#besides fighting. because. you know. hollow.

[andy-15-07]

hi not sure if you’ve done this before but id LOVE a fic with pedro pascal helping reader through a depressive episode! completely understandable if you wouldn’t feel comfortable tho. maybe pedro gets home to find reader still in bed/sleeping on the couch and he already knows that she hasn’t taken care of herself all day but he asks her anyway (stuff like have you eaten, have you been out, when was the last time you showered). and then just description of him helping her do these things whilst reader is kind of fighting the help a little bit? like she doesn’t want to be a burden but deep down knows she needs the help. loads of praise and hurt/comfort and fluff!!!!! you are such a great writer im in love with all your fics ☺️☺️

Even If You Can’t Move, I’ll Be Here

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 939| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

The key turned softly in the lock.

Pedro pushed the door open with one shoulder, balancing a paper bag of groceries in one hand and your favorite takeout in the other. He wasn’t expecting a grand greeting , he hadn’t gotten one in days , but the quiet stillness in the apartment hit him like a sigh.

You weren’t on the bed.

You were curled up on the couch again. Same oversized hoodie. Same blanket from the night before. Curtains still drawn, the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the air. Pedro’s heart clenched.

He set the bags down gently, not wanting to startle you, though he wasn’t sure you’d even notice.

You did.

Barely.

A flutter of your eyes, then a quick glance away. No smile. Just the sinking guilt in your chest and the shame you couldn’t explain. Your throat felt tight before he even said anything.

Pedro crouched beside you, hand brushing your arm. “Hi, cariño.”

You swallowed hard. “Hi.”

He tilted his head. “Did you eat today?”

A pause.

“Not really.”

“Get outside at all?”

You shook your head.

He hesitated before asking gently, “When was the last time you showered?”

You almost wanted to laugh , not because it was funny, but because it made you feel even more disgusting. The tears started building before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Pedro sat down beside you, arms opening before you could even blink. You fell into them like you always did , like gravity , and he held you close without a word.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just… tired. And that’s okay.”

“I feel gross.”

“You’re not.”

“I haven’t done anything today.”

“You’re still mine. And I still love you.”

Your face crumpled against his shoulder.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to take care of yourself. It was that every little task , getting up, brushing your teeth, opening a window , felt like climbing a mountain barefoot in the snow.

Pedro didn’t rush you. Just let you cry quietly for a while, his hand running slowly up and down your back. When your sobs faded into shaky silence, he pulled back to look at you.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’re gonna do a few little things together, alright?”

You started to protest, but he kissed your forehead.

“Not all of them. Just a few. I’ll help.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you whispered.

Pedro’s eyes softened.

“You could never be. You’re the person I love most in this world. And I want to take care of you, even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t think I can do everything.”

“Then we’ll do the smallest version of everything.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means… we start with one thing. Like brushing our teeth. Together. I’ll even let you pick my toothpaste like a little gremlin.”

That got a soft, tired laugh from you.

“Then we can try something else. Maybe a shower. And then food. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just something. You can wear one of my shirts after, if that helps.”

You nodded slowly, still unsure, still hollow , but his voice felt like a lighthouse in the dark.

Pedro stood and reached for your hands. “C’mon. Let’s start with the bathroom.”

You followed, moving slowly, socked feet shuffling along the hardwood. It felt weird to be upright. But it also felt a little like relief.

In the bathroom, Pedro handed you your toothbrush with a small smile and squeezed toothpaste onto it.

“There. Hard part’s over.”

You managed to copy him, brushing in slow, lazy circles. He stood beside you, doing the same, humming something off-key under his breath. It made you snort a little, and he beamed at the sound.

“See?” he said, rinsing. “You’re killin’ it already.”

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.”

“But you are,” he said firmly. “And I’m proud of you.”

The words settled in your chest like warmth. Like maybe they were enough to anchor you here, in this body, in this space where someone loved you even at your lowest.

Next was the shower.

Pedro didn’t rush you. He handed you clean towels and a fresh T-shirt (one of his) and sat on the edge of the bed while you stood under the warm water, letting it wash over the weight clinging to your bones.

You cried a little again , not because you were sad, exactly. Just… tired. Just overwhelmed.

And when you stepped out, eyes red, Pedro wrapped you in a towel like it was armor and kissed your cheek.

“You did it,” he said, grinning. “I’m so proud.”

You curled up next to him in bed afterward while he brought the food , your favorite noodles, not too hot, with broth on the side. You only ate a few bites, but he didn’t push. Just smiled and kissed your temple.

“This isn’t forever,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms as you laid back down. “I know your brain’s lying to you right now. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You buried your face in his chest.

“I don’t feel like myself.”

“That’s okay. I’ll hold the pieces until you do.”

Tears pricked your eyes again , but this time, they weren’t so sharp. More like a release.

Pedro pulled the blanket up around you both and whispered again, “I love you. Every version of you. Even this one.”

And for the first time in days, you believed it might be true.

[yuh13lo]

What was that? | chris sturniolo

The night was soft and sharp all at once.

Boston air smelled like summer ending—warm pavement cooling under streetlights, the whisper of rain that hadn’t come yet. You stood barefoot on the back porch of the Sturniolos’ house, hoodie sleeves pushed past your knuckles, your hair pulled up in the laziest bun imaginable. You hadn’t planned to be outside this long.

But you hadn’t planned for Chris to follow you out, either.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice already familiar even in the dark.

You didn’t turn. “You’re missing your own party.”

He came to stand beside you, the wood creaking beneath both your weights. His shoulder brushed yours and stayed there.

“They only care that the drinks are cold and the music’s loud,” he said, and you could feel his glance on you, even though you kept your eyes on the skyline. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer at first. “I keep thinking about last summer,” you said instead, fingers picking at a splinter in the railing.

Chris didn’t say anything, but you felt him freeze.

“You remember that night on the roof?” you asked, quieter now. “It was just you and me, and we stayed out ‘til like, 4 a.m. Just talking. I said something stupid, something like, ‘This feels like a movie.’ And you said—”

“I said, ‘Only if it’s a tragedy,’” he finished, eyes still on you. You nodded.

“And then we didn’t talk for two weeks,” you whispered.

Chris’s laugh was short and bitter. “Yeah. I didn’t know what to do with that night. With… you.”

You finally turned, your expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” He ran a hand through his curls, jaw tightening. “You were the only thing that felt real. I’d be surrounded by people, cameras, whatever, and I’d just think about you. But that night… something changed.”

You shook your head. “No. You changed. You disappeared.”

Chris took a step closer, eyes stormy now. “I was scared, alright? Scared that if I told you how I felt—if I said I wanted you, not just as my best friend—you’d pull away. You’d leave.”

“I was already yours, Chris,” you snapped, voice cracking. “I didn’t need the label. I just needed you.”

His face broke—barely. But you saw it. That flash of hurt under the cool boy exterior.

“I didn’t know that,” he said, quiet. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

Silence fell like a curtain. You both stared at the yard, the way the moonlight made the grass silver. Somewhere inside, a cheer erupted. Probably Matt winning another drinking game. The world kept spinning like it didn’t know you were breaking.

“Do you ever think about what we could’ve been?” you asked, so low he almost missed it.

Chris nodded once. “Every day.”

You looked at him, tears you refused to let fall welling up behind your lashes. “Then why didn’t you fight for me?”

His breath hitched. “Because I thought I already lost you.”

You didn’t speak. Just turned away again, blinking fast.

A beat. Then two.

“I still love you,” he said it like a confession, one he was too late in giving. “Even if it doesn’t matter anymore.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t cry.

Instead, you smiled—a sad, hollow thing.

“I think that’s the cruelest part, Chris. It still matters to me.”

And then you walked back inside, the screen door creaking behind you. He didn’t follow this time.

He stayed on the porch long after the party died down, long after the stars dimmed, asking the same question over and over.

What was that?

And why didn’t he hold onto it?

Taglist @xsturnkay @ellsxxoxo @bugs-tags @edu4rd0ss @nessaisabelartemas333 @sturnsobsessed21

[djsangos]

//love how since there aren't a lot of ic blogs in some of my muses' fandoms they just kind of insert themselves into a group of characters from another fandom and then ingrain themselves in there like they're part of the gang jdflafkda

for klaus it was homestuck, for link it was... DC comics?, for captain it's pandora hearts, and for acht it's... animator vs animation.

[slutoru1207]

Varient!Invincible x reader

cc: I've been wanting to wrote this for weeks but intil I saw @tokoyamisstuff post their version of it I haddd to do it ! i hope you all like it ! let me know if you would like a part 2.

Imagine: Multiple versions of Mark Grayson from different dimensions find the reader, each desperate to keep her because they lost their version of her. Now, they refuse to let her go.

Something was wrong.

You’d been feeling it for weeks—shadows flickering just out of sight, the sensation of being watched even when you were alone. Your gut told you something was coming, but nothing could have prepared you for this.

Ellis Tower was in ruins. Glass and steel littered the streets, alarms wailed uselessly in the distance, and the air smelled like burning metal. The Guardians of the Globe were still reeling, struggling to figure out what the hell had just happened.

But you knew.

Because standing in front of you—blocking every possible escape route—were three Marks.

Not just one. Three.

Each of them was slightly different, but they all looked at you the same way—like you were something fragile, precious, irreplaceable. Their eyes held a deep, almost haunted longing that made your stomach twist.

The one closest to you had a fresh gash along his cheek, his suit darker than Mark’s usual colors. His golden eyes burned with something desperate as he took a step forward.

“You’re alive.” His voice cracked, like he didn’t believe his own words.

You staggered back. “No—no, this isn’t—what the hell is going on?”

Another Mark—this one’s suit looking more like battle-worn armor, bloodstained and torn—exhaled shakily. “We lost you.” His voice was hollow. “In every world, in every fight, we lost you.”

You swallowed, hands shaking. “I—I don’t understand—”

The third Mark, the one with the most familiar uniform, tilted his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “But not in this one.” His fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “We finally found one where you made it.”

Your blood ran cold.

They weren’t your Mark.

Not the Mark who held your hand when you were nervous. Not the Mark who kissed your temple when he thought you were asleep. Not the Mark who fought beside you, loved you, chose you.

But they looked at you like they had. Like they had lost you a thousand times and wouldn’t let it happen again.

A shuddering breath left you. “Where’s… my Mark?”

The first one—scarred, desperate—let out a bitter chuckle. “That’s the thing, sweetheart.” His golden eyes gleamed.

“You don’t need him anymore.”

[pascalissmoked]

Sweeter Than Summer

Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore. Word Count: 8K Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex, A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx

[mooningningg]

can I request toji, sukuna and nanami's reaction with a reader who disappears when they have a really bad fight? not because something bad happened to reader but because reader it's scared of them after that fight and runs away

ahh sorry if this is too specific :,³

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇꜰᴛ

...In which you disappear after a really bad fight without them knowing.

Toji, Sukuna, and Nanami.

Genre, angst. Notes, MORE REQUESTS!!! part ii is here.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

The fight started with something stupid — maybe about Megumi, maybe something deeper. You snapped. He snapped harder. His voice had thunder in it. And even if his anger wasn't at you directly… it still felt like a storm breaking open.

“If you didn’t like how I handled shit, you should’ve said something earlier,” he growled, pacing like a caged dog. “You're not the only one with pressure, y'know. The world doesn’t revolve around your feelings.”

You flinched when he slammed a drawer. That was the last thing he saw before going to bed.

When he woke, the blanket on your side was cold. The keys were gone.

“Y/N?” he called out, sitting up. “Babe?”

Nothing.

He stood in the center of the room, suddenly hollow.

Then he was moving.

Pacing. Rummaging for his phone. Calling — once, twice, three times.

“Pick up. Baby, just fucking pick up.” “You left? Just like that?” “...Shit.”

Toji didn’t even throw a shirt on. He grabbed his keys, slammed the door, and tore through the streets like a man chasing his own shadow.

Your favorite café. The bridge you liked. The park bench where he first kissed you. All empty.

He calls again. This time his voice cracks.

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t fucking mean it. Just… come back. I swear I’ll be better.”

“Please.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

The fight wasn’t loud — it was violent in tone. Cold. Sharp. He didn’t yell. He bit.

“If you’re so fucking tired of me, maybe you should’ve left earlier.”

“I’m not your goddamn emotional support dog, Y/N. Grow the fuck up.”

You had never heard him say something like that.

You hadn’t realized how small he could make you feel with a few well-placed words.

So you left while he was in the shower, hands shaking as you packed.

When Sukuna stepped out and called your name — no answer.

His voice echoed through the apartment. Empty.

He grabbed his phone off the table and checked the hallway. Your shoes were gone.

“Tch. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He dialed. No answer.

“Don’t play games with me, Y/N.” Click.

“You really left over that?” Click.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

He called again. This time, his voice was… low. Rough. Real.

“Look… I know I’m shit with words, alright?”

“But you got no idea what it’s like… waking up and not feeling you next to me.”

"...Please, baby. Come home.”

The next voicemail was only breathing. Then a whisper.

“I’ll wait right here. Just... come back.”

KENTO NANAMI

It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight.

He was exhausted. Quiet. You wanted closeness. His wall was up.

“I just need time to breathe, Y/N.” “You don’t always have to fix things. Let me be.”

And you said: “Do you even want me here?”

He didn’t answer. Just closed the door to his study behind him.

When he emerged later to apologize — you weren’t there.

No note. No jacket. Just your mug sitting in the sink and your absence like a sharp edge in the air.

He checked the bedroom. The kitchen. The street.

He stood in the living room, blazer still half-on, staring at the place you used to sit.

His first instinct wasn’t anger. It was dread. Deep and creeping.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispered aloud. That thought shattered something inside him.

He didn’t call. He didn’t text.

Instead, he wrote a message. Simple. Honest. No punctuation — a rare thing for him.

i’m sorry for the way i spoke i didn’t mean to push you away i understand if you need space but please tell me you’re safe i love you

Then he sat on the couch, suit still on, untouched tea cooling beside him — and waited.

