#maybe this one should’ve stayed in the drafts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

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petty | sylus

synopsis : You thought a harmless prank—some red dye, a little glitter—would be funny. But Sylus, your cold, calculating boyfriend, doesn’t get mad. He gets petty.

content : fluff, chaos, N109 Zone au, just sylus being petty af, imagine: rom-com and slapstick comedy

writer’s note : i had this sitting in my drafts for so long LOL

You have no idea how you ended up here.

It was just a silly prank. One you decided—no, more like bullied—into pulling on Sylus.

Luke had that look in his eye, Kieran had that grin, and between the two of them, you’d made a series of very poor decisions.

It started out harmless.

Overheating the dryer until his clothes shrunk just enough to make him glare at his reflection in irritation.

Switching out his toothpaste with mint chip ice cream—cold, foamy, oddly sweet.

Juvenile, yes, but survivable.

But then Luke, bored of mild chaos, decided to up the ante.

Red dye. In Sylus’ face wash.

You should’ve stopped him.

You really should’ve.

Now you’re backed up against the cold steel wall of the corridor outside your shared quarters.

Sylus stands in front of you, arms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His body radiates heat like he’s just stepped out of hell itself.

And his face?

Still damp.

Streaked red.

A slow, uneven flush blooming down his jaw and neck like a war paint disaster.

You press your lips together to stifle the laugh climbing your throat.

Not because you’re afraid—well, okay, maybe a little—but because if you so much as snort, you know he’ll make you regret it.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

That unreadable, razor-edged stare.

Like he’s measuring the weight of your existence against the trouble you’re worth.

“Sylus,” you start, trying for innocent. “It was—”

“A prank,” he finishes for you, voice low, smooth. The kind of calm that usually precedes mass destruction. “I gathered.”

You open your mouth again, but the words die as he leans in closer, the tips of his silver hair grazing your forehead. His breath ghosts against your cheek.

“You find this funny?” he murmurs, voice like smoke and ice. “My face. My dignity.”

You hold your breath, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I mean,” you squeak, “you do pull off crimson rather well…”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile.

He just tilts his head slightly, gaze trailing down to your lips.

“I see,” he says.

You swallow.

“Sylus?”

He shifts forward, just enough that your bodies nearly touch, and then—click.

You glance down. He’s handcuffed your wrist to the pipe behind you.

One-handed. Effortless.

“What—wait, Sylus!”

He steps back, unhurried, brushing red-streaked water off his jaw with the back of his hand. He looks so composed now, it’s almost unfair.

“I’ll be in the lab,” he says casually, already turning away. “Don’t worry. Luke and Kieran are next. But you…”

He pauses at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder, “You can stay there and think about what you’ve done.”

“Sylus.”

“I’ll come back when I’ve decided how to retaliate.”

Your jaw drops. “You’re not serious—!”

He disappears around the corner, his footsteps fading.

You stare after him, wrist tugging against the cuff. “You petty, beautiful menace!”

And somewhere down the hall, you swear you hear him laugh.

You struggle against the pipe for a solid five minutes.

Nothing.

Sylus had apparently decided that if he was going to cuff you, it would be with reinforced titanium-grade handcuffs.

Because of course he would.

You’re still trying to twist your wrist free when two familiar figures round the corner, arguing loudly.

“—I told you he’d murder us, Kieran.”

“No, you said he’d probably murder us. I figured we had a 20% survival rate if we ran fast enough—oh.”

They freeze when they see you.

You, handcuffed to a wall like some criminally adorable hostage. Hair slightly tousled.

A vein twitching in your temple.

Luke whistles low. “Damn. He actually cuffed you?”

“What was your first clue, Sherlock?” you snap, yanking on the cuff. “The literal metal restraint on my wrist or the rage in my eyes?”

Kieran winces. “Hey, hey, don’t be mad at us—we didn’t put the dye in the face wash.”

“You told Luke to do it!”

Luke, affronted, points at Kieran. “You told me you cleared it with her!”

“I said it would be funny! That’s not the same thing!”

You groan and let your head thump back against the wall. “I’m going to kill both of you. Slowly. With a spoon.”

Luke bites back a grin. “I don’t think Sylus is done with you yet.”

“Un-cuff me before I scream loud enough to summon the Onychinus agents.”

Kieran rummages through his pockets. “You think he left a key?”

“Oh yeah,” you deadpan. “I’m sure Sylus, the most paranoid man alive, just happened to leave a key to his special-grade cuffs on me.”

Luke pulls something out of his jacket and grins. “Good thing I have my trusty lockpick set.”

You squint at him. “Why do you have that?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

Kieran leans in beside him, watching like this is a group project. “Careful, if you scratch her wrist again she’s going to throw you into traffic.”

“I will throw you into traffic,” you mutter.

“You’re so cute when you’re angry,” Kieran beams.

“Touch me and I’ll break your fingers.”

Luke finally clicks the lock open with a satisfying snap. Your wrist comes free, and you stretch it, rubbing the sore spot with a glare that could melt steel.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. “Now run.”

“Run?” Luke blinks.

“Yes. Run. Before he comes back.”

The overhead lights flicker.

The three of you freeze.

“…That’s him, isn’t it?” Kieran whispers.

You look up slowly, the temperature in the corridor dropping by a few ominous degrees.

“I think he’s coming to check if I’ve learned my lesson,” you murmur.

Luke’s already halfway down the hall. “NOPE. I’M OUT—”

Kieran grabs your hand and drags you after him. “We live in fear now. This is our life.”

Behind you, the sound of measured footsteps echoes through the corridor.

And somewhere between breathless laughter and panic, you realise, this isn’t over.

Not even close.

You bolt through the corridor with Luke and Kieran like you’re fleeing an exploding reactor.

“He’s definitely tracking us,” you gasp.

“He has cameras everywhere!” Kieran hisses. “We’re screwed!”

You dive into the living quarters and slam the door shut behind you. Luke immediately ducks behind the couch. Kieran throws himself dramatically into the pantry.

You stand there for a beat, hands on your hips.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever been involved in.”

“You’re welcome,” Luke’s muffled voice replies from under a throw blanket that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide his legs.

You sigh, yank open a cabinet, and cram yourself inside.

There’s a broom, a vacuum hose, and a suspicious packet of cookies you’re pretty sure expired last year.

“Kieran,” you call through the cabinet slats. “Are you eating?”

“…No,” he says with his mouth full.

“I swear to every celestial body—”

Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Near.

All three of you freeze like a trio of amateur criminals hiding from a prison warden.

The door creaks open.

You hold your breath.

Nothing.

No words. No movement.

Just the sound of the wind outside the window and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“I know you’re hiding,” Sylus calls out. Calm. Even. Like he’s enjoying this.

Luke lets out a soft, wheezing squeak from under the blanket.

