gaze flicked toward you between sips, how his fingers tapped idly against his mug whenever you laughed at something a customer said.

His brother joined him more too. You noticed the way he cut Tommy off real quick anytime his brother got a little too comfortable leaning against the counter, that exasperated “Tommy” carrying a warning underneath it.

And you noticed how his tips got just a little bigger after that morning, a couple extra bills tucked under his mug like an unspoken thank you.

So when a week passed—no sign of Tommy this time, no interruptions, just Joel sitting at your bar—you wondered if today might be different.

And it was.

Because today, as you cleared a dish from the counter, Joel cleared his throat. Not the casual kind, not the I’m just readjusting in my seat kind.

The nervous kind.

You glanced up, brows lifting. “What’s eatin’ ya, Joel?”

Joel exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Just—uh.” He scratched at the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “You, uh… ever eat anywhere that ain’t this place?”

Your lips twitched. “You askin’ if I leave my own coffee shop, Joel?”

His jaw tightened, clearly close to regretting whatever he was doing, but he powered through.

“I’m askin’ if you’d wanna get somethin’ to eat. When your shift is done.” He finally met your gaze, voice a little gruffer than usual, but there was something hesitant in his expression—like he was braced for you to shut him down, “With me.”

You leaned back against the counter, arms crossing as you took your time, letting him sit in it for a second. Watching the way his fingers curled around his coffee mug, how he resisted the urge to shift under your gaze.

Then you smiled. “Are you asking me out?”

His eyes flicked away, like he really hated how direct you were, but you could see the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Then, after a pause—“That…a problem?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Not at all.”

Joel’s fingers flexed against his mug. “Good.”

You grabbed a napkin and a pen, scribbling something before sliding it across the counter. “Then you’re gonna need my number.”

He eyed it, then you, something unreadable in his gaze before he finally, finally reached for it. His fingers brushed yours as he folded the napkin, tucking it into his pocket without another word.But you swore—swore—you saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took another slow sip of his coffee.

Part II is here :)

[mixingandmelting]

Hey so how do you think the bat boys would deal with a s/o where they list off a ton of insane injuries that they didn’t go to the hospital for treatment for, you can’t even tell they been through that stuff and it kind of makes you wonder how s/o is still alive after all that? S/o is just casually listing them like you would a grocery list (Jason interesting cuz He did die and was brought back. Dick got shot in head and made an amazing recovering).

A/N: per protocol, a psa/disclaimer - there’s nothing graphic or explicit in what’s written below (it’s literally the name of the injury that’s all) but please do not be like the boys or reader. Seek medical consult, makes the life a whole lot better and easier 😔

Dick:

He would be a hypocrite if he were to call you out right there and then. But his “eldest siblings” bell keeps blaring in his head the more he listens to your list of injuries. 

“So, let me get this straight.” He rubs his temples with two fingers, a familiar migraine faintly throbbing in his head. “You thought it would be fine to NOT go to the hospital and get checked up after falling from a roof despite knowing you had a concussion.” 

“Well, if you put it that way, it doesn’t sound all that great-“ You clear your throat, your eyes shifting away from him when he gives you a pointed look. “Okay, so that might’ve not been the smartest idea. But it was what, the third one I had? I already had a clue what to do so…” 

He’s going to have an aneurysm. Hands down for sure when you simply shrug as if you hadn’t just told him a list of insane injuries he had no idea about. 

Breath, Dick. Breath. It’s you he’s dealing with. His one and only who happens to be prone to getting injured in the worst ways-

Sensing her dad’s distraught, Dick lets Haley jump into his lap before he plops his face in her tummy. 

“Oh, Haley. What are we going to do? Your other parent is a trouble-magnet and hates hospitals. At this point, I’ll become a widower in my mid-thirties.” 

“Hey!” You shout, jabbing a finger at him. “I’m not like you, jumping into toxic gas without protection- widower? Why would you be a widower?” 

It takes a while to finally get him to stop mother-henning you after he follows you around in both civilian and vigilantes to every place you go. But after the bathroom incident, he relents once you agree to have him on speed dial and emergency contact. 

Jason:

“Relatable.” 

Relatable his ass. Sure, he can relate considering all the things he’s been through (prime example: him dying and reviving). But here’s the difference: it’s you. Period. He wants you to be safe, unharmed, and happy. Like, is it really too much to ask? 

Hell, he probably would’ve never thought you’d gone through all that had you not said anything. But,now, everything changed and he didn’t think a day would come for him to, ironically, be the one to tell someone to go to the hospital. 

“Right? Thank you, at least someone gets it!” You don’t notice the blank stare he has, the mug he takes a drink out of obscuring his face. “I swear, people freak out when it’s not that bad.” 

…He needs a beer. And send an apology note to Dick and Alfred. 

“Oh yeah, nagging? Definitely isn’t going to do anything. Just makes you want to do the opposite.” 

“Exactly. I mean I get it, especially if it’s getting both my shoulder and knee dislocated at the same time.” The grip on his mug tightens, a crack starting at the handle. “But, I’m not going to go if someone won’t stop going on and on with ‘oh, you should get that checked, or ‘why didn’t you get seen by a doctor’, you know?” 