[dooberific]

❝ 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘣𝘰𝘰? ❞

harumasa x afab!reader

lighter x afab!reader (separate)

genre: domestic, kinda crack fic esque???, suggestive content (mdni)

summary: you ask you beloved one of the most pressing questions of your relationship

wc: 1.8k

harumasa

The universe had to be testing him right now, as he simply couldn’t fathom any other way that this could be happening.

His day was way too long, what was supposed to be a simple collaboration between the HIA and Section 6 to test new hypersensitive VR combat training equipment ended in nothing short of an IT nightmare with the revelation that hacker Null_Face had tampered with their systems. After spending what felt like hours in a virtual simulation that felt more like an apocalyptic fever dream, then spending another few hours being poked and prodded by H.A.N.D’s medical team to ensure everyone was still of sound mind and body, he was finally released to trudge home for the day and back to your loving arms.

He wanted to cry when he kicked his sneakers off at the door, the smell of fried rice in the air and the image of you standing in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, smiling like the angelic being you were as you gave him a welcome home kiss. His karmic debt had been paid, the balance of the world was correcting, and he was off work for the next few hours. All was well with the world, right up until the moment you snuggled up so cutely beside him on the couch to watch a movie, turning to prop your chin on his shoulder as you stared up at him.

“Haru?”

“Yeah, baby?” He said effortlessly, head turning to peck you on the lips as you beamed up at him.

“Would you still love me if I was a bangboo?”

You may as well have snapped his precious bow in half for how dramatically he reacted, his body stiffening as his face went stony. Maybe somewhere in his brief recollection of his day to you as he hung over your shoulder while you cooked he conveniently forgot to tell you that they VR warped him into a bangboo body, not a difficult thing to forget as he was both traumatized from the feeling of stubby, helpless limbs and preoccupied with the way you squirmed in his arms as he pressed sloppy kisses all over the side of your neck.

But you didn’t know that. What you did know was that you were now staring into the most blank and desolated expression you had ever seen grace his face.

You forced a short laugh, pointing at him accusingly as he snapped back from his nightmarish recollection of the full emasculation of his pride for the day.

“Oh, I see how it is.” You smacked the back of your hand against his chest as you intentionally scooted to the far end of the couch. “You think I would make an ugly bangboo!”

“(Y/n), baby, I never said that!” He fussed, reaching to grab your hand just for you to swat him away with a maliciously sly expression, quickly hopping to your feet as you made a stance dramatic enough to rival his own exaggerated impressions.

“You’re gonna regret not telling me you would love me if I was bangboo, Asaba Harumasa!” You declared before thrusting your thumb into your chest, “Cause I’m about to go rearrange your entire medicine cabinet.”

He shot up to his feet, the lethargy of the day vanishing in the blink of an eye at threat of you upending his perfect (to him) system of organization. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me, bitch!” Was the final declaration as you zipped around the corner of the couch in a mad dash to prove your point. It was times like this that you really hated that he was a well trained hollow-exploring, ethereal-fighting machine, because it made chases all the more terrifying as you heard the telltale thump! of his feet hitting the floor again as he cleared the couch in a single jump, in hot pursuit.

Your hands barely grazed the door handle before you let out a shriek, his arms wrapping around your midsection before your feet left the floor entirely, body now upended and dangling where he tossed you over his shoulder. You kicked your feet helplessly for a moment, your shrieks devolving into a fit of laughter as his hand connected firmly with your ass.

“This is not fair, Haru!” You huffed out, fisting the back of his work shirt.

“Who said anything about fair?” He countered, jostling you on his shoulder once for good measure as you squirmed before he marched you right past the bathroom and into his room. “You wanted to play dirty, so let’s play dirty.” He said as he flipped you unceremoniously onto his unmade bed, laughing at the little “oof!” you made before you immediately attempted to wrestle him away with a devious little grin.

He pinned your hands with ease, resting his full weight on you in an even more irritating manner as he leaned in for a kiss, his hands releasing your wrists in favor of sliding up under the hem of your shirt as you keened into lips, his tongue teasing its way into your mouth as you turned to putty beneath him.

“You,” he began breathlessly as he broke away, nibbling at your glossy lower lip as you whimpered, “need to stop jumping to conclusions. Who ever said I would stop loving you?”

lighter

“What’d ya say, babe?” He called over his shoulder, the roar of the wind and his motorcycle having carried away the sweet tone of your voice from where you sat behind him, arms secured snugly around his waist as you raced across the flat expanse of the Outer Ring.

It was the first time you both were free in the past few weeks, his work for the Sons of Calydon having kept him away even as your schedule at one of the pump stations in the Old Oil Field opened up. Dinner in Blazewood and a cruise through the desert back to your place was always a nice little treat, your body warm against his back as your eyes danced across the dunes and hollows that decorated your home territory.

You propped your chin against his shoulder, wind whipping your hair wildly around your face. “I’ll tell you when we pull over!” You half-yelled over the wind, his head tilting just enough for you to catch that sly look in his pretty eyes that made your stomach flip as one of his hands squeezed the fat of your thigh coyly.

“Suit yourself, sweetheart.”

Maybe you should have tried to ask again before you got back, timing would have been a little more prime than when you were straddling his lap on your dusty couch, hands fisted into his hair as he licked into your hot mouth like a man starved of affection, calloused hands directing your hips to grind against his own as you both moaned like a couple bitches in heat.

His zeal shouldn't have surprised you, after all it was kinda your fault that you ended up here. You knew better than anyone how much he loved being needed, wanted even, and had absentmindedly played it up beautifully all evening. Asking him first to help you change a part on your car and later dismissing another man’s attempts at flirting with you over a can of nitro fuel by waltzing right over to your dear Champion and slinging a leg over his lap, throwing your arms around his neck and placing a searing kiss against his lips as you declared yourself taken?

He would never consider himself one for public displays of affection, but he couldn’t deny that something about you openly proclaiming yourself his had him itching to get you alone.

You broke from the sloppy makeout, his hands drifting up your spine to push you right back into his waiting grasp impatiently before you planted your palm against his chest, shoving him back into the couch as you righted yourself.

“I’ve got a question for you.” You drawled, earning a hum of acknowledgment from him which you doubted to be him actually listening considering the glazed over expression in his eyes and the way he still fiddled with the button on your shorts.

“Lighter, I’m serious!”

“Alright,” his hands raised in faux defeat as he let his head hang back against the couch. “I’m all ears, what is this burning question ya got?”

It was your turn to grin now. “Would you,” you started as your fingers tracing his clavicle teasingly as you leaned in, now you were certain you had his undivided attention because his eyes were firmly fixed on your swollen lips.

“Still love me if I was a bangboo?”

He was silent for a beat, brow furrowing momentarily in a way you could only describe as cute before he gave you the best treat of your evening. His chest rumbled under your hands, one of his own raising quickly to try and smother the laugh that burned through his throat.

“This is a serious question!” You quickly asserted, only for him to fully turn his face away from you all the more entertained at your disgrace at his laughter. It took one inhale before you knew you had him good, getting another little glimpse at your “big bad champion” who snorted and teared when he laughed hard enough as you devolved right alongside him.

He sucked in a shaky breath, wiping at the corner of his eyes as he relaxed beneath you, hands rubbing little circles against your hips as he stared you down with the warmest look in his eyes. “Would I still love you if you were a bangboo, huh? Yeah, I think so, if you kept that fiery personality ya got, but I sure would miss a lot of things about my baby.”

“Is that so?” You hummed, fingers lacing behind his neck as your twirled the hair at his nape, enjoying the empowering feeling of having him shiver under your touch.

“Mhm. Like your arms that are just long enough to wrap around me when I wanna take you for a ride, or all that hair of yours that blows in my face when you decide it’s your turn to drive, can’t forget these pretty thighs of yours that you try and smother me with when—,”

“Lighter.” You warn, but it falls on deaf ears.

“And I would definitely miss a few other things about you if you know what I mean.” As if you hadn’t caught on enough he ground his hips up into your ass for good measure as you swatted his chest.

“Lighter Lorenz, stop being such a tease!”

“Oh, I’m the tease?”

Before you could respond he had already flipped you off his lap and onto your back against the couch, prizing your legs apart to settle between them as he leaned in, lips brushing just against yours as he spoke.

“Well if that’s what you want, who am I to keep it from ya?”

Rey 2024

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

John Walker X F! Reader: Reckless Admission

Summary: After a mission gone wrong leaves you injured, John can no longer keep his emotions hidden. Smut ensues.

Warnings: Smut, explicit sexual content, self blame (reader fucked up a mission), oral sex (f receiving), penetration (p in v), strong language, kissing, teasing, slow burn romance, emotional tension, light fighting, some angst, injury mention, mild violence, possessive behavior, no use of y/n, fluff, happy ending.

Word count: 4.3K

You felt like a fucking idiot.

The entire flight back, you couldn’t stop cursing yourself.

How could you have been so stupid? How did you not see the guy before he took the shot?

It was a fucking amateur move. It wasn’t something an Avenger should have done. Which meant it wasn’t something you should have done. But it had happened all the same. And now you were going to have to deal with the consequences.

Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, running through every possible fight you were about to get into the second the team saw you. You knew they’d blame you—and you’d take it, because it was your fault.

Your fuck-up. Your stupid move that had almost thrown the entire mission off the rails.

You weren’t arrogant enough to deny that. So you just sat there in silence the whole way home, rehearsing for what was sure to be the most uncomfortable evening of your life.

You barely even felt the bullet wound anymore. Barely smelled the blood. But it was there—drying, crusting. A dull reminder beneath the suit.

You were so buried in your own thoughts that you didn’t notice the way John's eyes flicked to you every now and then.

Watching. Measuring. Making sure you didn’t knock yourself out from blood loss.

He was keeping an eye on you—because he always did, even if you were too dense to see it. But this time, there was something else in his expression. Something quieter. Angrier.

It wasn’t just concern. There was rage coiled beneath it. A restrained kind of fury. Because how could you have been so fucking stupid?

If he hadn’t been there, you probably wouldn’t still be breathing.

Had you even stopped to think what that would’ve meant for the team?

For him?

Probably not.

Not that he could blame you—not really. It wasn’t like he’d ever made it crystal clear how he felt about you. At least, not in a way you seemed to pick up on. He cared. More than he cared about the rest of the team. That much was true. He’d lost people before. He knew what that felt like. And he sure as hell wasn’t planning on losing you.

The moment you stepped off the jet, voices started filling your head. Not the anxious kind that usually followed a fucked-up mission, but actual voices—real teammates, completely unaware you were still bleeding through your suit. And you let them talk shit. You just stood there, hollow, listening to the bickering around you about how you’d fucked up, how you’d almost ruined everything.

You took it, because you felt like you deserved it.

Maybe if Bob had been here, he’d have shut them down. But he was still somewhere up in the tower, doing God knows what.

“Hey, can you all just shut the fuck up? Can’t you see she’s fucking bleeding?”

Your eyes snapped up at the sound, your head turning to face the owner of the voice.

John stood beside you, his spine rigid as he spoke.

You hadn’t expected him to defend you. If anything, you thought he’d join the rest of the team as they chewed you out.

He’d saved you, and you were sure that if he hadn’t been there, you probably wouldn’t be standing here right now.

John avoided your gaze, even though he could feel your eyes on the back of his head. He couldn’t look at you right now, because if he did, he’d most likely say or do something stupid. So he kept his eyes on the rest of the teammates, silently daring them to keep talking.

Under many other circumstances, Ava would have probably chewed him out about something, or Yelena would have made a smart comment. But the look on his face—this raw rage that had become more and more unexpected in recent months—kept the rest of the team silent.

You were all tired. You were all full of adrenaline. Someone was about to say something they’d regret. You could feel it in the air.

So none of you spoke.

The rest of the team moved silently into the tower, leaving you and John alone outside. You hadn’t stopped looking at him since he’d spoken. You felt the urge to say thank you, but just as you opened your mouth, his words cut through the silence.

“Get to the medbay. You need to patch that thing up.”

He hadn’t even waited for you to respond before walking toward the building, leaving you outside alone. Suddenly, you felt the urge to cry, but you bottled it down, shaking your head as you followed the rest of the team inside.

This whole patching-up thing would’ve been a lot easier with an extra pair of hands. But you felt too bad about yourself to ask for help. So here you were, ripping gauze with your teeth as you tried—unsuccessfully—to patch up the wound on your arm.

The bullet had gone clean through, which was a good thing. It meant you didn’t have to extract it yourself, which you were sure would’ve been an awful process to do alone. But that also meant you needed stitches. Stitching yourself up wasn’t exactly the most fun process. You’d managed through gritted teeth and small curses. 

But you’d managed.

Once you’d finally covered the wound with the proper amount of gauze and tape, you allowed yourself to sit on the cot, eyes staring out into the city through the window. 

The urge to cry bubbled up again. This time, you allowed yourself to feel it—because you were alone. You felt comfortable being vulnerable alone. The sound of your cries echoed through the tiny room. You hadn’t expected anyone to hear it. It was quite possible they wouldn’t.

But John was in the room. And with no doors or walls stopping the sound from reaching his ears, it was impossible to ignore.

He suddenly felt like a fucking asshole.

He thought about leaving. Thought about silently exiting the room, leaving you to cry by yourself. But he pushed the thought down as soon as it came to his brain—because he couldn’t. He couldn’t physically remove himself from the room knowing you were suffering inside it. Maybe that made him soft. Maybe he was okay with that.

He made his way over to you in silent steps. He didn’t want to freak you out, but he also knew he needed to make his presence known—especially if his intention was to comfort you.

Your hands covered your eyes as you cried, your body shaking softly with every sob. John reached out a hand, stopping an inch from your shoulder. 

He hesitated. 

Was he doing the right thing? Would he be able to talk to you without getting pissed? Probably not. But he’d try his best.

Your head snapped up at the feeling of something touching your shoulder. Your tear-covered eyes met John’s baby blue ones. Your face was wet from crying. You felt pathetic, and you were sure you looked it too.

John didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a moment. You stared right back at him. Then your lip quivered, and before he could react, you reached out for him—hands wrapping around his chest as you buried your face in his shirt. He hadn’t been expecting that. If anything, he’d expected you to tell him to fuck off.

It was a rather nice surprise.

He let you cling to him, his hands moving in small circles on your back as you continued to cry into his shirt. He could feel the wetness of your tears leaking through the fabric and into his skin.

“I’m sorry,” you said through a sob.

God, he was such a dick.

“Shhh, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. You knew it wasn’t okay. But you let him comfort you, because if you were going to be truthful—you needed it. More than you cared to admit.

You slowly pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you wiped at your wet cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, voice cracking. “I fucked everything up.”

John’s eyes narrowed just slightly, and he didn’t hide the bluntness in his tone.

“Yeah, you did.”

The words hit harder than you expected, and you bristled immediately.

“Wow, thanks. You don’t have to rub it in.”

He stared at you, unflinching.

“I’m not rubbing it in.”

“Then why say it like that?”

John sighed, frustration threading through his voice.

“Because you need to hear it.”

You crossed your arms, anger bubbling up.

“Well, maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m already beating myself up enough without you piling on.”

Of course you two were going to have at it. Of course his desire to comfort you would turn into a fight. That’s just the way he was wired. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t escape it—this anger, this aggressiveness that always seemed to bubble just under his skin.

It didn’t help that you were just like him. Just as ill-tempered. Just as ready to snap back and defend yourself. Because yes, you’d fucked up. He didn’t need to rub it in. You didn’t need him reminding you of the things you already thought about yourself. And he hadn’t intended to. He truly hadn’t. Of course, that was the way you’d taken it.

John stepped back, his hands going over his face. It had been months since he noticed he had a thing for you. Months since he realized just how much he cared about you—about your well-being. He hadn’t really thought about how he’d tell you. This was definitely not the situation he would’ve imagined.

But maybe it was perfect this way. Maybe it fit with the way you two were wired. He’d confesse to you in a fight.

Wasn’t that just fucking poetic?

“It’s not about your fuck-up!”

“Oh yeah, John? So enlighten me—what is this about?”

“It’s about you being so fucking reckless that you’re gonna end up getting yourself killed.”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, and the sound made his blood boil even more.

“Like you fucking care.”

And that was the breaking point.

Because what the hell did you mean—he didn’t care?

Okay, John wasn’t the most cuddly person, but he never ever went out of his way to make you feel like he didn’t give a shit about you.

You were both standing now, chests heaving.

He took a step forward, towering over you, jabbing his finger at your chest.

“Don’t fucking say that.”

“Why the hell not, Walker?”

John’s eyes darkened, the frustration and worry swirling in them like a storm.

“Because I do care,” he growled, voice low but fierce. “More than you realize.”

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms defensively.

“Then why do you always act like I’m a screw-up? Like I’m not worth the trouble?”

His finger dropped from your chest, but his stance stayed firm.

“Because I’m scared,” he admitted, voice cracking just enough to show how much it hurt. “Scared of losing you. Scared you’re gonna get yourself killed and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

You blinked, the fight faltering for a heartbeat.

Oh, you had not expected that.

There were a million other things you thought he might say, but what he did? No—you never expected that.

You didn’t know how to answer, so you just stood there for a moment, gazing up at him, watching his chest rise and fall with anger.

You’d riled him up because you’d expected him to put you down.

But this—this was something else entirely.

You reached for him before you even realized what you were doing, hands clawing at his shirt as you pushed your face to his, crashing your lips together.

Your lips moved against his with a fierce urgency—everything you’d been holding back pouring out in the desperate press of your mouth against his.

His hands found your waist, gripping firmly as if anchoring himself to you, while your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The roughness of his calloused hands contrasted with the softness of your skin, sending sparks of heat rippling through you.

You felt the sharp intake of his breath as he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving against yours with a growing hunger. His body pressed harder against yours, every inch of him taut and demanding.

You hadn’t even realized you’d moved back from where you were standing until your back hit the wall. You let out a soft gasp, lips parting to allow John to tangle his tongue with yours.

There was no restraint. There was no fear.

There was only passion—and you adored it.

John was completely lost in it, his hands roaming over your body as he tried to grab onto any part of you. He was being rough with it—and it wasn’t like you were complaining.

But then he pushed you a little too hard, and your shoulder bumped into the wall—right on the spot you had wounded.

You hissed.

The moment you did, John pulled back.

“Did I—”

“No, okay, it’s okay. Don’t stop.”

John hesitated for a moment, his eyes trailing over the gauze on your shoulder. The fervent desire that had been coursing through his body faltered for a moment.

You were hurt. He’d known it, but seeing it—actually looking at the place where your wound was covered—made his heart ache a bit.

“John.” You called his name softly, one of your hands moving up to cup his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “I’m okay. I promise.”

John pressed his forehead against yours, letting out a shuddered sigh. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You knew he was talking about getting hurt, but it wasn’t exactly something you could always stop. “I’m not in control of that. Not always.”

John sighed because he knew it was true. You were superheroes. Of course you’d get hurt one moment or another. That didn’t mean you had to do it alone.

“I know. Just… ask for help next time. Let me…” He stopped for a moment, suddenly self-conscious. But he forced himself to continue because it felt important to say. “Let me take care of you.”

You gave him a soft smile—it was the most tender side he’d ever seen come from you. You pushed your lips against his, softer this time.

“Okay,” you whispered.

When his lips met yours again, the fire that had been burning was still there, but it was softer now—followed by something that wasn’t just lust, but love.

You sighed as he moved his lips to the side of your neck, your head tilting up to give him better access.

His fingers trailed against your hips, kneading the skin there gently.

When his hand slipped beneath your shirt, you let out a soft gasp—not expecting the warmth of his palm on your body.

John pulled away for a moment, gazing up into your eyes.

“Can I take this off?”

You gave him a quick nod, arms raising to help him.

You grimaced as the movement sent a small sting of pain through your wound. It wasn’t anything too bad, but John placed a kiss on your shoulder to distract you.

You hummed at the gesture, hands moving to cradle his head as he made his way down your body.

Every inch of skin revealed to John was treated with reverence and love.

He kissed every inch of you—from your lips down to your calves.

You were having a hard time standing, desire clouding your brain and turning your body into mush.

John seemed to notice, causing him to call out your name.

“You alright?”

You grinned down at him, your hand moving against his beard.

“I’m perfect.”

John seemed satisfied with your answer for the time being. His hands framed your thighs, steadying you as he kissed along your inner thighs—careful and slow, worshipping every inch of your skin.

Your hips bucked up unconsciously. It was clear from the wet patch in your underwear that you needed him.

His chest swelled with pride.

John moved one of his fingers along your clothed cunt. You let out a soft whine.

“Please.”

“Don’t need to beg, baby. I’ll give it to you. Just relax.”

He pushed your underwear down your legs before tugging one of your legs onto his shoulders.

After what felt like an eternity, John’s tongue flicked out.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, your breath hitching as his lips wrapped around your clit.

John’s tongue moved with slow, teasing strokes, each flick sending shivers rippling through your body.

“You taste so good,” he murmured against you, voice low and husky.

You gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “John…”

He looked up briefly, eyes locking with yours, full of hunger and something softer underneath.

“I want to make you feel amazing,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss just above your clit before diving back in.

Your breath hitched, body trembling as waves of pleasure built steadily.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice rough with need. “I want to know everything you want.”

You managed a shaky smile. “Don’t stop. Please.”

His lips curled into a satisfied smirk, tongue swirling in circles that drove you higher, his fingers slipping inside you to caress your pussy with practiced ease.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, the words sending a fresh rush of warmth flooding through you.

You moaned, head falling back against the cool wall, the contrast making the sensation even more intense. John’s rhythm never faltered, each movement calibrated to push you closer to the edge. You could feel it coming—you just needed a little push for your orgasm to wash over you.

And John was prepared to give it to you.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me.”

And you did. You came with a cry, hands moving over the wall as you tried to hold onto reality. John continued to lick at you, cleaning your cum up like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

John pulled back slowly, his lips glistening with you. He looked up at you, eyes dark and satisfied, but there was a softness there too. You reached down, brushing your fingers through his hair, still trembling from the waves of pleasure crashing over you. Something about your fucked out face snapped somthing inside him. 

“Not done yet,” John murmured, his voice rough as he pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh.

You swallowed hard, feeling the ache of wanting more. You wondered if you’d ever have enough of him. You doubted it.

John stood up after gently placing your foot back onto the ground. Your leg ached slightly, but it was soon forgotten as John kissed you again. You could taste yourself on his lips.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, matching his hunger with your own desperate need.

You weren’t the only one who was still needy. Heat radiated off John’s body as his hands moved to cup your ass, his hard on pressing urgent and unforgiving against you.

How you wished to feel him inside.

John’s breath hitched as he pressed you harder against the cool wall. His hands gripped your hips possessively, thumbs digging into your skin as he ground his hardness against you with slow ruts

“You want this, don’t you? My reckless girl,” he murmured, his voice a rough tease, eyes dark with hunger and something fiercer beneath.

You gasped, fingers clutching at his shirt as your hips rolled instinctively, craving more. His reckless girl. Because yes, you were his—and there was no denying that. The ache between your legs grew unbearable, burning with desire and raw need.

John’s lips found your neck again, teeth grazing the tender skin and eliciting a sharp moan from you. Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of his muscles. It felt unfair how overdressed he was compared to you.

John seemed to read your thoughts because he backed away slightly and pulled his shirt off.

Your nipples dragged against his bare chest as he pulled you into another bruising kiss. You whined as you felt him roll his clothed dick against you for the hundredth time. You couldn’t handle all this teasing—you needed him, and you needed him now.

Your hands moved over to his pants, fingers grazing the belt. He glanced down at the waistband, then back up at your flushed face, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. He replaced your hands with his own, moving yours to hold onto his shoulders. You watched as he slowly, deliberately hooked his thumbs beneath the belt loops and began to unbuckle them, his eyes never leaving yours.

You licked your lips unconsciously, as his dick was finally free from its confines. You’d been craving him for a long time—maybe longer than you cared to admit—and you were sure it was clear on your face. John placed his fingers under your chin, forcing you to look up and meet his gaze. His eyes were dark with desire and something else—something possessive.

He pulled you into a steamy kiss, groaning as his dick came into contact with your slick folds.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and fierce. “And I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

You couldn’t trust your mouth at that moment, so you just gave him a soft nod.

“Ready for me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you breathed.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, John.”

Satisfied, he pushed in. You hissed at the feeling, trying to get used to his length. John noticed your discomfort and paused the movement of his hips for a moment. It was taking everything in him not to just ram inside you.

Your hands clawed at his back, surely leaving marks. He didn’t care—in fact, he enjoyed the thought of having a reminder of you on his body.

“John, please move.”

He did as you asked, thrusting forward.

John’s hips began a steady, deep rhythm—slow and deliberate at first, giving you time to adjust to the stretch, the fullness of him inside you. His hands found your waist, gripping firmly, holding you close as he drove into you. The roughness in his movements was laced with a fierce urgency, a hunger that matched your own.

Your breath hitched as his body moved in time with yours, every thrust sending jolts of pleasure that blurred the sharp edges of pain from your wound. The cold wall pressed against your back, grounding you, contrasting with the fire burning between your legs.

John’s voice dropped low, thick with want. “God, you feel so good.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm—fuck, I’m getting close.”

You moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders as he picked up the pace, hips snapping harder against yours. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed faintly in the small medbay, your ragged breaths mingling with his deep groans.

His lips found your neck again, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Want you to cum with me. Can you hold on a little longer, baby? Huh? Can you wait for me?”

You nodded dumbly, already so far gone you were surprised you could even process what he was saying.

Your body trembled under his touch, pleasure rising fast and fierce. You clung to him as the waves built, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The heat inside you pooled and spilled over, your voice breaking free in a shuddered cry.

John groaned deep in his chest, hands tightening on your hips as he chased his own release, the tension coiling tighter with every stroke.

“Cum, baby. Go ahead,” he rasped, voice thick with need.

With one last, powerful thrust, you both tumbled over the edge—your cries mingling, breathless and raw.

Your bodies stilled, clinging to one another in the aftermath. His chest heaved against yours, damp with sweat, the sound of your synchronized breathing filling the quiet space.

John didn’t pull away right away. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, lips brushing tenderly over your skin, as though grounding himself in the moment. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head, the other smoothing gently down your spine.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough but softer now, laced with concern.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Yeah… I’m good. Really good.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, warm and fond. He leaned back just enough to look at you, his fingers brushing a few strands of hair from your face. His eyes, once dark with lust, were now gentler—softer, searching.

“I meant what I said,” he told you quietly. 

“I know you did, John.”

Your hand found his jaw, thumb stroking along the stubble there.

“I promise I'll be more careful.”

He kissed you again—slow this time, without heat, just closeness. His lips lingered on yours like a promise, like he wanted to seal the moment into something more than just physical.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm as it fanned across your cheek. His arms wrapped fully around you, holding you close, grounding you against his bare chest.

“You scare the hell out of me sometimes,” he murmured with a faint smile, voice rough with leftover emotion. “But I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into him. “Even when I drive you insane?”

“Especially then.”

You laughed softly, and the sound made something flicker in his expression—something tender and unguarded. His thumb brushed slow circles against your hip as silence fell over you both, the kind that didn’t feel heavy or awkward, but full.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know,” you whispered, the confession slipping out as natural as breath.

He pulled you in tighter. “Good. 'Cause I don’t think I’d let you.”

And for a long, still moment, you just stayed there—tangled up in each other, the chaos of the world outside forgotten. Just you and him, in the quiet after. Safe in each other's arms.