You slap your palm over your mouth.

Kieran drops a packet of crackers and panics. “Shit, he’s bluffing! He’s bluffing!”

You burst out of the cabinet. “He’s NOT bluffing!”

All three of you scramble again, crashing into each other like some bootleg spy movie.

Kieran ends up tangled in curtain strings, Luke slams into a chair, and you leap over the kitchen counter and miss, landing with a loud thud.

You’re wheezing on the floor when Sylus walks in.

Unbothered. Unhurried.

Looking like an avenging angel with red-streaked remnants still faintly staining his jawline.

He folds his arms and surveys the disaster with something suspiciously close to amusement.

He walks past Kieran, still suspended in the curtains like a very dumb chandelier.

Past Luke, now pretending to be unconscious on the floor.

Past you.

He doesn’t say a word.

Not a glare. Not a threat. Not even a smirk.

Just a quiet, “Clean up after yourselves,” as he heads into his study.

The door shuts with a soft click.

“…That’s so much worse than yelling,” you whisper.

Kieran groans. “He’s plotting. He’s going to take us out one by one.”

Luke peeks from behind the couch. “He knows we’re scared. That’s why he’s letting us marinate.”

“I hate both of you so much right now,” you mutter, collapsing into the nearest armchair.

Kieran flops beside you and steals the remote. “We should lie low. Maybe bake him something.”

“Cookies fix everything,” Luke nods solemnly.

You glare at them both. “If I die, I’m haunting you in shifts.”

—•

It takes you two hours to gather the courage.

Two hours of Luke stress-eating cereal straight from the box while Kieran googled “how to tell if your boyfriend is planning your murder.”

Two hours of internal debates and spiraling scenarios, most of which ended with your disappearance and Sylus calmly denying any knowledge of your existence.

So now you’re standing in front of his office door like you’ve come to face a firing squad.

You raise your hand, hesitate, lower it again.

Then knock. Once. Softly.

“Come in,” comes his voice, smooth as always.

You open the door slowly. He’s seated behind his desk, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, looking for all the world like a man deep in some technical report.

But you know better.

His eyes flick up to you—and stay there.

“I brought tea,” you say weakly, holding up the mug like a peace offering. Or a shield. “And… a cookie. But Luke sat on it.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you, unreadable.

You inch forward, placing the mug on the corner of his desk. “Look, I didn’t know about the dye. I mean I did, but I didn’t think he’d actually—okay, no, that’s a lie. I thought it would be funny.”

Silence.

“I was wrong.”

Still nothing.

You shift awkwardly, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Finally, he sets his pen down and leans back slightly, eyes still fixed on you.

Then, just when the tension starts to crack your spine.

A small smile.

A smile.

Sharp. Amused.

Dangerous.

“It’s okay,” he says.

You blink. “It… is?”

He nods. “Of course.”

Too easy. Way too easy.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not mad?”

“Not at all.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

You inch back a step. “Why does that sound like a trap?”

His smile widens—just a fraction. “I said it’s okay. That’s all.”

You stare at him. He stares right back, like he can hear every thought racing through your brain. Like he’s already playing the long game and you just stepped into it without even knowing.

“Right,” you mutter. “Okay. Cool. Um. I’ll go now.”

You turn on your heel and walk—more like run—out of the room.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you press your back against it, eyes wide.

“He’s going to destroy me.”

And from behind the door, faint and unmistakably amused, comes the sound of Sylus quietly sipping his tea.

You return to the living quarters with the kind of haunted expression usually reserved for horror movie survivors.

Luke looks up from the couch, one leg slung over the backrest like a human pretzel.

Kieran’s on the floor with a blanket cape, eating cereal with a fork.

“Are we dead?” Kieran asks between mouthfuls.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

Luke raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“He smiled at me.”

Both twins flinch.

“Was it… the smile?” Luke asks, lowering his voice.

“The ‘I know exactly where your corpse would never be found’ smile?” Kieran whispers.

You throw yourself onto the couch and groan into a pillow. “No. It was worse. It was the ‘It’s okay’ smile.”

Luke gasps dramatically. “No. He went full passive-aggressive Zen reaper?”

“He said it like it was fine. Like I’m fine. Like life is fine. Nothing is fine.”

Kieran crawls up beside you. “That’s psychological warfare. He’s gonna lull you into a false sense of security. Then, boom—next week your toothbrush explodes.”

“I wouldn’t even be mad,” you say into the pillow. “I’d respect the commitment.”

Luke drops beside you, flinging a cushion over your back like a blanket. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I need to sleep with one eye open?”

“No,” he says solemnly. “It means we go deeper.”

You lift your head slowly. “What?”

“He’s playing mind games. So we play worse mind games.”

“I’m sorry, did you hit your head on the stupid stick this morning?”

Kieran grins. “He’s got fear. But we have unpredictable chaos. Sylus doesn’t know how to handle us when we’re not even handling ourselves.”

“Oh, he knows. He just hasn’t decided which part of the house he’ll burn down first.”

Luke leans in. “Okay, hear me out. What if… next prank, we frame someone else?”

“Kieran,” you snap, “Luke is spiraling again.”

Kieran slurps his cereal louder. “Let him spiral. I want to see where it goes.”

You sit up, rubbing your temples. “You two are the reason I’m probably going to end up in some Sylus-designed containment cube labeled ‘Idiot No. 3.’”

Luke perks up. “That means he already made one for you.”

You chuck a pillow at his face. “I hate you.”

Kieran laughs so hard he chokes on his cereal.

And somewhere in the walls—behind silent security panels—you know Sylus is watching.

Letting you run your mouths.

Letting you think you’re safe.

Which is so much worse.

—•

Dinner is suspiciously… normal.

Too normal.

The lighting is warm. The dining room pristine.

The food? Already served and plated like a five-star meal—elegant, balanced, perfectly portioned.

Which is already unsettling, because Sylus doesn’t cook. He commands kitchens into order.

But tonight, he did everything himself.

You sit stiffly at the table, trying not to choke on the silence.

Kieran sits across from you, eyes darting from his fork to Sylus like he’s waiting for the plate to detonate. Luke hasn’t even touched his food.

Which says a lot, because Luke once ate nachos that had been on fire.

Sylus, meanwhile, is the picture of grace.

Calm, composed, every movement deliberate as he cuts into his food with a quiet snick of silverware.

“How’s the meal?” he asks lightly.

You all jump a little.

“It’s great!” Kieran blurts. “So great. Best thing I’ve ever had. Better than oxygen.”

You nudge your plate with the fork. “Um. What exactly is this?”

Sylus smiles—just enough to show it’s a trap. “Roasted pepper-glazed poultry with herb foam.”

“…Foam?” Luke whispers. “Like… bubbles?”

Sylus turns to him. “Yes. But gourmet.”

Luke nods solemnly. “Tastes expensive.”