Oh, don’t you worry. He knows, alright.

“So, your ankle. I’m guessing you didn’t get that checked.” 

The one and only good thing about your current injury was that you couldn’t dart away like usual. With having sat next to you this whole time as a plus, he’s quick to pull and, mindfully, hold you in the princess hold. 

One thing leads to the next and the two of you are at the manor with Alfred taking a look at your injury. At least you weren’t mad anymore, watching him endure the harassment of bringing over his S/O home. 

Tim:

“You had an injury on your neck but you left A.M.A*!” 

“At least I went to the hospital! Unlike someone here who didn’t after breaking three ribs!”

“Okay, no. You were forced to get admitted, first off. Second, you’re still missing a spleen-?!” 

The two of you have been going back and forth with each other ever since you dropped on him the list (why is it a list??? Why do you have a list???) of insane injuries you never went to the hospital for. 

At first, all he did was, calmly (calmly being the keyword), inform you why going to the hospital would be a good idea in case of future events. And you said sure. When you need to, that is. 

He catches it and calls you out on your poor attempt to BS. You then called him out for his BS. There was a moment of truce that lasted for a minute when Alfred got mentioned. You both shook hands over not to delve into it as you both held affection for the butler and fatherly figure. 

“I was trained to recognize this stuff even before my Robin years! I’m certified for first-aid treatment!” 

“Oh wow, that’s amazing Tim! But who was the one that gave you CPR when you nearly drowned?!” 

He loudly groans, dragging both hands down his face. 

“Then, that’s a bigger incentive for you to get checked up at the hospital, then!” He makes vague hand motions in the air as he starts to pace around. “You get hurt whenever I’m not there and can’t protect you!” 

“… What?” 

In the end, you comfort Tim though it takes a while to talk him out of about a 24/7 personalized bodysuit. You did end up agreeing with the emergency pager to make him feel a bit better, designed as a fashionable wrist watch. 

Duke: 

He closes his mouth. Opens it. Closes it again. Opens it. 

“So… How exactly are you alive again?” 

He simply raises an eyebrow in response to the unimpressed expression you give him. 

“It’s not all that bad-“ 

“Not that bad?” He snorts. “Not that bad? I’m not that bad!”

He jumps up and points both hands towards himself before pointing them towards you. 

“Here I am, dealing with villains left and right which makes sense as to why I get hurt. But, what was it you just said? A stab wound with a knife?” 

“Actually, it was a spoon.” 

“A spoon-???” His voice pitches an octave, cracking in the end. 

For someone so normal, he couldn’t help but wonder how you knew so well on what to do when someone gets injured in the most bizarre ways. Not at all expecting there to be personal lore on how you gained that knowledge. 

In one part, it saddens him at the fact he’s once again the one with common sense. The other? 

He grimaces. 

It…actually checks out. Because it’s a rule written by the universe that vigilantes are not allowed to fall in love with someone normal. And though you are normal for the most part, this? This definitely checks the box on meeting the requirement. 

“Why did you get stabbed with a spoon in the first place?” 

Oh no. You’re awkwardly laughing. 

Some time passes and he’s shopping with his mom for office supplies. As she looks over the Manila envelopes, he notices a particular large roll of bubble wrap. So, when he’s asked as to why he’s buying three rolls of it, he gives the classic excuse of needing it for a science experiment. Which, in part, is true considering he’s planning to see if you being wrapped in it will prevent you from getting injured like in the ads. 

Damian:

“What are your parents' occupations again?” 

You give Damian a flat stare. 

It does little to deter him, persuaded that you’re either lying to him or you’ve lived a similar life as him with training in the most extreme conditions and didn’t tell him. 

There’s no other options or explanations to how you could possibly get those injuries, nonetheless a list of them. And he doesn’t know what he’s frustrated more about: the nonchalance of you stating them like reading off items on a grocery list or he wasn’t there and prevented them from happening. 

Not going to the hospital for your injuries, he can somewhat understand. With how terrible Gotham’s healthcare system is and the number of patients that get admitted from criminal activities every day, it’s considered a good day when patients are seen after eight hours of waiting in the ER. 

Lucky you, you happen to be loved by someone who can medically assess whenever. The Batcave has the latest, cutting-edge technology on medical equipment while he, himself, has the medical expertise that’s potentially on par with that of his father’s and Alfred. He’s sure he can provide you treatment better than any hospital in the city. 

“Damian, I’m fine.” You huff, rolling your eyes.  “Besides, it’s nothing compared to last time.”

Does he want to know what happened during this so-called “last time”?

“I think you need to get your brain checked if you’re considering forced-bed rest as ‘nothing’”. He shoves another peeled apple slice just in time when you’re about to talk back. 

That pattern continues for the rest of the day with him nagging you like a tiger parent while feeding you food (he ignores the bit about him sneaking into your room is an invasion of private property). Eventually, later that week, the two of you squabble again after you catch him following you around almost everyday while he argues how you can’t be left unsupervised.