[carlislefiles]

domesticated | nanami kento ╰►nanami was born to be a husband—measured, attentive, impossibly good with his hands—but more than that, he was born to be your husband. he keeps a bullet journal, folds your laundry with surgical precision, and makes you tea just the way you like it. and as sure as you are that he’s perfect, he’s still determined to prove it to you, every single day. 7.3k words

a/n: a couple nights ago, I plagued my dash with thoughts of housewife!nanami and I will continue to do so forever and ever. if there are no nanami stans, I'm dead...but who am I kidding, there will always be nanami stans. gonna have to fight all of you for my man :[ also I'm thinking of doing a part two to this.....maybe like a sunday type vibe where reader has the day off....let me know your thoughts on that. warnings: embarrassing amounts of fluff, kissing, cussing, brief allusions to sex.

the alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. sharp. it always does. nanami never changed it, never wanted to. that hour—early, quiet, untouched—was his. a small thing, a leftover ritual from a life that used to feel like it belonged to someone else. once, it meant gritting his teeth, dragging himself into suits and subways and glass towers built by people who didn’t even know his name. another day. another spreadsheet. another serving of silent resignation to a world that didn’t care. it’s hard to believe he lived like that. harder still to believe he accepted it.

he doesn’t like to think much about the man he used to be before he met you. it’s not that he’s ashamed—he knows those years carved him into the man he is now. and now, well...now he’s yours. and that changes everything. because back then he was exhausted. hollowed out. sore in places he didn’t know could ache. and now...

now he’s something else entirely. now he’s a teddy bear stuffed with love and golden light. now he’s weightless, floating from room to room with no burden but joy. now he’s a sunbeam slicing through dusty blinds—warm, unhurried, soft at the edges. now he’s a worn sweatshirt straight out of the dryer. the favorite. the one that always gets picked. now he’s a breath finally released. a pause between footsteps. the part of the song that makes you close your eyes. now he’s a well-read book with creased spines and scribbled margins—flawed, loved, and endlessly reread.

he’s happy. deeply, undeniably happy. the kind of happiness he used to believe was just propaganda. nobody was really this content, were they? and yet. and yet. and yet. nanami kento is living proof.

he moves to shift under the blanket, but then he remembers: you’re here. pressed close. your arms looped around him, soft and certain. you’re holding him—again. and he lets you. he's always been a big spoon kind of man. still is sometimes. there’s something steadying about it, something protective. now though, he indulges you. indulges himself, too. years ago, maybe a younger version of him might’ve thought being held like this made him look weak. that version of him was a fool. now, being cradled by your smaller frame feels like the highest honor. a sacred trust.

he has irrational fears sometimes—irrational but persistent. little thoughts that creep in at 6:02 a.m. when the world is quiet enough to let them whisper. that maybe you’ll leave one day. for someone else. someone who knows your favorite candle scents without being told. someone who cooks your comfort foods without asking. someone who loves you the way nanami does. but those thoughts don’t last long. they can’t.

because every morning, no matter how you fell asleep or what kind of day you had, nanami wakes up like this: in your arms. somewhere in the middle of the night, without fail, you always roll over and reach for him. it’s never intentional. it’s never showy. it’s just instinct—your body choosing him over and over again. and it sparks something in him every single time. besides, nanami doesn’t think anyone else could love you like he can. not really. he’s made it his life’s work. his calling. and no one else gets to touch that.

you’re still asleep. peaceful. you’ll stay that way for at least another thirty minutes if he lets you. he always tries to. sometimes you stir, bleary-eyed and half-dreaming, whining for him to stay just a little longer. and every single time, he does. without hesitation. he’ll curl back around you, press slow kisses into your hairline, trace half-shapes against your back through the fabric of your sleep shirt.

he’ll watch you. just for a little while. just until the next breath, the next blink, the next alarm. because there is no word—no language—for the way he feels about you when the light is just beginning to bleed into the room and your arms are wrapped around him like he’s your home.

he would stay there forever. but duty calls. eventually, he has to slip out of your arms. you make a soft noise of protest in your sleep, half-whine, half-murmur, and he stills for a moment—just to watch your face settle back into peace. then he tugs on a worn t-shirt and pads downstairs, still in the pajama pants you love so much.

the infamous ones. the soft navy plaid pair, a little threadbare at the waistband, stretched just enough in all the right places. you claim they’re evil. you swear they cast a spell on you. you’ve clung to his back like a koala over them, muttered threats into his neck, taken full bites out of his shoulder muscle, a woman possessed. he claims he wears them because they’re comfortable. “worn in,” he says with a shrug. but the truth? nanami is a simple man. a man of taste. and if wearing a particular pair of pajama pants means you ogle him like he’s a limited edition photo card, then yes—he will wear them every damn morning for the rest of his life. is it so wrong to enjoy being desired by your wife?

he never really considered himself…attractive. he knew what he looked like. tall. built. decent face. good hair, on good days. but that wasn’t rare. plenty of men fit that description. what made him special? according to you? everything. you say he’s ‘the hottest man in the entire fucking world.’ and while nanami still finds that declaration hard to believe, your constant, shameless, adoring attention has slowly started to rewire something inside him. he doesn’t flinch at compliments anymore. doesn’t second-guess the way you look at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. he’s learning to believe it. to believe you.

the kitchen is still dark when he steps in, and he keeps it that way for the most part—only flicking on the light above the stovetop. you’re a deep sleeper, but he’s always careful. gentle. quiet. always respectful. the espresso machine kicks to life with a low whirr, a noise that would’ve startled you awake in the beginning. now? you’ve learned to tune it out. it’s part of the soundtrack of your mornings. a promise in mechanical form.

before nanami, your mornings were bleak. he knows. he’s seen the evidence. you used to crawl out of bed like it was punishment. pour bitter, watery coffee into a chipped mug and pretend it helped. eat a protein bar that tasted like packing material. maybe a questionable piece of fruit if you were feeling ambitious. lunch, if it existed, was often cold leftovers. a bag of chips. a vending machine soda. nanami clocked those bad habits early on. but it wasn’t until you lived together that he could finally do something about them.

now, breakfast is an event. your coffee is never just coffee—it’s the best thing you’ve tasted that day. every morning. he experiments. plays with flavors like he’s crafting love letters in liquid form. homemade blueberry syrup. chocolate cold foam. cinnamon and nutmeg dusted on top just the way you like. he’s memorized your preferences, your allergies, your little quirks. he rarely makes something you don’t like. not just because he’s perfect, but also because he pays attention.

most mornings, he keeps things simple—something warm, something satisfying, something you can eat quickly but meaningfully. a sit-down breakfast is non-negotiable. even on your busiest days, he insists on it. you protest sometimes. you’re in a rush. but he always slows you down. this morning, he’s feeling a little indulgent. leftover homemade butter. pancakes, fluffy and warm. chocolate spread. whipped cream. a handful of fresh berries arranged just so, like a café plate.

you’re going to whine. complain. say he went overboard again, that he doesn’t need to spoil you like this. that you would’ve been fine with toast. he won’t have it. spoiling you is his mission. his hobby. his calling. the high he chases every day. the utter bliss it gives him, knowing he's taking care of you and satisfying you, is like a narcotic. no, better than drugs. nobody even needs drugs, he thinks. they just need a wife. too bad he has the best one, huh?

he moves around the house like a whisper. clean. efficient. at ease. the space is warm, soft, lived-in. he decorated, of course. you squealed when you saw it—pointed out the little touches that screamed nanami. the minimalism, the elegance, the occasional absurd indulgence (like the handcrafted ceramic fruit bowl that cost more than your cart battery when it fizzled out). he cleans constantly. you praise him constantly for it. you love the fresh sheets, the gleaming sink, the way he folds the towels just right.

he doesn’t care much about the structure itself. but what it represents? that matters. this is a home. one he built with you. one he wakes up in and thanks the stars for. he’s had money. he’s lived in a penthouse before—cold, glassy, and forgettable. but this house? this ordinary, wonderful house? this is the dream.

and speaking of dreams—he still can’t believe how lucky he got with yours. you work for a media group. graphic design. a career he could never do, but one he respects deeply. you make good money. more than he ever did. and that doesn’t bother him. not even a little. if anything, he’s proud. stupidly, ridiculously proud. you could afford to work less. but you love what you do. you light up when you talk about projects and deadlines and clients who “get it.” he loves that. loves you.

whatever makes you happy. that’s his mantra. his north star. happy wife, happy life. happy wife, happy life. happy wife. happy wife. happy wife. and you are happy. endlessly. still, he questions it sometimes. your happiness. it creeps in on the stairs as he heads back up with a warm mug of tea. iced coffee is coming—it’s non-negotiable, your fuel—but it’s not warm, and you are always so cold in the mornings. cold and grumbly, buried beneath the covers like a goblin in a hoard of soft blankets, protesting life and light and everything in between.

he gently shakes you awake. a groan. a flail. you throw the covers over your head and threaten to go feral. if you don’t get up now, you’ll be rushing. he knows it, and so, as gently and patiently as ever, he coaxes you into sitting. there’s a quiet apology in the way he touches you—soft fingertips at your wrist, a thumb brushing your temple. he presses a kiss to the crease between your eyebrows, then ghosts his lips over your eyelids like a benediction. 

this used to trouble him. all of it. when he first moved in, this—you—was a source of constant, gnawing doubt. if waking up early made you this miserable, then you shouldn’t do it. he would’ve kept working every day of his life if it meant you could sleep in forever. his pretty, sleepy, grumpy wife. as long as she was happy. but he knows now. that’s not what you want. not what you need. and nanami is good—painfully good—at knowing the difference.

you sit in bed, blinking slowly. your hair a mess. his warm presence anchoring you like gravity. it’d be so easy to curl back up and drift off again. but you can’t. you won’t. you’ve got things to do, and you’re already shifting upright. your eyes open—and there he is. the love of your life in the flesh, holding your favorite tea in one hand and looking at you like you invented sunrise.

you’re a strange pair, really. half your life is spent in a slow, sweet argument about how incredible the other one is. you tell nanami he’s everything. he tells you you’re perfect. you shower him with praise; he worships the ground you walk on. it’s silly. it’s true. it never gets old.

he hands you the tea without a word. ginger and lemon, naturally. you curl your knees up to your chest and sip, bleary-eyed, not ready to speak yet. he just watches you, something aching and fond tugging at the corners of his mouth. then he moves around the room—quiet but efficient. he flips on soft lamps, avoiding the harsh overhead light you hate. of course he remembers that. he remembers everything.

“what do you have going on today?” he murmurs, his voice the low, calm timbre that makes you feel safe even in chaos. you mumble something about a meeting—ceo of another media group, something high-profile. they want you to design a billboard. then you’ll be in your office most of the day. there’s that frustrating nonprofit commission you’ve been chewing on. you sigh, already tired. but excited, nonetheless.

nanami already knows all of this. of course he does. but he still asks. because he wants to hear you say it. you’re not naturally forthcoming. you’d rather listen than talk, and rambling feels like overstepping. you get embarrassed. feel like a burden. he adores when you ramble. top five favorite things. maybe number one.

your voice, soft and lilting like a melody. the way your brow scrunches when you explain something complicated. the unfiltered rage you hold in your soul for adobe. that one coworker who “should legally be banned from computers.” your excitement over color theory. your pride in your designs. if he didn’t ask, you wouldn’t say it. so he asks. every morning. every night. every chance he gets. just to hear you talk. just to make you smile.

eventually, you slip out of bed, tea finished, and make your way to the bathroom. your morning routine is precise. mouthwash, brushing, flossing, double-cleansing, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen. like a dance you’ve rehearsed. nanami watches, leaning in the doorway, equal parts enchanted and reverent. he loves this about you. these little rituals. these ways you care for yourself.

yes, he lives to care for you. would happily do everything for you. but he treasures these moments when you do it for yourself, too. and you’re used to his affection by now. at least, mostly. he’s worn down your flustered protests, your half-hearted deflections. even when you mumble “you’re being too nice,” cheeks pink, he never stops. there’s no such thing as “too nice” for you. you deserve everything. he’ll give you everything. and then he’ll find a way to give you more. for now, he settles for a kiss on your cheek.

he stays nearby while you do your hair and makeup. watches, quietly admiring, as you transform. he finds something unspeakably beautiful in it—this act of femininity, of self-care, of artistry. it stuns him, every time. you’re so pretty. and he gets to watch. (he’ll watch you at events, too. galas. weddings. fundraisers. you, dolled up and radiant, chatting easily with someone across the room—and he just stares. eyes full of nothing but awe. “you are so beautiful,” he’ll say for the billionth time. "I could stare at you all day.”)

when you finish, you meet him in the closet. he’s already dressed—business casual, of course. slacks, loafers, a soft button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, collar open just enough to make your heart skip. he doesn’t wear the full suits anymore, not unless the occasion demands it, but the polish is still there. he can’t help it. decorum is in his blood.

he’s laid your clothes out on the bench by the mirror. slacks, a soft t-shirt, your favorite warm cardigan. comfortable, professional, just the right amount of cozy to help you survive a long day. you smile a little at the sight. he always remembers what you like—what makes you feel like you.

and then, the final touch—he pulls your heels down from the shelf. the black iriza pumps with the red soles. you don’t even have to ask. he kneels without a word, sliding them onto your feet with a reverence that makes your chest ache. his hands move with the same tenderness he uses to handle fine china or you when you're sick—like the smallest gesture carries all the love in the world. he meets you at your lips. it’s not quite chaste, but not quite enough to start anything either. a kiss meant to ground you. linger. set the tone for your day.

you give him a peck on the cheek in return and step back. he watches as you grab your purse, a cute little thing that holds next to nothing. “doesn’t it match my shoes perfectly?” you coo, spinning once in the mirror. nanami nods solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching. indulging you, as always. adoring you, as always. indulgent; smitten. pleased. you say that he spoils you with his praise. but you’re not spoiled. not to him. you’re treasured. treated as you should be.

back in the kitchen, you raise an eyebrow at the breakfast. you shoot him a mock-glare and sit down. no protests today. not out loud, anyway. you’re feeling pampered again; overindulged. and you’re sure he’s done too much. but you know better than to say it—because if you do, you’ll get The Lecture™. the one where he insists this is nothing, that you deserve every sunrise, every meal, every ounce of tenderness he can possibly offer. that spoiling you is the bare minimum, and it’s his honor to do it.