You take a careful bite. It tastes incredible, which only makes things worse.

Sylus never does anything without intent. You feel like each bite is a move in a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Is that saffron?” Kieran asks.

Sylus doesn’t look up. “Would I use saffron so early in the week?”

Kieran panics. “No! Obviously not. What a stupid question. Forget I said it. I never even heard of saffron.”

You sip your water. Pause. Sip again.

“Why does the water taste like mint?”

Luke sniffs his glass. “Mine tastes like fear.”

Sylus hums. “I thought I’d try infusing it. Cleansing properties. Refreshing.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re being nice.”

He looks at you. “Am I not allowed to be?”

“Not like this. You’re being suspiciously serene.”

Luke whispers to Kieran, “He’s baking the tension. Like a soufflé of dread.”

Kieran whispers back, “I’m scared to chew too loudly.”

Sylus finishes his plate, sets his utensils down with the softest clink, and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Don’t worry. I’m not angry.”

You all freeze.

“I already told you,” he says, folding his hands neatly, “It’s okay.”

You grip the edge of the table.

“No, see, when you say that, it sounds okay, but it feels like I’m about to get smothered in my sleep with a silk pillow.”

Sylus smiles, serene as a saint. “You wound me.”

“Oh my god,” Kieran mutters. “He wants us to feel safe.”

“That’s when he’ll strike,” Luke hisses.

Sylus stands, slow and elegant. “I’ve had a long day. You three can clean up.”

And with that, he walks off—leisurely, utterly calm—leaving behind his perfectly empty plate and three very nervous idiots still staring at their forks like they might be poisoned.

“I think he put lavender in the bread,” Luke says hollowly.

“That’s a threat,” Kieran nods.

You don’t speak. You just slowly lower your fork onto your plate and say, voice soft with realisation.

“We’re already losing.”

—•

It starts the next morning.

Small things.

You wake up and stumble bleary-eyed into the bathroom, only to find your toothbrush… gone. In its place is a child’s pink glittery toothbrush with a tiny bow on the handle and a smug little unicorn printed across it.

You stare at it.

It stares back.

“…Sylus.”

You brush anyway. Because fear is temporary, but oral hygiene is forever.

Down the hall, you hear a scream. Luke.

You race to his room, bursting in just in time to see him holding up a shirt—his favorite shirt—now three sizes too small and bright neon orange.

“He sabotaged the laundry!” Luke wails. “It looks like a highlighter threw up on it!”

Kieran stumbles in a moment later, face pale. “Okay. You know the coffee machine?”

You all pause.

“…What about it?” you ask warily.

“I pressed ‘brew’ and it played classical music. Loudly. Very loudly. And then dispensed chamomile tea.”

Luke gasps. “Decaf?”

Kieran nods. “Herbal.”

You all stand there in silence, the full horror of that registering.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “He’s escalating. This is psychological warfare disguised as hospitality.”

Luke grabs your shoulders. “We have to go off-grid.”

You shake him off. “We live in his grid. He built the grid.”

Kieran paces. “Okay. Okay. So he’s playing the long game. Fine. We stay strong. We don’t break.”

You return to your room to get dressed, trying to reclaim some sense of normalcy.

Your closet is empty.

No. Not empty.

Reorganized.

Everything is sorted by color, occasion, emotional state, and the lunar cycle.

There are even handwritten labels.

LUNAR-ALIGNED NIGHTWEAR.

MILDLY ANNOYED LOUNGE SETS.

IF YOU MUST INTERACT WITH PEOPLE.

You stare.

It’s… kind of impressive.

Still terrifying.

Later that day, your comm device pings with a message.

Hope the toothbrush is to your liking. Unicorns are symbols of purity. Thought it was fitting. —S.

You don’t respond. You can’t.

You sit there in silence, chewing your unsatisfying herbal tea and wondering how one man could be so elegant and so unhinged at the same time.

Back in the kitchen, Luke is attempting to pick the lock on the pantry door—now password protected and voice activated.

Kieran sits on the floor, whispering sweetly to the coffee machine in the hopes it will forgive him.

And all the while, somewhere deep in his office, Sylus watches the surveillance feed with a slight, satisfied smile.

Checkmate? Not yet.

But the pieces were moving.

And he was always ten steps ahead.

—•

It’s late.

Too late for anyone else to be awake. The halls are quiet, dimly lit, the kind of silence that feels intentional.

You creep into the kitchen, determined to retrieve your emergency stash of chocolate hidden behind the vitamin supplements Sylus refuses to acknowledge.

You’ve earned this.

After a day of psychological warfare and sentient appliances, you deserve sugar and solitude.

But the moment you open the cabinet, you hear it.

“Looking for something?”

You jump, nearly drop the jar, and spin around.

Sylus leans casually against the doorframe. Half in shadow. White shirt slightly unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled. Watching you like you’re the most amusing thing he’s seen all day.

You swallow. “Just… needed a snack.”

He hums, low and thoughtful, stepping into the room. “You always get hungry when you’re anxious.”

“I’m not anxious.”

“Of course you’re not.”

He steps closer. Not fast. Not threatening.

Just… there.

Slowly closing the distance until he’s in your space. His eyes flick down to the jar in your hands, then back to you.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he murmurs.

You shrug, heart in your throat. “You’ve been… rearranging my life like an episode of The Big Bang Theory.”

He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.

“You should be grateful. I improved your morning routine, your closet, and your toothpaste. Not many people get this level of attention from me.”

“You replaced my shampoo with glitter gel.”

“I thought you liked shimmer.”

You glare. “Okay, what is this? Revenge lite? Psychological torment with a smile?”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering with that infuriating calm. “Do you think I’d waste my time with petty revenge?”

You hesitate. “…Yes?”

He chuckles. “Fair.”

He leans in just slightly—close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the way his gaze flickers to your lips and back with deliberate slowness.

“But here’s the thing,” he says softly. “I’m not doing this because I’m angry.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what is this?”

His voice drops lower, velvet and ice. “This is a warning.”

You blink. “A warning?”

He raises a brow. “You see, I’m not interested in getting even. I’m not even interested in winning.”

He leans in fully now, mouth near your ear, voice like silk dragged over steel.

“I’m interested in reminding you… that you don’t play games with someone who invented the board.”

Your breath catches.

Then he steps back. Casual.

Smiling.

Completely composed, like he didn’t just dismantle your spine with a whisper.

“Goodnight,” he says smoothly, already turning to leave.

“Sylus—”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes cool, mouth curved in that infuriatingly perfect smirk.

“Sleep well, sweetie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you in the kitchen, heart pounding, chocolate jar forgotten in your hands.

You stare at the door, then mutter to yourself:

“Okay. Yep. We’re all going to die.”

—•

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

Not after that.

You toss. Turn.

Stare at the ceiling.

Replay his words on a loop in your mind.

You don’t play games with someone who invented the board.

You shouldn’t be thinking about the way he said it. Or the way he’d leaned in—close enough to smell your shampoo, the glitter one, traitorous and lemon-sweet.

Or how his voice had dipped low like he wanted to taste the words.

But you are.

And it’s driving you insane.

You last until just before sunrise.

Then you march down the hall in bare feet and defiance, fully intending to demand an end to this madness.

Maybe yell. Maybe shake him.

Definitely not… whatever this fluttering in your chest is.

You stop outside his office.

The door is open.

He’s seated at the far end, back to you, reading something on a tablet. He doesn’t look up when you enter, but he says, “You’re up early.”

Your jaw tightens. “You planned that.”

“I plan everything.”

You walk in, arms crossed. “The glitter. The water. The closet. The toothbrush. You knew it would get in my head.”

He finally turns in his chair, tablet abandoned. “And yet… you came to me.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

It’s silent.

That heavy, brittle kind of silence where something has to break.

“You’re impossible,” you say quietly.

He tilts his head. “You’re the one who dyed my face red.”

You blink. “That wasn’t me! That was Luke!”

“But you knew.” He stands now, slow and deliberate, each step toward you heavier than the last. “And you laughed.”

“That was after the shock wore off.”

He stops in front of you, so close your breath hitches.

“You like testing me,” he says, almost gently.

Your voice is soft. “You like watching me squirm.”

His lips curve. “Only when you’re cornered.”

Your heart kicks up. “You don’t scare me.”

“No?” he murmurs, leaning in. “Then why do you look like you’re about to run?”

“I’m not—”

He reaches out—slow, precise—and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your skin like a dare.

You forget how to breathe.

“You know what the real game is?” he says, voice low enough to curl around your spine. “It’s not about revenge. Not anymore.”

You stare at him, pulse racing.

“It’s about seeing how long we can keep pretending this tension is just about pranks.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans in closer, mouth inches from yours. “So go ahead,” he whispers. “Run. Or…”

His breath brushes your skin.

“…stop pretending.”

And in that moment, the air between you threatens to collapse entirely.

Your heart is hammering.

You can hear it—feel it—each thud echoing through your ribs like a countdown.

But nothing moves. Not him. Not you.

Just that impossible closeness and the weight of everything left unsaid pressing in like gravity.

Sylus doesn’t touch you again.

He doesn’t need to.

He’s right there, his presence overwhelming in its stillness, in the way his eyes never leave yours. Not even to blink.

Not even for air. It’s like he’s daring you to look away first.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

The tension is a live wire between you, buzzing, pulsing, dangerously taut.

You could lean in.

He could close the distance. Just one breath more.

One slip.

One break in control.

And everything would unravel.

But neither of you moves.

Because this isn’t about the kiss.

It’s about the pause before it.

The ache of proximity. The heat of restraint.

The mutual, wordless recognition that something’s changed, tilted—irrevocably—but no one wants to name it yet.

His voice, when it comes, is almost a whisper. “Still not scared?”

You swallow, your voice quieter still. “Should I be?”

He leans in just enough for your foreheads to almost touch. “Terrified.”

And there it is again—that exquisite push and pull. That dangerous promise wrapped in affection, mischief, and a power you’ll never quite untangle.

You feel the breath leave your lungs. “Then why haven’t you done anything?”

Sylus doesn’t smile this time. Not quite.

Instead, his gaze drops—briefly—to your lips, then lingers there.

“Because I like this,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“This moment,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “Where you’re still trying to pretend you have the upper hand.”

Your pulse stutters.

“And when I finally take it from you,” he continues, “you’ll know it wasn’t by force.”

His eyes lift back to yours—slowly, intently.

“It’ll be because you gave it.”

Your breath hitches.

And still, he doesn’t move.

Not forward. Not back. Just there.

Waiting.

Like he can stay in this moment forever, balanced at the edge of something dangerous and devastating.

Just to watch you fall first.

He’s still watching you.

Still waiting.

Like he’s reading your every thought, every twitch of hesitation, every part of you that wants to lean in and the part that still clings to the illusion of control.

You don’t speak.

You just look at him.

And that’s all it takes.

Because Sylus moves with the precision of someone who’s already planned this moment ten steps ahead.

One hand rises—fingers brushing your jaw, your cheek, slow as silk.

The other curls gently around your waist, pulling you forward, not forcefully, but with the promise of no escape.

You barely get the chance to gasp before his mouth captures yours.

It’s not a gentle kiss.

It’s deliberate. Consuming.

Like he’s reminding you exactly who you’ve been playing games with.

There’s heat, yes, but more than that—there’s command.

The way his lips move against yours, the way his hand tilts your chin just so, the way your breath disappears entirely beneath his—all of it says, you’ve lost.

And god, you let him.

Your hands curl into his shirt, trying to hold on—anchor yourself.

But he deepens the kiss and everything tilts with it.

The pressure of his body, the taste of him, the sound you make without meaning to—it all blends together in something dangerous.

And then, you feel it.

A faint, thrumming pulse in the air.

A crackle of invisible tension winding around your wrists.

You pull back just barely, lips parted, dizzy. “What—”

Too late.

Energy winds up your arms like silken thread—cool, weightless, until it suddenly binds.

A shimmer of red-black tendrils coils around your wrists, tugging them behind your back, smooth as liquid steel.

Your breath catches. “Sylus—?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing steady, unbothered. “You like playing with fire,” he murmurs, voice low and calm. “But you forget—I am the fire.”

With a flick of his fingers, the energy coils tighten. Your arms are pulled behind you, secured to the low railing of the console desk behind you—elegant, efficient, inescapable.

Then, as if that weren’t enough—he slides a metal cuff into place around your right wrist.

You freeze the second it locks.

You know that cuff.

Dull black, sleek. Lined with tech that silences Evol abilities like a mute button pressed against your skin.

It hums to life with a faint click.

And suddenly, you’re still.

Held.

Caged.

Disarmed.

Your eyes widen. “That’s—”

“—the containment cuff from Tartarus, yes,” he finishes, calmly brushing your hair from your face. “You didn’t think I’d forget to prepare for retaliation, did you?”

You stare at him. “You kissed me just to—?”

He tilts your chin up again, eyes sharp, amused, infuriatingly tender.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” he says. “Cuffing you was just… a bonus.”

Your mouth opens in protest, but he leans in again, this time slower, deliberate, brushing his lips over yours like a threat.

“Now,” he whispers, “let’s see how long you can behave… without your tricks.”

Then he steps back, leaving you bound to the desk, breathless and flushed, completely and utterly at his mercy.

And he smiles.

Not the cold, amused smile from before.

Something darker. Possessive. Knowing.

“You started this,” he says, voice velvet. “Now you get to see how I finish it.”