so today? you just eat. quietly. gratefully. and nanami watches, content beyond words. this—you—are all he’s ever wanted.

breakfast is a sweet, simple ritual—one of nanami’s favorite parts of the day. a quiet, shared slice of time before the world starts demanding things from the two of you. he’s already eaten (he always eats early), so while you sit at the bar, nibbling through your pancakes and trying not to rush—because you know it bothers him—he turns to your lunch. some days it’s leftovers. on those days, he makes you vow—swear on our marriage, he’ll say with a solemn expression—that you’ll microwave it properly, and actually eat it. but today, you’re in luck. today, he’s making your current hyperfixation meal: a stacked sandwich, piled high with all your favorite toppings, neatly layered on his homemade focaccia.

nanami was always a good cook. phenomenal, really. but his bread? his bread should be on display in glass cases, under soft lighting, guarded by museum security. he doesn’t share his recipes—what would be the point? no one could replicate them anyway. sourdough, ciabatta, baguette, rosemary focaccia. every loaf tailored to your tastes. he bakes for you more than he eats it himself now—not because he doesn't enjoy it, but because he enjoys you enjoying it so much more.

your reactions are what he lives for. the way your eyes widen like you’ve just tasted heaven. the soft, delighted groan that leaves your throat after the first bite. the dramatic proclamation that this one is the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life, even if you said the same thing yesterday. he shrugs off the praise on the outside, but inside, it settles warm and heavy in his chest. he stores it away. cherishes it.

once the sandwich is wrapped and tucked lovingly into your lunch tote, it’s time for nanami’s least favorite part of the morning—sending you off to work. he heads out to the garage to turn on your car. always does. makes sure the seat warmers are on, the vents are blowing gently, not too cold. stepping into your car always makes him a little dizzy—it’s the smell. concentrated amounts of you. your perfume, your lotion, your very presence soaked into the upholstery. it’s intoxicating.

he lingers there for a moment, eyes closed, just breathing you in. but there’s still time left in the routine, and he won’t waste it. you’ve finished rinsing your plate in the sink by the time he’s back inside. he tuts disapprovingly as he comes up behind you. “what did I say about doing the dishes?” he murmurs, already plucking it from your hands.

you pout up at him, mock wounded. “can’t help it. felt like contributing to society today.”

“unacceptable,” he replies dryly, kissing your cheek. “that’s my job.” you don’t fight him. you know better. nanami’s house rules are immovable forces of nature.

he double checks that your wallet is tucked into your little purse, the one that holds absolutely nothing of practical value but “matches your shoes so well,” as you put it. he slings it over your shoulder, leads you out the door, opens the car for you. you stop him there. plant him against the frame of the door. grip his collar and pull him down into a kiss that curls his toes. and then, wickedly, as his lips part just slightly, you drag your tongue over his bottom lip and murmur against it: “oops. must’ve had some whipped cream on me still.”

he stares at you like you’ve punched him in the brain. pink starts crawling up his neck, staining his ears, his cheeks. his lips part again, just barely, like he might ask for more. you only giggle, smoothing your thumb across his flushed jaw before pressing one last kiss to his lips. every time you touch him like this, it’s as though he’s starved for it. like the barest flicker of attention from you has to sustain him for weeks. like he still can’t believe you’re real.

you shower him in love and kisses and praises, and he soaks it all up like he’s afraid one day, you might run out. as if being loved by someone like you is a miracle he hasn’t earned, but somehow still gets to wake up to every morning. once, nanami read a quote that said, "I don’t argue with my wife’s decisions—because I'm one of them.” it was supposed to be a joke, but it was the god-honest gospel truth to nanami. he considered framing it. tattooing it on his arm. maybe carving it into the headboard. because you choosing him? that’s a daily gift he never takes for granted.

he watches you slip into your car, watches the way your hand waves lazily as you reverse out of the driveway. watches until your taillights disappear down the street. and then he lingers in the cold morning air just a little longer. the scent of your perfume still clings to his shirt. the ghost of your kiss tingles on his lips.

eventually, he shakes it off. there’s bread to make. floors to sweep. emails to answer. he’s got things to do. just as he’s locking the door behind him, something catches his eye on the kitchen counter. your lunch. you’d forgotten it. of course you did. he exhales slowly through his nose, already imagining the soft lecture he’ll give you later about rushing and forgetting things and the vital importance of eating lunch. but for now, he just picks it up with a quiet sigh and a shake of his head. looks like he has lunch plans after all.

—

the rest of nanami’s day, much like his morning, is timed—methodical, efficient, and executed with care so precise it almost feels reverent. early on in this new dynamic, when you had finally—finally—worn him down enough to convince him to quit his job, nanami had struggled with an unshakable guilt. he felt…lazy. like he wasn’t contributing to your shared life. as if quitting the corporate world had somehow made him lesser.

you had nearly smacked him across the head when he confessed that. nanami kento? lazy? not contributing? he was the single most productive person you had ever met. you reminded him, loudly and passionately, that not every contribution needed to be measured in income or tasks completed. that there was deep, meaningful work in taking care of the life you'd built together. that he had always deserved softness, too.

he still had his moments of doubt. but now, he channeled them into what he could control. order. care. precision. he kept a bullet journal—the kind that could convert a disorganized soul on sight. it was pristinely kept: straight lines, color-coded tabs, neat boxes to check off with a smooth black pen. unlike your own journal, which was...more interpretive in nature. your diary had concert tickets and fruit stickers tucked between pages, long-winded odes to nanami’s biceps scrawled next to rants about fictional characters and lipstick swatches. his was a blueprint for the day. yours was a fever dream. and yet he loved it—loved you—so deeply he didn’t dare change a thing.

his emotions didn’t need pages. he had you. his heart belonged in the way he folded your socks. today’s list was written last thursday. he’s already ahead of schedule. he starts upstairs, stripping the bed of sheets and the three extra blankets you required to feel comfortable. he throws them in the washer with your favorite lilac-scented detergent. he preps the next load before the first one even starts, separating laundry with care bordering on scientific. the previous night’s load, already dry, is folded and put away with mechanical precision. your blouses are ironed, sleeves crisp and ready for the week ahead.

while in the closet, he notices a pair of your heels—scuffed. he doesn’t hesitate. out comes the polish and buffer. by the time he’s done, they’re immaculate. he dusts the bedroom. cleans the bathroom. reorganizes your skincare and makeup for ease of access. the candle in there—burnt down to a stub—is replaced with one of your favorites: citrus and basil, a fresh brightness even in the dead of winter. the paperback on your nightstand, left open and face-down with its spine bent (a sight that used to make him wince), is now neatly bookmarked and placed beside your pillow.

nothing escapes him. every corner of your shared home is touched by his hands, cleaned and maintained and tended to with quiet, devoted affection. he doesn’t consider it "work." this is care. this is love, made manifest in folded sheets and citrus wax. 

he moves to the kitchen next. washes the breakfast dishes. wipes the counters. sprays lavender mist into the air and lights another candle. before he met you, before he moved in with you, nanami never imagined living like this. his concept of a “successful life” was sterile and metallic—money, penthouse, cold glass towers. but the first time he stepped foot into your place, with its stained-glass lamps and chaotic blanket nests and dangerously excessive candle collection, something in him shifted. this wasn’t just a place to live. it was a home. and now, it was his home. and just like he took care of his wife, nanami took care of his home.

later, he works out. of course he does. it keeps him grounded, focused, sane. you fawn over the results with a delight that still manages to surprise him, like you don’t expect him to blush anymore when you bite your knuckle and ogle his arms. he runs in shorts that you once called “illegal” and a t-shirt that sticks to his back. sometimes he runs shirtless. not in public. he has standards—and no audience but you is worth the scandal.

saturdays are his favorite. when you run with him, taunt him, throw yourself on his sweaty back with zero shame. when you lick salt off his collarbone and call him “dangerously edible.” he laughs. he’s also suffering. in a good way. he shakes the thoughts away. focus.

he heads to the farmer’s market, cloth bags in hand, route already planned in his head. he stops by the bakery stand to talk flour ratios and rises with the vendor, who recognizes him by name now. he pauses at the humane society tent. doesn’t linger. you’ve been begging for a cat lately. he’s trying to stay strong. then he sees a fluffy calico curled up in a little ball. he looks away immediately. nope. not today. he is not getting a cat today. he steels his resolve and walks home. 

more laundry. more journaling. he plans meals for the week—one of his favorite rituals. he lets himself feel a little smug. everything is under control. until he walks into the kitchen and remembers. your lunchbox. still on the counter. he sighs. picks it up. you’d texted him only five minutes earlier: "I forgot my lunch :[ I was so looking forward to that sandwich.” silly, silly girl. of course he’s going to bring it to you.

he drives over with a small smile and zero annoyance. if anything, he’s grateful for the excuse. you meet him at the curb with a radiant grin, hopping into the passenger seat like he’s your getaway driver. you’ve taken off your cardigan, and your hair’s been pulled up, exposing your neck and arms and that glint in your eye that always makes his pulse skip. and the heels. those damn heels. he has to focus very, very hard to not to stare. but he does anyway. 

you devour the sandwich right there, humming your approval with every bite. he hands you the water bottle from the cupholder. “drink,” he says gently.

you groan, “ugh, why do you have to be so responsible all the time, kento?” but you’re smiling, and he’s helpless against it.

he shrugs. “one of us has to be, sweetheart.”

you make a pleased little sound and lean against his shoulder. he allows himself to bask. twenty minutes in your presence is enough to refill him for the rest of the day. you’re a goddess, and he’s your humble servant. he’ll take crumbs. he’ll take your leftover lip gloss and soft laughter and “accidental” thigh brushes when you shift in the seat. you kiss his cheek before hopping out. he doesn’t start the car until you’re out of sight.

he turns to the passenger seat. it still smells like your perfume. then he sighs, spots the lid to your water bottle left sitting in the cupholder, and smiles. old habits die hard. you will forget something everywhere you go. he’ll scold you about rushing later. for now, he’s just happy.

when nanami returns to the house, it’s still home—but still, without you in it, it feels hollow in a way he tries not to think too deeply about. the air is quiet. still. you’d only just kissed his cheek twenty minutes ago, but already, he misses you. he tells himself not to dwell. still, the ache settles low in his chest, familiar and persistent. he doesn’t like being idle, not when he starts thinking too much. not when his thoughts turn to things he doesn’t want to name—irrational worries about not being enough, about you waking up one day and deciding this isn’t what you need anymore. you work so hard, after all. you make things happen. you move the world. and he...keeps the spice rack alphabetized.

you’ve never said anything to make him feel this way. on the contrary—you’re painstakingly kind, endlessly reassuring. you’d never be disappointed in him. never shame him for slowing down, for stepping back, for choosing a life that’s softer, more deliberate. but old wounds whisper, and nanami is a man who has always been his own harshest critic.

what he doesn’t understand—what you’ve tried to tell him a hundred times in a hundred ways—is that you need him now. that somehow, you lived an entire life before him, but you can’t remember how. that your husband taking care of you, anticipating your every need, keeping your life from falling apart in all the ways you don’t have time to see—that’s what gets you through the day. how did you ever survive without him? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t let himself linger on that either. instead, he works.

he deep-cleans the stovetop and the oven, scrubbing every crevice with focused determination. he pulls out the spice rack and reorders it—alphabetically, then by cuisine, because he’s a perfectionist and you love that about him. he’s printed custom labels for everything: cinnamon (ceylon), smoked paprika (hungarian), za’atar (imported). he wipes down the insides of drawers, then fixes the loose one that’s been catching lately. he replaces the kitchen faucet filter and oils the front door hinges. updates the home maintenance log tucked neatly into a drawer.

by the time he starts prepping sourdough, the sun’s slanted low across the floor. it filters through your stained-glass lamp and turns the kitchen gold. this recipe’s new—something he found in a baking forum he checks occasionally. different hydration ratio, different shaping method, new blend of flours. a hint of citrus in this one, something he knows you’ll love. it won’t be ready until tomorrow—good sourdough can’t be rushed—but he smiles as he preps it. he can already picture you breaking off a piece with your fingers, humming in approval. the thought alone makes him light up. nanami is quietly, blissfully happy. and he has you to thank for that. and thank you he will.

he starts dinner next—something you’d offhandedly mentioned craving earlier in the week, half-asleep, your voice muffled against his chest. you probably don’t even remember saying it. he does. of course he does. he listens like that. cares like that. knows you like that.

he times it perfectly. dinner will be hot and plated at exactly 5:30 p.m.—early, yes, but nanami insists on an early evening for your sake. he wants you in bed by 9:00 sharp on weeknights. you hate mornings. you don’t need to be more sleep-deprived. not if he can help it.

now, finally, he allows himself to sit. he sinks into the couch with a book—something dense and intellectually satisfying, a translated work of eastern european literature with tiny font and no chapter breaks. he’s got one of your throw blankets draped over his lap, soft and mismatched against the clean, minimal lines of the living room. he reads. he also checks your location. not obsessively. just...periodically. casually. he tells himself it’s practical. safety-oriented. (he’s lying. he just misses you.) he checks the time. he reads a little more. checks again. his finger taps the edge of the page, eyes drifting to the soft glow of his screen. you’ll be home soon.

he’s stirring the soup on the stove when he hears the garage door shut, then the sound of the front door opening. “namiii, m’home,” you call, voice lilting through the house. it makes his chest ache, in the best way. you sound so lovely. so tired. so his. he could cry, just from the way you say his name. and silly girl—he already knew you were home. he clocked it the second you left the office. still, he abandons the pot on the stove and strides to the front hall.

he meets you at the door, takes your purse from your shoulder and hangs it neatly. then he bends down and kisses you until your knees go soft and your sighs melt right into his mouth. you always make those sweet, airy noises when he kisses you first, like you’re surprised every time. he could do this for hours. sometimes, he does. but for now, he pulls back and drops to his knees—again—a quiet echo of this morning’s ritual. he slips your heels off, cradles them delicately in his hands, and then lifts you into his arms before you can protest. you squeal, whining with a sleepy pout, "I can walk up the stairs, nami…”

you always call him that when you’re sleepy. he loves it. but still—he just clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “let me.” he’ll take care of everything for his billionaire wife. after all, you’ve made him the happiest little househusband in the world. he’d do anything for you.

he sets you down gently in the bedroom, tucks your shoes into their rightful place in the closet, and fetches your favorite comfy clothes. you’re starfished on the bed, face-down, groaning into the freshly washed sheets like they’re heaven. he starts the shower—hotter than he can stand, just how you like it—and presses a kiss to your temple.