You tug against the energy binding your wrists. It doesn’t budge.

The cuff hums faintly at your pulse point, Evol completely silenced.

He stands before you, not gloating—no, that would be too easy.

Too human. He just watches.

Calm. Composed.

Like a man who could undo you in a thousand ways and hasn’t even begun.

“Comfortable?” he asks, voice like poured velvet.

You narrow your eyes. “This is so far beyond revenge.”

“Is it?” he muses, brushing a thumb under your chin. “You did challenge me. Repeatedly. In public. With unicorns.”

You glare. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “Immensely.”

And then—crash.

Followed by a shout.

And another crash.

You both freeze.

Sylus exhales, long-suffering, and turns his head just as the door to the control room swings wide open.

Luke bursts in, holding a smoking toaster. “Okay! Who set the oven to incinerate? I was making waffles—”

He stops.

Stares.

Kieran skids in behind him, carrying a fire extinguisher. “We may or may not have caused a minor electrical—”

Also stops.

Stares.

The three of you hold in silence.

You, flushed, cuffed, and restrained against the desk.

Sylus, standing in front of you with the casual elegance of a villain who’s definitely in charge.

Luke, blinking rapidly.

Kieran, slowly lowering the extinguisher.

“Oh my god,” Luke whispers. “Did we walk in on a—”

“It’s not what it looks like,” you bark.

Kieran’s already backing out. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

Sylus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He just looks over his shoulder at them and says, calm as ever.

“Leave. Before I make it permanent.”

Luke raises both hands, stepping back. “Okay! Yep. Carry on. Nothing to see. Just… us. Not here.”

Kieran salutes. “We were never here.”

They vanish.

The door slams.

You exhale through your nose. “I hate them.”

“You encouraged them,” Sylus replies.

“I was peer pressured!”

He hums, reaching for your jaw again, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You always have an excuse.”

“I wasn’t the one who turned revenge into a bondage scene—”

He cuts you off with a low chuckle. “Are you uncomfortable?”

You open your mouth.

Then close it.

Then hiss, “…Yes. In the worst way.”

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing his lips barely—barely—against yours. “Sit in that discomfort. Feel it.”

He steps back again, and your body instinctively leans forward—straining just slightly against the binds.

His smile turns wicked. “That’s one.”

You blink. “One what?”

“One slip.”

You frown. “What is this, a score counter—?”

“Two.”

You shut your mouth. Scowl.

He watches you with open amusement now. “You’re very expressive when you’re trying not to be.”

“Sylus.”

He leans down, gaze inches from yours, voice soft.

“Be good, and I’ll let you go.”

You don’t respond.

His eyes glitter. “Or don’t. I’m patient.”

And he turns to leave. Leaves you there—bound, breathless, and burning.

“Oh my god!” you shout after him. “You’re the worst!”

From down the hall, Luke’s voice echoes faintly, “Is it safe to make waffles again?”

You scream, “NO!”

And Sylus’s laugh—low, dangerous, victorious—follows you like a storm rolling in.

masterlist

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physics-of-one-piece · 7 months ago

Text

I Take Care of You Now

Doflamingo x Reader

Summary: After a night of a heavy snow storm and rainfall on the North Blue Sea, Doflamingo gets woken up by the scraping of a snow shovel on deck.

A/N: A little short one-shot that I’ll implement into the main Red Suit Doffy Fic Merlot & Primroses but it can stand as a stand alone, too, so I decided to send it here. As I said in a post, Doflamingo’s core values he was raised with are something he sticks to. Also... I'm going to hell. I'm going to hell I'm going to hell I'm going to heeeeeeell...

but at least the Heavenly Demon is there 😊🤭🫡

P.S. I wanted to post this at 8pm it's 4pm, the Save Draft went into Post but it's complete so.... Enjoy? 🤣🤣 (I hate you, tumblr) (cry laughs)

Word Count: 3k

Tags: Pre-Relationship, Female!Reader, Rosinante's Wife!Reader, Doflamingo POV, North Blue Era Doflamingo, Red Suit Doflamingo, Fluff, Humor, Cuddling For Warmth, Mentions of Fratricide, Nightmares, Longing, Doflamingo is in Love, Protective Doflamingo, Post Minion Island, Girldad Doflamingo, Dadmingo, Soft Doflamingo (kind of), Donquixote Family, One Shot Fic

Doflamingo is back in the snow again. The white thick layer of it crunches under his boots as he walks. There is snow falling, wild and strong, chilly wind pushing at his face.

There is someone lying on the snow. He knows who it is. The blackened feathers give him away; Doflamingo’s clumsy little brother.

At last, Doflamingo reached him. Rosinante’s lipstick-painted mouth is moving. No sound is coming out of Rosinante’s lips. Doflamingo squats down beside his brother. Maybe if he’s closer, he’ll hear the words his younger brother is saying.

Rosinante’s mouth keeps moving, shaping the words over and over again. He keeps looking at Doflamingo, but no sound is coming out.

What is he saying?

I love you?

I hate you?

I’m sorry?

Don’t touch my wife?

I’ll kill you?

Which is it?

Doflamingo should’ve learned to read lips.

Doflamingo wakes with a gasp, sitting up in his sleeping bag. His face is wet, covered in sweat, and he barely registers a yelp from Baby 5 who’d slept atop his stomach and hugged him for additional warmth during the storm falling off him and on his lap covered by the sleeping bag’s duvet.

Doflamingo realizes he’s without his sunglasses because the world isn’t tinted red. The sudden assault of colors and sunlight illuminating through the portholes makes him blink. Continuing to pant, he reaches for the white-framed sunglasses and mounts them atop the bridge of his nose.

He pants for a little longer, then swallows down. His throat feels dry. He needs to get some wine.

“Young Master?” Baby 5’s careful, hesitating voice reaches his ear. “Are you okay?”

Doflamingo puts on a smile, if not for his sake, then for Baby 5’s. He hates seeing her distraught or hurt. A child should never worry about an adult. It's the greatest disgrace.

“Just a bad dream.” he replied, huffing. “Could you get me a merlot from the wine cabinet?”

“We aren’t allowed to open the wine cabinet.” Baby 5 said, frowning.

“I’m giving you permission,” said Doflamingo. He needs wine, right now. “So go get the merlot for me.”

“Y/N-san said you shouldn’t drink that much...” Baby 5 murmured, continuing to look at him worriedly.

“Who’s the captain here, me or my sister-in-law?” he asked, chuckling. It’s rich of you to scold him on his alcohol abuse when your own husband had been a nicotine-inhaling addict. Rosinante went through one entire pack of cigarettes in a day. How on earth you wanted to kiss his brother or even marry him, Doflamingo would never know.

“You are, Young Master!”