“dinner will be ready when you’re done,” he murmurs. he loves when you’re freshly showered. loves knowing he’s taken care of you, start to finish. you work so hard. you give so much. and now, he gets to make you clean and full and soft.

sometimes you eat at the table. on warm nights, out on the balcony. when you’re sick or sad, he brings dinner to the bed and ignores how it messes the sheets. he’ll wash them again anyway. but tonight? tonight, you’re affectionate. you tell him you missed him. that it didn’t matter that you saw him at lunch—because you missed him before that, and after that. you curl up in his lap while you eat. spoonfuls of warm soup, every bite met with praise: so good, incredible, he’s a genius, a chef, a miracle worker.

this is the part of the evening where you praise him endlessly. he used to try and cut you off, tell you he was just doing what needed to be done. that you deserved it. that it wasn’t a big deal. he doesn’t stop you anymore. not when your voice is that sweet. not when you pepper kisses across his face and tell him how good the house smells, how excited you are for tomorrow’s bread, how you need a vacation just to spend every waking second with him. you call him handsome, strong, perfect. you say you’re desperately, stupidly, irremediably in love with him. he squirms. he blushes. but you’re not teasing. you never are. that’s what makes it worse. you’re sincere. honest. brutally so. and you won’t let him wriggle out of your arms without hearing it.

after dinner, while he’s still tucked into the chair, you slip away—quiet as a mouse but not quiet enough. you make it all of five minutes into doing the dishes before he appears in the doorway, arms folded, already displeased. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to. he walks over, firm but unhurried, and before you can launch into your rehearsed defense—“just a few plates, I promise, nami, let me help—”—his hand closes gently around your arm and turns you. you barely register it until your cheek is pressed into his chest, until his warmth surrounds you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed. 

and just like that, you’re undone. your shoulders slump. your arms go limp. your whole body sighs in defeat—but it’s a sweet kind of surrender, the kind that only he can pull from you. all at once, you're smaller. sleepier. soft and warm and in love. he smells like spices and soap. the soft cotton of his shirt holds your temple. his fingers are moving slowly across your back, soothing little circles. you cling to him out of habit, cheek smooshed against his sternum, the tension melting from your limbs.

“this is a dictatorship,” you mumble. he hums. noncommittal. he knows it is. you’ve called it that before.  “you’re gonna get burnt out,” you say, quieter now, words thick with sleep and guilt. “you’re gonna wear yourself out doing everything…”

his chin rests against the top of your head. "I won’t.”

“you could let me do some things,” you say, even softer. "I can wash a dish, y’know. fold a towel. vacuum. occasionally.”

his arms tighten just slightly around you, like he’s afraid you’ll try to wriggle away. "I know you can,” he says. “but I like doing this for you.” you try to argue again, but he shushes you gently with a kiss to your hairline. “let me take care of you,” he whispers. “just tonight.” it isn’t just tonight. you both know that. but you nod. because the truth is, you don’t want to fight him on it. not really.

it’s his devotion that tames you. his steadiness. his quiet pride in being the one you trust enough to collapse into. and it always gets you like this—pliable, drowsy, obedient in a way you aren’t for anyone else. you press your forehead harder into his chest like you’re trying to fuse into him. and oh, how he loves that. how he craves it. he rocks you slightly as he finishes the dishes. you stay wrapped around him the whole time, arms slung around his waist, your head bobbing with every slow sway. the sounds of running water and clinking porcelain fade into a background lullaby. rosy-cheeked. hair slightly tangled. a sleepy, beautiful mess. “you’re gonna spoil me,” you murmur, avoiding his loving gaze. 

he brushes a speck of dust off your collarbone, kisses your temple. “that’s the plan.” you huff and roll your eyes and…you believe him. because with nanami, love isn’t loud. it’s offered. it’s kneeling to take off your shoes. it's soup on the stove and tea by the bed and holding you steady when you’re too tired to hold yourself up. it’s never asking you to earn it. and your soft, trusting surrender? that’s the gift you give him back.

he lifts you up onto the counter like a child, still damp from your shower, skin warm and lotioned, hair pulled back, fuzzy socks on your feet. he cleans the kitchen around you while you swing your legs, watching him. he preps your coffee setup for tomorrow, gets out your favorite breakfast tea. he thrives in this.

and the whole time, you tell him everything. your meeting. the nonprofit update. the best and worst parts of your day. he listens, attentive and quiet. he sees your tiredness and tries not to let guilt creep in. this is what you want. what makes you happy. you’ve told him that a million times.

you go on a walk. the sun is still hanging on, soft and golden. you ask about his day now. he tells you—about the farmer’s market, the old man he chatted with, the cat he saw loitering around the humane society’s tent. you beg for the cat. promise him the world if he lets you bring it home. he almost gives in. he will, eventually. “...I'll think about it,” he says. he’s been thinking about it. he’s always thinking about what you want and how he’ll find a way to give it to you. 

back home, you smell like lilacs and wind. he heads upstairs to grab your book and favorite blanket while you brew tea. normally he’d insist on doing it for you, but you’re focused, content, and he can’t bear to interrupt. you bring him a cup of his usual—unsweetened chamomile. yours is sugared and creamy, bright and warm. just like you, he thinks. you hand him his cup with a smile that nearly undoes him.

then you both tumble to the couch, legs tangled. your feet over his lap. book in hand. forehead resting on his shoulder. you read like that for a while. your eyes start to close. eventually, you whine—don’t wanna go to bed yet, wanna spend more time with him. but he’s heard this before.

he takes your cups to the sink and guides you to the bedroom—not carrying you, not tonight. you’d fuss and push at him, and he doesn’t want to risk the tears. you cry sometimes when you’re too tired and he overwhelms you with love. he can’t take that. it breaks him. so he’s gentle. calm. steady.

he changes into your favorite pajama pants and cradles you close. your hair is dry now. he runs his fingers through it. presses kisses to your temple. whispers sweet little things. how much he loves you. how proud he is. how you’ve given him everything he never dared hope for. you always say he does more for you than you do for him. he ignores that. he doesn’t believe it. you give. every day. every hour. and he will spend the rest of his natural life giving it all back.

he’ll make you sourdough french toast in the morning. ginger-lemon tea. it’ll be a new day, and it will be good. he holds you tight as you fall asleep, tracing your back exactly how you like. you’re out within minutes. he stays awake just a little longer, arms around you, nose tucked into your hair. when the alarm goes off in the morning, your arms are wrapped around him. just like always.

screaming crying throwing up. nanami is my husband, I scream as they carry me back to my white, padded room.

[decagondice]

༓ Too Busy Being Yours ༓

༓ Pairing. Soft!Sylus x f!Reader

༓ Synopsis. In the stillness of a world built on shadow and steel, Sylus stands alone, the weight of her absence pressing against his chest. She lingers in every corner, in every detail — the gleam of his eyes, the quiet hum of the city, the cold touch of his sidearm.

༓ Content. Soft!Sylus, sfw, F!Reader, Established Relationship (?) comfort, Loneliness (?), Sylus misses you whilst you're away, fluff, Yearning, Domestic (?), Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 1.3k

༓ A.N. This was super rushed but its almost 5am and I have been stuck with thoughts of Soft!Sylus whilst having Hozier's cover of 'Do I wanna know?' on constant loop. (I would recommend listening to that while reading this piece)

[Artwork by Petrus Van Schendel - 'Dutch Market by Moonlight', 1853]

The window was a fractured sheet of black glass, and beyond it, the vast sprawl of Onychinus bloomed in shades of dull copper and cold mercury. The city never slept — it simply lulled into a different kind of wakefulness, one that hummed with the murmur of distant engines and the low, syrup-thick din of voices lost between floors, beneath flickering neon eaves. Sylus stood before it, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up over the worn sinew of his forearms, a coin flipping between his fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the dim light, its rhythm steady and almost meditative, like thoughts drifting into the quiet of the room, rising and fading into nothing. 

He was waiting, though he would never call it that.

The apartment was too still without her, the silence swallowing the edges of the hours until they blurred together into one endless dusk. She’d been gone for days — maybe weeks — and though they had lived apart before, this time the absence ached differently. This time, she left her fingerprints on every surface she’d touched, and even in her absence, he felt her. In the hollow press of his pillow, in the half-drunk cup left on the counter, in the way her voice seemed to echo up from the floors themselves.

He wasn’t the kind of man who fumbled for words, but she had built herself a shrine in his mind without even trying. And it would be his curse — perhaps his only one worth bearing — to kneel before it willingly.

The phone buzzed on the glass table beside him, the screen illuminating briefly before dimming into a soft reflection of the room. Her name. A tether to the living world.

He let it ring once — twice — before answering, his voice low and indifferent, a thin veil over the frayed edges of his waiting.

"How are you?" Her voice was a warmth too tender for a world like his, too light to belong in the grip of a man like him.

Sylus laughed, a breathy, unguarded thing that slipped out before he could smother it. The kind of laugh that belonged in dark hallways or against the curve of her neck, close enough that no one else could steal it.

The phone rested lightly against his ear, but his gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the windowpane, to where the sky peeled itself apart over the distant harbour, light bleeding into water like ink into silk.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because how could he tell her —

That every day without her was a hollow stretch, a penance paid in silence. That no matter how he occupied his hands — in deals, in schemes, in fights where blood became the only language spoken — she followed him. 

She was in the weight of the guns he cleaned with meticulous fingers, in the cold press of steel that always reminded him of how her hands felt against his jaw — not soft, not fragile, but deliberate, certain, like she knew exactly what kind of man she was holding and didn’t flinch. She lingered in the polished chambers, in the oil-slick sheen of metal under dim light, each piece of his arsenal now a reliquary touched by her presence. Even the treasures he hoarded — the rings, the loose chains, the antique blades and strange glimmering artefacts collected in careless greed — all of it, touched now by her absence. 

She was in the rain-slick streets beneath his shoes, the reflections of passing headlights gliding like ghosts beside him, the pulse of the city now syncopated to the memory of her heartbeat against his. A curse, perhaps. But if this was damnation, he’d bear it with the grace of a condemned man walking willingly into the mouth of hell.

Because Sylus — sharp-edged, gloved in the faint trace of dark woods and leather, the cool weight of steel a constant companion, with hands that had taken lives and seized fortunes — had known love first as a weakness. A blade turned against its wielder. A story with a ruinous end. But then there was her. Love, in the shape of her name. Love, not a thing that devoured, but something that held. Not a soft surrender, but a reckoning — two hands reaching into the dark and pulling him out without flinching at what they found.

He had told himself once that love was a thing best kept at a distance, lest it burn the house down around him. But now, even knowing the smoke would always follow, he could no longer resist standing in the heart of it.

She was there in the smallest details — the gleam of his carmine eyes when the light caught them just right, the weight of his jacket settling over his shoulders, the angle of his chair at the table where they sat together, knees brushing beneath wood. She was in the stories the city whispered, in the scars on his knuckles and the lingering taste of her on his tongue.

Her dragon, she had called him once — smoke and fire and ruin. And yet, it was she who wandered into his den, fearless and bright, leaving the scent of flowers in her wake. Perhaps he was the storm she wandered into — all steel winds and unyielding sky — and perhaps she was the quiet omen he had ignored until it was far too late to turn back. Or perhaps they were simply two souls damned to meet again and again, drawn together not by fate but by the quiet hunger of the earth itself.

It would not matter. If every lifetime led him back to this — the shape of her back beneath his hand, the sound of her voice softened by sleep, the way she pulled apart the silence between them with nothing but a glance — then Sylus would walk every damned path willingly. Sin, virtue, heaven, hell — none of it mattered if it meant keeping her. Not locked away, but free — because she chose to stay.

And what a thing that was. To be chosen by her.

"Did you miss me?" she asked, her voice a gentle needle, sliding between his ribs.

The window, cold against his fingertips. The city breathing outside. The distant gleam of headlights trailing like unspoken words between them.

"Haven’t had time to think about it," he said, his voice low, teasing, smooth as a blade sharpened on stone.

But they both knew.

And so the conversation slipped into silence — not uncomfortable, not empty — but the kind of silence built by people who knew every corner of each other. Her breath through the speaker, soft and even, and then — a quiet laugh, low and effortless, like a hand brushing through water. It was the kind of sound that lingered, curling around him even after it was gone. His fingers traced idle circles against the glass. They did not need to speak of longing. It was already there, woven into the space between every word, every inhale.

They existed in that place — a liminal space where shadow and steel met sunlight and skin, where dragon and archnemesis tangled together not in ruin, but in something softer. Something whole. And as the call ended, as the city stretched before him and the cold air pressed against the glass, Sylus stood alone — but not empty. Never empty.

Because even when she was gone, she was still there, as sure as the weight of his weapon resting within reach, as sure as the steady beat of his pulse in the quiet of the room.

Everywhere he went, she was already there.

And in every lifetime to come, in every heaven or hell, he would walk willingly beside her again.

Just to see her.

To have her, as she is — treasured and whole, free to be herself.

And for Sylus, that was enough.

A.N. I have been putting off reading Sylus' dragon myth for the longest time, so my details here might be a bit off, so please excuse me there! Hopefully my brain can generate more Sylus stuff :D Thank you for reading!!!!

[psformybss]

Can you do one where the public reacts badly towards Drew’s secret?fiancée? I know you have done a good one but can you do a bad one?

When the World Knew

series masterlist

warnings: internet hate, secret relationship reveal, angst, emotional distress, comfort, death threats (mentioned), protective!Drew, hurt/comfort

an: fun fact i originally wanted to make the reveal angsty, actually wrote a few different versions of it and this one is one of them except more angsty than it originally was

The day they got caught was golden.