“I don’t know…” mused Doflamingo, making a show of doubt. “Maybe I should let my sister-in-law lead…”

“She doesn’t know how to sail! Or how to be a pirate!” said Baby 5 panically.

“Is that so? I guess I’m staying as captain, then…” He gave a dramatic sigh, fighting not to burst out laughing on the spot. “Too bad, I was looking forward to retirement…”

“You’re not even old!” Baby 5 yelled.

Doflamingo laughed.

“Young Master?”

“What is it?” asked Doflamingo.

“Do you think (Y/N)-san hates living with us?” asked Baby 5.

Doflamingo blinked. Now, he knew you would rather throw yourself in the sea than say anything negative to the kids or be hateful toward them. It was one of your weaknesses he used in his favor to endear you to living with him, after all. What made Baby 5 think that, was what he wanted to know.

"Did she ever say that?” Doflamingo asked.

“No,” said Baby 5, shaking her head. “But... she gets sad a lot... and she seems to like being alone rather than with the rest of the officers.” She cast her gaze away, looking truly sad. “It reminds me of Corazón. He didn’t like hanging around any of us, either...”

Doflamingo was rather impressed. Baby 5 started truly being aware of her environment and how people act around each other. Her observation skills were getting very good for someone as young as her — even Buffalo, who was six years older than her, wasn’t this aware of people.

Doflamingo found his chest swell with pride.

“Don’t worry. Unlike with Corazón, I’m keeping a close eye on her. You forgot she’s a civilian. Civilians are terrified of pirates on instinct. All her life, she’s heard terrible stories about pirates, so of course she won’t feel safe with the officers, or Pica, Trebol, Diamante or me right away. We’re big, we fight, we kill, we rob, we torture, and we have Devil Fruit powers. Civilians run from that, because they’re powerless.”

“I forgot about that,” said Baby 5. “That she’s a civilian.”

Doflamingo laughed. “How so?”

“Because... She’s really fierce!” insisted Baby 5.

Doflamingo chuckled. “She was a marine’s wife. Of course she’s fierce. Just because she’s powerless doesn’t mean she’ll let herself be stepped on. It’s what I like about her.”

Yes. Doflamingo liked that about you very much. It turned him on. Very much. Doflamingo licked his lips.

“Why does she seem sad with me and Dellinger, too?” asked Baby 5, pouting.

“You’re orphans. You had nowhere to go, and became pirates. She pities you, because she thinks it’s unfair toward you. She’s sad because she knows that’s how cruel the world can be.”

“She pities us,” said Doflamingo, shrugging. “It’s not coming from a bad place like others do. Her pity is genuine. She doesn’t mean anything ill with it.”

“I don’t want her to pity us.” said Baby 5. “I want her to -”

“To what?” asked Doflamingo, tilting his head down to the girl, intrigued.

“To love us.” said Baby 5.

“Fufufu! She does love us. She’s just too stubborn to admit it. After all,” Doflamingo smiled. “No civilian is supposed to love pirates. That’d be treason.”

“Really?” Baby 5 asked, eyes full of hope. “She loves us?”

“Really. So don’t worry, okay?” said Doflamingo.

“Okay,” said Baby 5, her smile blooming back onto her face.

“Good girl,” he said, patting her head. “Now, go get me my merlot. And get yourself some bottled water, too.”

“Yes, sir!” chirped Baby 5.

While Baby 5 headed to the kitchen and the wine cabinet, Doflamingo cracked his neck, then got out of his pink sleeping bag. The sleeping bag beside him — where you slept last night — was empty.

He frowned. What was taking you so long in the bathroom? Maybe it was that time of the month for you. He knew there were supplies in the women’s bathroom, so he wasn’t too worried about that.

He’d give you a few more minutes before he went looking for you.

His long legs cracked as he stretched them out, same with his arms.

Baby 5 came back, carrying his bottle of wine and bottled water for herself. Doflamingo took it, undid the clasp, and chugged it down in droves, basking in the liquid pouring down his throat and into his stomach, warming up his body.

“Did you see my sister-in-law?” Doflamingo asked when he was done, bottle half empty now.

“I don’t know,” replied Baby 5 sleepily, rubbing at the crust in her eyes, giving a little yawn. “Maybe the bathroom?”

“Go wake the cook to make us breakfast and hot chocolate,” he said to Baby 5.

“Yes, sir. Um, Young Master...”

“What?”

“I think there’s someone on deck,” whispered Baby 5.

There was scraping on the deck outside. Doflamingo’s Observation Haki didn’t pick up any threat from the person. It could be a fishman or someone stranded on the island.

“It could be a Klabautermann,” said Doflamingo, chuckling. Now wouldn’t that be interesting.

“Klabautermann?” repeated Baby 5.

“It’s a legend.” Doflamingo explained. “If a ship is very loved by the crew, it develops its own spirit in the shape of a fairy.”

“Fairy?!” asked Baby 5 in excitement.

Doflamingo chuckled in confirmation, tracing his gaze over the officers and top officers strewn on the floor of the galley, counting everyone else who was present. You were the only one missing.

“A human-shaped fairy wearing a white sailor’s coat and a pair of shoes.” he explained. “It carries a small wooden hammer, because it fixes up a damaged ship. Ours isn’t damaged, though.”

At least, Doflamingo hoped it wasn’t.

“Oh,” said Baby 5. “I thought it would be a pink flamingo wearing Young Master’s sunglasses, just like the figurehead.”

Doflamingo laughed. “It could be! That’d be fun!”

“What if it’s a ghost?” she asked with slight fright; she’d heard too many ghost stories from Law and Buffalo.

Doflamingo gave Baby 5 one of his grins, the malicious ones which he knows comfort her. To Baby 5, violence equals protection.

“You think a ghost can beat me?” he asked her. “They’re free to try, fufufufufu!”

After some more coaxing and assuring her everything would be fine, Baby 5 left for the kitchen again to wake the ship cook.

Doflamingo grabbed his feather coat where it lay spread on the couch, stepping over a sleeping Gladius and Diamante.

Now, why were they all huddled up in the galley with sleeping bags?

The simple answer was bad weather.

They’d been in a heavy snow storm last night. It was Dellinger’s first heavy snow storm. He cried and ran around in a panic the entire time. He had to be grabbed three times from launching himself overboard and into the sea. Dellinger connected the sea with safety, because it was always safe for him to go into the sea; he always fled there if he was about to get scolded — it was becoming a real problem and at this point, Doflamingo was going to listen to Trebol’s advice and tie the toddler with a rope. If Dellinger went in the sea under those stormy waves yesterday, forget about pulling him out, they wouldn’t be able to find him.

For the past three years, they rarely went this far up north on their voyages, and although most of the adults of the crew were used to responding to and traveling through overbearing hail and rain, the kids were not. They were too prone to making mistakes in the novelty of navigating the waves bigger than Sea Kings despite knowing how to navigate.