Not metaphorically—actually golden.

The light, the laughter, the way the ocean curled around their ankles as they kissed. Teddy chased a gull down the shoreline. Drew held her hand like it was second nature, like no one was watching. Because they thought—hoped—no one was.

For a few sacred hours, it was just them and the surf. A soft kind of joy.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the picture hit the internet like a match to dry brush.

By morning, it was a fire.

By evening, it was an inferno.

And by the next day, it was war.

She hadn’t meant to check her phone.

She shouldn’t have.

But the moment she saw her face plastered across fan accounts, tagged in screenshots of that photo, the dread sank into her like a stone in water.

They had found her.

Not just her name—her Instagram. Her photos. Her old high school posts. Her graduation selfie with Drew’s arm around her waist. The blurry prom pic she forgot even existed.

And they ripped her apart.

Her DMs were flooded.

“You’ll never be enough for him.”

“He deserves better.”

“You’re ruining his career.”

“He could have any woman he wants, and he chose you?”

Then it got worse.

“Die.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“He’ll leave you. They always do.”

She locked her phone and sat in the silence of their bedroom, blinds drawn, heart thudding behind her ribs like a warning bell. Her skin itched. Her throat burned. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to scream or throw up.

Teddy barked from the living room. She didn’t move.

Her hands were shaking.

Drew found out during a scene break on set.

His phone vibrated nonstop—texts from his sister, his publicist, old high school friends, “Check Instagram now.”

He pulled up Instagram.

Saw the photos.

Saw the screenshots.

Saw the hate.

Saw her name trending.

He didn’t even tell the director he was leaving.

She didn’t hear him come in.

She was still sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the tub, eyes blank. Her phone was on the counter with the screen turned face-down.

He said her name once—softly.

She didn’t answer.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, cupping her face with trembling hands. “Hey. Baby. Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Shiny. Empty.

“They found me,” she said, voice hollow. “They found everything.”

Drew’s stomach twisted.

“They’re sending death threats.”

She blinked, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“They said I should kill myself so you can be free.”

“Jesus,” he breathed, pulling her into him. She didn’t fight it. Just collapsed against his chest like she had nothing left holding her up.

“I thought I could handle it,” she whispered. “But I didn’t think it would be this.”

His jaw clenched. He stroked her hair like it could ground her. Like maybe if he held her close enough, none of it would stick.

“They don’t know you,” he said, his voice raw. “They don’t get to touch you like this.”

“I feel disgusting,” she choked. “Like I ruined everything. Like I’m the villain in their fantasy.”

“No. No,” he said, pulling back to meet her eyes. “This is not your fault. You didn’t ask for this.”

“We waited, Drew. We waited. We wanted it to be ours. Safe. Now they’ve taken even that.”

He saw it then—the heartbreak buried beneath the fear. Not just the backlash. But the grief of losing something sacred.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said quietly.

She shook her head, voice trembling. “You did. You always have.”

That night, Drew didn’t sleep.

She lay in bed beside him, silent tears soaking into his hoodie. He stayed awake, watching the curve of her cheek against the pillow, the slight hitch of her breath. Every time her phone buzzed on the nightstand, he had to force himself not to throw it across the room.

By dawn, he’d had enough.

He opened Instagram. Sat on the edge of their bed. Hit record.

No lights. No filters. Just a man and his fury.

“If you’re my fan,” he said, “you don’t get to send death threats to the woman I love.”

His voice was low, but it shook.

“She’s been part of my life since we were kids. Before the shows. Before the cameras. She has never once asked for attention or clout or anything from me but love.”

He swallowed hard.

“And now, because someone snapped a picture, she’s being harassed, threatened—told to die. All because she wears a ring I gave her.”

A pause. His eyes narrowed.

“I’m done being quiet. This isn’t just internet drama. This is real. This is the woman I’m going to marry, and you’re hurting her.”

His hand tightened around the phone.

“If you say you care about me—really care—then stop. Right now. Because I won’t stand by and watch you destroy the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He posted it without rewatching.

Then he turned off his phone.

And climbed back into bed.

The internet fractured.

Some fans doubled down—called him whipped, dramatic, claimed he was “blaming his supporters.”

But others fought back harder.

“This woman has done nothing wrong. Leave her alone.”

“Imagine being with your high school sweetheart and people think you’re the villain?”

“I can’t believe how disgusting people are being. Drew’s right to be furious.”

“Love like this doesn’t happen often. Protect it.”

Slowly, the tide shifted.

Not fully. But enough.

She could breathe again.

Not because the hate was gone.

But because he didn’t let her drown in it alone.

They stayed inside for a few days.

Ordered takeout. Watched comfort movies. Played music too loud just to block out the world.

Drew held her through the panic. Sat with her through the silence.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he was building a new shield around her every time.

And eventually, she started to come back to herself.

She started answering texts again. Opened her camera roll and smiled at pictures of Teddy chasing his tail. Sat on their back porch with her knees pulled to her chest and said, “Maybe one day we’ll laugh about this.”

Drew kissed her temple.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

[lov3notts]

amora congratulations on 1k babes!! i’m so happy for you and your celebration is so pretty ♥️!

i was thinking cupids arrow w/ theo nott + "i think it's time we take a break." (feeling all the angst with theo lol)

1k Celebration!!! ;Navigation

i missed writing angst!!! thank you for this brooke😽

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone—at yet another unread message, another unanswered “Are we still on tonight?”

You stared for a while. Then stood.

Because you had grown tired of his games.

But by the time you found him, he was in the common room, backlit by firelight and hunched over a book he clearly wasn’t reading, something inside you snapped.

He didn’t even notice you at first.

That used to be impossible.

You stood there for a second too long, waiting for him to look up, to say “hey, love” to smile like he used to.

He didn’t.

You finally spoke. “So, are you going to keep pretending I don’t exist, or is that just how things are now?”

He sat back slowly, eyes narrowing. “Okay. What’s going on?”

“You tell me,” you snapped. “Because I’m tired of guessing.”

Theo blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’ve been distant, Theo. You barely speak to me, you cancel plans without a word, you act like I’m bothering you just by being here.”

He closed the book sharply, standing. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being honest,” you said. “Do you even care anymore? Or are you just too much of a coward to tell me you’re done?”

His jaw tightened. “I’ve got a lot going on, alright?”

“So say that!” you shouted. “Say something! You just shut me out like I don’t matter anymore—like we don’t matter. And I’m sick of making excuses for you.”

“I don’t know, alright?” His voice rose. “I don’t have some neat answer to make you feel better. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m overwhelmed. Maybe I just need some space without being accused of falling out of love with you every five seconds.”

That hit you like a slap.

Then he moved closer to you, tension sharp in his shoulders. “You don’t get it.”

“Then talk to me, Theo! Let me in! That’s what people do when they’re in love!”

His mouth opened—then closed again.

And that silence burned more than anything he could’ve said.

You laughed bitterly, wiping at the tears starting to slip. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I didn’t say I don’t love you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed, heavy and quiet.

Then Theo muttered, “Maybe I just need time.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Time? Theo I’ve been giving you nothing but time.”

“Well, apparently not enough,” he snapped.

You nodded slowly, chest burning, eyes stinging. “Fine.”

You turned, this time not waiting for him to stop you. Not hoping.

Because you had lost hope a long time ago.

At first, he thought it would help.

Space.

It sounded reasonable when he said it. He told himself he needed air, time to think—some distance to quiet the noise in his head. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He just… didn’t know how to explain what was going on inside him. And you were always there, asking, worrying, caring—and he couldn’t live up to it. Not then.

But now?

Now it was too quiet.

You stopped walking with him to class. Stopped waiting for him outside the library. Stopped sliding into the seat next to him at lunch like you always used to, shoulder brushing his, warm and familiar. He didn't even realize how much he'd relied on those moments until they disappeared.

Now there was an empty seat beside him. Every. Single. Day.

And that seat was louder than any fight you’d ever had.

At first, he tried to pretend he was fine. He shrugged it off when Mattheo raised an eyebrow and said, “You look like a kicked dog.”

He ignored Blaise’s snort when he muttered, “Mate, you asked for this.”

But he saw the way they looked at him when you walked past without sparing him a glance. He felt it—the hollow ache when you smiled at someone else down the corridor, your eyes never even flickering in his direction.

He thought he’d feel lighter. But he just felt lonely.

So one afternoon, he found you alone by the edge of the Black Lake, where you used to sit together and talk for hours about everything and nothing.

You were sitting on the grass, picking absentmindedly at the hem of your sleeve. The sunlight caught the side of your face, and for a second, it hit him all at once—how much he missed you. Your voice. Your warmth. Your presence.

He cleared his throat softly.

You looked up.

Theo hesitated, hands shoved in his pockets. “Hey.”

“Hey.” It wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm, either. It was… careful. Like you were building a wall and choosing not to let him through.

“I, uh…” He shifted. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He hated how polite you sounded. He hated that he didn’t know how to fix it.

“I know I said I needed space,” he started, eyes locked on the water, “but—”

“But now you’re ready for me to be here again?”

His head snapped to you.

You weren’t angry. That’s what made it worse. You were calm. Resigned.

“I gave you space, Theo,” you said softly. “And in that space, I had time to think too.”

He swallowed hard. “Think about what?”

You shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “About how much of our relationship was me trying to hold it together while you pulled away.”

Theo’s chest tightened.

“You said you needed time, but you never said why. You didn’t trust me enough to let me in.” Your voice cracked, just a little. “And maybe that was my answer all along.”

“I do trust you—”

“Do you?” you asked, finally looking at him. “Because it didn’t feel like it.”

Silence settled between you. Cold and final.

He didn’t know what to say. He’d thought the distance would give him clarity—but all it did was show him how much he’d taken you for granted. And now… now he wasn’t sure if there was anything left to come back to.

“I’m not mad, Theo. I just… I don’t know if I can keep trying for someone who won’t meet me halfway.”

You took a shaky breath, fingers digging into the sleeves of your jumper.

“I think it’s time we take a break.” The words tasted like betrayal in your own mouth.

Theo’s breath caught. “No. Don’t say that. Please.”

“I’m tired,” you whispered. “I’m so tired, Theo. Of chasing after someone who keeps running.”

“I’m not running,” he said quickly. “Not anymore. I’m here—I’m here. I messed up, but we can fix this. Just—don’t give up on me.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy and throat tight. “I didn’t give up on you. You gave up on us. I just finally listened.”

He reached for your hand, and for a moment, you let him take it.

“I love you” he said, with every ounce of fear and hope in his chest.

You gave a sad smile, eyes dropping to the place where your hands touched.

“And I…..loved you.” You stood slowly, gently pulling your hand away.

He didn’t stop you when you walked away.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But maybe this time, he didn’t deserve to.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞 𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐝 || 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 ||

A/n: girl dad Billy 👏, finally writing it out like I said I would.

It starts with silence.

Not the kind that lingers after a fight or fills the void between words—but a stunned, hollow sort of quiet that falls over Billy Hargrove the moment you whisper those three impossible words in your bedroom:

“Billy, I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t curse. He just… stares.

His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of your dresser, and you can see the panic rising behind his eyes, blue like ice thawing too fast. His breathing gets shallow, uneven, and you reach for him gently—only for him to pull back like your touch burns.

“No,” he mutters, voice cracked. “No, no, no, I can’t—fuck.”

“Billy—” You move toward him again, slow this time.

“I’m gonna end up just like him.” The words fall from his lips like they’re poisoned. “I’m gonna mess this kid up. Like Neil did to me. Like—like I wasn’t supposed to survive him, and now you want me to raise a fucking kid?”

Your heart breaks a little. Not for yourself—but for him. For the terrified boy still living inside the man who’s trying so hard not to fall apart.

You step closer, even when he backs up.

“You’re not him.”

He shakes his head, lips trembling. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you already love more fiercely than he ever could. You’re scared—fine. Me too. But I know you, Billy. I know what kind of father you won’t be. And I know what kind of father you could be… if you let yourself believe it.”

He sits on your bed like the weight of the truth finally crushed him. You kneel in front of him, pressing his hand gently against your stomach. It’s still flat, but it’s real. So is this. So are you.

“I’m not doing this without you,” you whisper. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Day's later.Billy finds himself at your home with a fresh bruise on his cheek, bag slung over his shoulder as he stands rigid at the doorway, a bundle of nerves dressed in his usual denim and defiance. Your dad watches him with that quiet, unreadable stare—before sighing and motioning him inside.

“Come in, Billy. She’s in the kitchen. But you and I need to talk first.”

Billy looks like he might bolt—but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods.

Ten minutes later, your mom catches the two of them on the back porch—your dad with a cold beer in one hand, his other on Billy’s shoulder. Not a threat. Not a lecture. A promise:

“You’re part of this family now. We don’t leave each other behind.”

Billy doesn’t say anything, but when he looks over at you through the kitchen window, his eyes are wet.

Week's have passed and now he finds himself building the crib in your room....his room.

Cursing under his breath, a screwdriver tucked behind his ear, a tiny instruction manual half-crumpled beside him. He doesn’t notice you watching from the doorway until you smile.

“You’re putting the side rails on backward.”

He groans, mutters, “Goddamn stupid screws,” but doesn’t stop smiling either.

Later that night, you find him curled against your belly in bed, talking softly—nervously—to the baby. He doesn’t know you’re awake. He says things like, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” and, “You’ve got your mom’s heart—thank fuck for that.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, and he exhales, grounding himself against you.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Billy.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he presses a kiss just above your navel and breathes:

“Yeah. I think maybe I will be."

Month's have passed and now you were giving birth, the delivery room is in chaos.

Monitors beep in erratic rhythm, nurses move with practiced urgency, and your hand is crushing Billy’s fingers like a vice.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart—so fucking good—”

His voice is raw. Trembling. His forehead pressed against yours as sweat slicks both your skin. You’re panting, sobbing, screaming through the pain, but his touch is there. Constant. Unflinching.