The kids had been absolutely terrified.

The storm proved impossible to navigate. Doflamingo put his family and its safety above everything, he wasn’t going to risk them all because he wanted to get to the next island on time. He decided it was best to hunker down near a mountain pass to the closest island than continue to navigate through the storm.

After setting anchor on the nearby, snow-covered coast of the island, everyone had huddled down in the galley beside the largest fire stove to keep warm, bringing in sleeping bags.

Now, after putting on his black overcoat to deal with the cold outside, Doflamingo quickly opened the doors, left the cabin, and closed them just as quickly. He made his way up the stairs and to the cabin on the quarter deck, then exited out into the open winter air.

There was a person on the deck, pushing the snow down the deck and overboard into the sea.

Doflamingo nearly had a heart attack.

After a moment, he realized it wasn’t the ship’s spiritual manifestation.

It wasn’t a Klabautermann. It was you.

Doflamingo called your name. You leapt six feet high at the sound of his voice, which made him laugh. You deserved the fright; you gave him a fright first.

You turned your face up to him. Doflamingo smiled down at you.

“Hey,” you said shakily, like you weren’t out in the cold and shoveling snow from the deck. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing?” demanded Doflamingo.

You look at him like he’s asking a strange question. “I’m shoveling the deck.”

…

What?

“Why?” asked Doflamingo.

“Cause there’s snow on it.” you said.

For a moment, Doflamingo was so confused his brain stopped working.

Because there’s… snow?

Why on… why on earth would you be the one shoveling the snow?!

Doflamingo deployed his strings, leaving the wooden, ice-laden balcony of the quarter deck, reaching you with a single leap. He stood on his strings beside you, because he wasn’t going to walk on the solidified ice undoubtedly hiding under the layer of snow.

“You don’t do that.” said Doflamingo firmly, his thoughts racing thousand miles per hour, the cogs in his mind rushing with what could only be described as Celestial Dragon confusion. “I take care of you.”

“I’ve been doing this my whole life.” you say, shrugging.

Rosi, I’ll bring you back to life and put thirty bullets in you this time. thought Doflamingo, clenching his teeth, his jaw hurting from how hard he did it.

Doflamingo took the shovel from you easily.

“Hey!” you shouted. "I need that!"

“You don’t anymore.” said Doflamingo, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at you with the sternness of a captain. He stepped down from his string onto the deck to stand in front of you — as he suspected, there was ice under the snow. “I take care of you now.”

“Doffy -” you started, but he would have none of it.

“You’re not allowed.” said Doflamingo, because what else is he supposed to say, how else is he supposed to let you know you are too precious to do grunt work? You are not to do any grunt work, ever, for as long as Doflamingo lived and breathed. His parents would roll in their graves if they ever heard he let you do any labor, and Doflamingo experienced a full-body cringe at the mere idea of allowing you to exhaust yourself. Unforgivable. Impermissible. Therefore, not allowed.

By his words, clearly you thought he thought you incapable because you are a woman, completely misunderstanding him as you said indignantly, “I am allowed -”

“You’re too cute to be out here in the cold, querida.” said Doflamingo.

Those words momentarily rendered you mute, and you stared up at him in shock, which made you even more adorable.

“I’m doing whatever I wanna do!” you protest, and it reminds Doflamingo of a bunny stomping its little foot on the ground.

“You get inside,” says Doflamingo, ignoring your words. You could think whatever you wanted, Doflamingo would rather put a sea prism bullet in his own leg than let you freeze outside and let you shovel the deck; he had Buffalo, Machvise and the others for that. Doflamingo wasn’t raised to allow you to do such things; he was raised to coddle you, provide for you, protect you, spoil you, and by his title as saint, he will. “I’ll get you some hot chocolate.”

The ship swayed under a wave, giving a small lurch.

The two of you slid on the solidified ice the deck had become overnight. It was only Doflamingo’s instincts and long arm that helped him grab onto you and pull you to his legs, keeping you from falling. You were completely unaffected, most likely used to such fumbling with Corazón — you didn’t even squawk in alarm, just took it like it was a common thing, to slide on the ice and risk falling and hurting yourself.

That was it. You weren’t listening to him. You were going to get a cold, and with your average civilian balance, break your skull. Time to change tactics.

“You made me do this,” said Doflamingo, sneering down at you.

“Do wha — AAAAH!”

Doflamingo reached down, wrapped his arm around your body, and lifted you up. Once he lifts you above his waist, and continues lifting you higher, that’s when you give an almighty, terrified shriek which startles the seagulls above the crow’s nest.

Doflamingo laughed, and put you stomach flat over his right shoulder, like he would a bag of gold, but you are a much more precious treasure he has than any gold.

There. Much easier. He should’ve done this from the start. Maybe he should carry you like this all the time. He smiled at the idea. Yes. That’s what he’ll do. You wouldn’t try to wiggle out of his grasp if he carried you this high; you’re too scared of hurting yourself by the huge height drop between his shoulder and the ground.

He straightened up, deployed his strings, and stepped onto them, walking on them rather than risk it with the ice.

“Doffy.” Your voice was shaky, terrified and breathless. Doflamingo failed to stifle his laugh. How adorable. “Doffy, put me down.”

You clutched at his spiked up, thick fluffs of hair. He sighed contently at the feeling, his chuckle rumbling through his chest as he grinned.

“Doffy! Put me down!”

“You’re not allowed!” he said firmly, but calmly all the same. He wasn’t angry, just concerned.

“Because I’m a woman?” you asked.

“No,” said Doflamingo simply. “Because I take care of you now.”

“I take care of myself!” you say indignantly as you’re being carried away on Doflamingo’s shoulder and back toward the warmth of the ship’s below deck with warm heating, comforting sweat and frosted, fogged glass.

He really needs to make sure with Diamante and Machvise the Numancia didn’t take any damage.

Doflamingo hears a giggle in his ear. He recognizes the sound, from a far-away memory long gone. He whips his head over his shoulder, and freezes solid.

“Don’t worry, Doffy.” said the little boy with blond bangs covering his eyes. He was sitting atop one of the posts of the sail, his arms tucked into the sleeves of a little purple feather coat over his light blue raincoat. He’s swinging his little feet back and forth where they dangle in the air from the sail. Something strange wells in Doflamingo’s eyes. His throat clogs up; he can’t speak.

The little boy sent him a big smile resembling the sun. “I’m okay.”

Doflamingo was hallucinating. He was definitely hallucinating. He needed to catch up on his sleep if he was seeing his eight-year-old baby brother and hearing his voice in his ear.

He headed inside, ducking as he went.