He doesn’t let go. Not once.

“Almost there, one more push!” the doctor says.

You scream again, and Billy’s free hand braces behind your back, holding you steady, whispering, “You’ve got this, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

And then—

A cry.

Not yours. Not his.

A high, raw, brand-new sound that shatters the world and puts it back together all at once.

The room shifts. Slows. The chaos fades into the background as the nurse lifts a small, squirming bundle and says the words that sucker-punch Billy square in the heart:

“Congratulations. You have a daughter.”

Billy freezes.

You’re crying, gasping through exhaustion and joy, but he just stares. His eyes are locked on the tiny thing being cleaned and swaddled, and he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

“Billy,” you whisper.

He blinks, like you woke him from a dream. When the nurse comes to place her in his arms, he hesitates.

His hands hover.

“I—” His voice cracks, hoarse and small. “I don’t want to break her.”

The nurse smiles gently. “You won’t.”

He takes her. Slowly. Carefully.

And then he looks down.

This tiny thing, wrapped in soft pink, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. Her face is red and squished and perfect. His thumb brushes her cheek, and she whimpers, nuzzling toward his chest like she already knows him.

That’s when it happens.

Billy Hargrove breaks.

He sinks into the chair beside your bed, arms curled protectively around her, and sobs.

Full-body, gut-wrenching sobs—tears that have been locked away for years. The grief of his childhood, the fear, the self-hatred—all of it pours out of him in silent, shaking waves.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he chokes, tears soaking her hat. “I don’t know how to be anything but angry and scared—”

You reach for him, stroking his hair, your voice a whisper:

“You’re already doing it. You stayed. You love her. That’s more than he ever gave you.”

He presses a trembling kiss to his daughter’s forehead.

“I’m not gonna be like him. I swear to god, baby, I’m not.”

“You’re nothing like him, Billy.”

She lets out a soft coo, her fingers curling around his pinky like she’s sealing the promise.

And for the first time in his life, Billy Hargrove feels peace.

Not because the fear is gone—but because he’s not facing it alone.

He has you.

And now he has her.

[alltheeya]

Before the show | p.sh

genre: established relationship, fluff

word count: 0.7k

notes: another short one but i find it really cute jshsiuhj, y/n is an idol too btw

Sunghoon’s adjusting his in-ears, staring at the monitor in front of him. His stylists are doing last-minute touch-ups on his hair and outfit, and everything is moving around him like clockwork. It’s fine—he’s done this a million times. Performed without you watching backstage. He can do this.

But it’s different now.

He’s gotten used to having you nearby. Even if you were quiet, even if you were hidden behind the staff, just knowing you were close has always made it easier to breathe before a stage. And today? You’re not here. You’ve got your own schedules. And logically, he gets it. He tells himself it’s fine.

Still, there’s a little hollow ache in his chest.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, gaze lowering toward the floor, and just as he’s about to sigh—

He hears a faint, "Psssst!!"

Sunghoon blinks and instinctively turns his head.

And there you are.

A little distance away behind the camera setup and some stage equipment, you were hopping. Like full-on hopping, with your arms waving above your head like a little kid trying to get someone’s attention at the airport. Your staff are clearly telling you, “You need to go, you’re up next!”, but you are fighting for just one more second.

Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a grin, his heart flipping over itself.

You finally catch his eyes. Your grin widens, and you throw both your fists up in a small cheer.

You mouth, “You’ve got this, baby!”

Then you point at your own eye and do the I’m watching you sign, grinning like an idiot.

And then—your hands flutter over your chest before you make a little heart with your fingers.

“I love you,” you mouth this time.

Before you're scooted away by your manager, literally being pulled by the wrist because you're supposed to be somewhere else. You give him one last bright grin, one last tiny wave, and then you’re gone.

Sunghoon exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.

And when he steps on stage, in front of thousands, it’s like you're still there beside him.

Because your voice echoes in his head,

"You’ve got this, baby."

And damn right he does. Sunghoon killed it on stage. He knew it. 

The adrenaline was still buzzing through his veins, but as soon as he got backstage, he barely let the staff unclip his mic pack before he was moving. Weaving through staff and dodging cameras, still catching his breath but not caring one bit.

Because you were next.

And sure, you had your staffs with you. They are probably whispering something to get you pumped, fussing over your outfit, or making sure your in-ears were in perfectly.

But Sunghoon needed to be there too.

So there he was, standing just beyond the curtain—close enough to catch you before you went on, but far enough not to be in the way. Still wearing his stage outfit, sweat on his temple, chest rising and falling from his own performance. But none of that mattered.

Because he saw you.

You were at a distance, head tilted down, doing last-minute breathing exercises. Then one of your stylists pointed toward the side, and you turned your head—and spotted him.

Sunghoon lifted both hands above his head and started waving them like a maniac. Not the cool, controlled idol wave. Full-on dorky arm-flailing.

Your whole face lit up.

You giggled—he saw it. You were supposed to be in serious mode by now, but there you were, breaking into the biggest smile. And then, without thinking, you did your little happy bounce—your signature move whenever you were really happy. Little jumps on your toes, the ones that made you look like an excited bunny.

Sunghoon swore his heart exploded.

You waved back at him, both hands, big energy. Then you pointed at him, did the little "watch me" sign just like you had done before, and mouthed, "For you!"

And then—just like that—you switched.

From his giggling, bouncing y/n to y/n the performer. Shoulders squared, eyes sharp, walking toward the stage like you owned it.

But Sunghoon didn’t leave.

He stayed right where he was, hand pressed over his heart, watching you like you were the only thing in the world.

And as the lights came on and the music started, he whispered under his breath,

"For me, huh? Then go kill it, baby."

[littlelovelunette]

Ok PLEASE hear me out but Sevika x reader where Sevika does something really fucked up but she doesn't realize how bad it was and thinks reader is just ignoring her because she's being dramatic and bcs they're both stubborn they don't talk for weeks until Sevika is sick of it and rants to Ran probably and she tells sev like "dude.. you fucked up bad bro" and since Sevika is just so desperate for r's attention she does the most dramatic apology every with flowers, all of r's fav stuff, probably even a hose Ran insisted on holding to make it look like she's in the rain (r notices and says hi to Ran) but um yk if you'd like ofc

Messy But She Tries

Contains angst

Toxic!Sevika x Fem!Reader

The night Sevika betrayed you was the night she proved she didn’t trust you.

It had started with an accusation—one she hadn’t even given you the dignity of hearing first.

Instead, you had walked into The Last Drop to find her sitting at a corner table, drink in hand, watching you like a predator waiting for you to step into the trap.

Her grey eyes had that cold, assessing gleam, the one she used when she was deciding whether or not to throw a punch.

“You got something you want to tell me?” she asked, low and even, but something in her tone made the hair on your arms rise.

“What?” you frowned, stepping closer.

She exhaled, shaking her head like she was disappointed.

“Word is, you’ve been talking to the wrong people. Piltover types. Enforcers.”

You froze. “What?”

Sevika leaned forward, flexing the fingers of her mechanical arm. “Funny, right? ‘Cause I could’ve sworn you weren’t that fucking stupid. But here we are.”

Your stomach turned. “You think I’d—”

“I think you’re gonna tell me the truth before I have to make you.”

And that was the moment. The moment you realized she had already made up her mind.

She wasn’t asking. She wasn’t looking for clarity. She had set a test, and in her mind, you had already failed.

It didn’t matter that you had never even looked at an Enforcer, let alone spoken to one. It didn’t matter that you had stayed at her side, through every close call, every late night, every fucking wound you’d patched up after her fights.

None of it mattered.

“Wow,” you laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was hollow. Bitter. “So this is what you think of me?”

Sevika didn’t flinch. “I think I need to be careful about who I trust.”

You clenched your jaw. You could see it in her face—the way she was already shutting down, closing herself off like this was just another job.

Another problem she had to eliminate.

“Then don’t,” you said, your voice quiet. “If you think so little of me, don’t trust me. But just so you know, you can take all those allegations of me, stick them up where the sun don't shine. I am done.”

For a second, just a second, you thought she might say something else. That she might take it back. But instead, she picked up her drink and took another slow sip, watching you over the rim.

Cold. Detached. Like she didn’t care.

Like you didn’t matter.

You walked out.

And she let you.

The first few days were the worst.

You kept expecting her to show up. To stop by your place, lean in the doorway with that cocky smirk, and say something half-assed that wasn’t quite an apology but was close enough to mean she wanted things to be okay.

But she never came.

You used to complain about how she smelled like cigar smoke and metal, how her body heat was too much sometimes—but now?

Now the bed felt too big. Too empty.

And she?

She was fine.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered under her breath, slamming her glass onto the bar.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” Ran drawled from her spot beside her. She leaned back, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Let me guess. This have anything to do with that poor girl you ran off a few weeks ago?”

Sevika exhaled sharply through her nose. “Not talking about it.”

“Uh-huh.” Ran took a slow sip of her drink. “Funny, ‘cause you sure as hell won’t shut up about not talking about it.”

Sevika shot her a glare, but Ran just grinned.

"Look, I'm sick of ignoring her," Sevika finally admitted, rolling her drink between her fingers. “But I’m not crawling back, either.”

Ran snorted. “Dumbass, that’s exactly what you need to do.”

Sevika scowled.

“You accused her of snitching,” Ran reminded her, as if she needed the fucking recap.

“Your GIRLFRIEND! The one who’s had your back since day one. And then, instead of fixing it, you let her walk away. So yeah, sweetheart, if you want her back, you ARE crawling. And you’re gonna do it big.”

Sevika groaned, rubbing her face. “I don’t do ‘big gestures.’”

Ran leaned in, smirking. “Then I guess you won't get her back.”

“…What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Ran grinned. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”

When you heard the doorbell ring, you hadn't expected to see Sevika standing on the other side of the door. But you didn't open the door. Instead, you asked from the other side.

“What do you want?” You asked, arms crossing over your chest.

“Open the door,” Sevika said, voice calculated and calm.

“Can you just fuck off already?” you hissed venomously.

“Not unless you hear me out,” Sevika said, her voice now had an undertone of plea, you could hear that she was genuine so you reluctantly opened the door.

You froze when you saw Sevika holding a fat bouquet of your favourite flowers, they looked so fresh and almost heavenly.

“I'm sorry?” Sevika held up the bouquet alongside a huge box of your favourite chocolates, a few shopping bags were dangling from her wrist.

The biggest grin broke on your lips, you giggled, “This is all for me?”

“Mhm,” Sevika gave you the bouquet which you took a whiff of.

“Fresh,” you smiled up at her, “Thank you,” you said shyly before you frowned a little seeing the sprinkles of water as if it was raining.

You squinted over Sevika's shoulder seeing Ran standing in a distance, she was holding a hose of water towards the sky. Ran waved.

You laughed softly, waving back.

“Does that mean I'm forgiven?” Sevika grumbled.

“Of course,” you hugged her which she gladly returned.

[writeriguess]

Could you please write angst of katsuki x reader? Where the reader doesnt think theyre good enough for katsuki because he keeps bailing on them (mostly due to his work)

Overtime

The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, each one pressing heavier on your chest than the last. The dinner on the table had long gone cold, a silent testament to another night spent waiting. Your phone lay face-up beside your plate, screen dark, mocking your foolish hope.

He said he’d be here.

But then again, he always said that.

With a deep sigh, you pushed your plate away and leaned back against the chair, blinking up at the ceiling in an attempt to keep the sting behind your eyes at bay. You hated this. Hated the way you felt pathetic for waiting. Hated the way you kept forgiving him before he even asked for it.

Your relationship with Katsuki Bakugo was everything you ever wanted, and yet, it hurt in ways you never imagined love could. Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like this, right? Like grasping at water, watching it slip through your fingers no matter how tightly you held on.

You heard the door unlock sometime past midnight. The soft creak of it opening, the muffled curse as he kicked off his boots—it was all so familiar, so routine, that your heart didn’t even race anymore. It just ached.

You didn’t move from your spot on the couch. You barely turned your head when he stepped into the dim light of the living room, his ash-blond hair disheveled, soot clinging to the fabric of his hero uniform. He looked exhausted.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough from a day of shouting orders and fighting villains.

You gave a hollow smile. “Hey.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his crimson eyes flickering to the untouched dinner table before landing back on you. “Shit, I—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, voice quiet but firm. “Don’t say it. I already know.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Y/n, you know I—”

“Had work, I know.” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You always do, Katsuki.”

He took a step toward you, hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s not like I want to miss dinner with you. You think I like this? Being away all the damn time?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, looking down at your hands in your lap. “Because it sure as hell feels like I don’t matter enough for you to try.”

His breath hitched. “That’s not fucking true.”

“Then why does it feel like it is?” The words came out softer than you intended, vulnerability cracking through your carefully built walls. “Why am I always the one waiting? Why am I the one who has to understand, to forgive, to—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. “To settle for whatever scraps of time you can give me?”

Bakugo crouched in front of you, reaching for your hands, but you pulled away. His face twisted in something almost like pain. “I’m trying, damn it.”

“I know you are,” you whispered, and that was the worst part. You knew he was trying, in his own way. Knew that he loved you, that he never meant to hurt you. But love wasn’t supposed to be this one-sided. Love wasn’t supposed to make you feel like you were second place to everything else in someone’s life.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught it with his thumb, his calloused fingers lingering against your skin. “Please don’t cry,” he muttered, almost desperate. “I hate seeing you like this.”

You shut your eyes. “Then stop making me feel this way.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. Katsuki wasn’t a man of words, but he always knew how to fight for what he wanted. But for once, he had nothing to say. No reassurances, no promises he couldn’t keep.

And that told you everything you needed to know.

You stood, stepping past him, feeling the weight of his gaze burning into your back as you made your way to your bedroom. “I can’t keep doing this, Katsuki.”

His breath hitched. “What are you saying?”

You hesitated at the doorway, gripping the frame as if it could hold you together. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to be second to your world anymore.”

When you closed the door behind you, the sound of your heart breaking was louder than any explosion he had ever made.