Baby 5 was tucked in his pink sleeping bag, back to sleep. The duvet wasn’t pulled all the way over her, so Doflamingo used his free right arm and lifted his finger, sending out a string to the duvet, lifting it up to cover Baby 5’s shoulders. Doflamingo hoped she at least woke up the cooks and that they started on breakfast and hot chocolate for the family. Doflamingo manoeuvred around the sleeping bodies of his family, stepping over their sleeping bodies easily.

In the end, you settled down after he put you on the couch in the galley. He noticed your chattering teeth, trembling body and red nose. He clicked his tongue in disapproval, took off his feather coat and draped the massive weight of it over your shoulders. The pink feathers completely enveloped you, tickling your cheeks as you looked up at him in surprise, the warmth the feathers suffused you in chasing away your trembles.

Doflamingo didn’t linger on the way you looked up at him, bundled in his feather coat and drowning in his scent, because he was sure he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from leaning down and kissing your lips to chase away the cold frost from them, too.

Instead, he slipped your arms into the thick, warm fluff of pink feathered sleeves, pulling the lapels over each other to keep you warm.

The sleeves were too long for you, and the end of the coat touched the ground of the cabin.

He went to get you both some hot chocolate and brought it to you to sip on in warm cups. The blissed smile you smiled and the relaxed sigh you released after your first sip of the hot beverage put him in a better mood.

He settled himself beside you on the couch with his pink mug filled with his hot chocolate. His thigh touched yours. This time, you didn’t inch away from him as you usually did when he sat down beside you during meals or in inns.

Doflamingo would much rather have your lips to keep him warm, but he’d settle for hot chocolate. For now.

He took a careful sip, and his body relaxed. He closed his eyes, basking in the bliss, his forehead smooth, free of any stress.

Feathers settled around his left shoulder, and his left sleeve fell over his arm.

When he turned to look down on you, a teasing comment on his tongue and a grin on his lips, you were looking up at him, and your eyes rendered his thoughts into a disarray.

“So you aren’t cold,” you said, lifting your arm high and stretching it all the way to adjust the left side of his coat atop his shoulder, which consequently meant you got closer to him, until your left shoulder leaned against his chest; if you leaned a bit further, you’d be nestled under his right arm.

“How do you walk with this?” you ask him, fussing over the coat. “It’s heavy.”

“It’s only nine kilograms.” he said. It was a comforting weight on his back; he was used to having it draped over his shoulders.

You deadpan at him, then, after a moment, say, “No wonder your neck’s starting to crane.”

“Drink your hot chocolate,” he said.

You snickered. “Yes, captain.”

You hugged the right part of his feather coat to yourself, draping it over you, covering your legs and entire body in the pink feathers. Doflamingo wondered if you liked the lingering scent of his cologne on the coat.

“It’s warm,” you whispered, closing your eyes, peaceful.

Doflamingo slipped his left arm into the sleeve of his feather coat, draping the front of it the same way you did. The two of you were swathed together in his pink coat.

You were right. With you nestled against him and swathed in his coat, it was warm.

Doflamingo didn’t feel cold at all.

Taglist: @fanaticsnail @queenmimi2817 @dummyduck44 @daydreamer-in-training

#one piece #donquixote doflamingo #doflamingo #doflamingo x reader #donquixote doflamingo x reader #doflamingo x you #doffy x reader #doffy x you #x reader #one piece x reader #op doflamingo #my writing #physics writes #fizzy writes

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baigepueckers · 2 months ago

Text

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Out of Frame Part 2

There’s a new hire shadowing you today…something about seasonal support for social media output, extra content now that the Fever are getting national attention. You hadn’t asked for help, but you’re polite about it, showing him the ropes. You’re patient, like always. Soft spoken. Encouraging.

And Caitlin hates him immediately.

She doesn’t even know his name. Just that he’s tall, fresh out of some communications program and absolutely useless with a camera. She can tell by the way he holds it…like it’s just equipment. Like he doesn’t care what he’s capturing.

But you’re kind to him. Too kind. Laughing at his awkward jokes. Walking him through the camera settings with that focused voice Caitlin’s heard a hundred times…usually when you’re beside her, mic clipped to her jersey, soft fingers brushing her collarbone.

Now those fingers are on his wrist, adjusting the lens grip. And Caitlin has to look away.

She doesn’t approach you during shootaround. Doesn’t trust herself to sound normal.

You’re there, camera slung across your chest, bouncing between angles. The new guy’s following behind, asking questions he should’ve Googled. You’re still smiling.

Caitlin hits three threes in a row and you don’t notice.

She does it again, louder this time, sneaker squeaks and net snaps echoing…but your back is turned, adjusting exposure with him beside you.

Her stomach twists.

After practice, she lingers in the locker room, earbuds in but no music playing. She watches through the open door as you pack your gear. You laugh at something the guy says again, nudging him with your shoulder.

It hits her like a punch.

Because she’s spent weeks trying to find excuses to stand near you. To say just enough without giving everything away. She’s memorized your expressions, your routines, your laugh. But he’s there..on day one..learning pieces of you Caitlin hasn’t figured out how to ask for.

And the worst part?

You look happy.

Later, when she finds you alone editing a highlight reel in the media lounge, she hesitates in the doorway. Your headphones are on. You don’t see her.

She almost turns around.

But then you glance up. Smile like nothing’s changed. Like her heart hasn’t been clawing at her ribcage all day.

“Hey” you say, warm and familiar. “Wanna help me pick music for this? I can’t decide if I should go hype or cinematic.”

She crosses the room before she realizes her legs are moving.

“I don’t get how you’re so calm after practice,” she says, voice tighter than usual. “I’d be dead.”

You laugh, spinning the laptop toward her. “Built different.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do…and you’re just too kind to say anything.

You talk through the edit. Your knees brush under the table. Her pulse won’t settle. She tries to act normal, but it’s harder today.

Because today, she realized how replaceable she might be to you.

She wants to ask, do you even see me like that?

She wants to say, I think about you all the time.

She wants to beg, please don’t look at him the way you look at me.

Instead, she says “Is he staying long?”

You glance over. “Who?”

“That new guy. Intern or whatever.”

You shrug. “Not sure. Just here to support. Why?”

She hesitates.

And for a moment, she thinks maybe she should tell you.

Not everything. But something.

Because this…whatever this is…it’s starting to tear at the edges of her focus, her sleep, her calm. And if she waits much longer, she’s going to drown in it.

But then your phone buzzes. A message. You smile at the screen.

She watches you type back, fast. Comfortable.

The moment slips away.

“Just wondering” she mutters.

And she leaves before she can ruin it.

That night, she drafts another message:

“It’s not nothing, what I feel when I’m around you.”

“Do you see me, or am I just another player in your lens?”

“Tell me I’m imagining this. Or don’t.”

She doesn’t send it.

She stares at it for an hour, thumb hovering over the send button. Rereads every word until they blur, until she can’t tell if they’re too much or not enough.

Because what if she’s wrong?

What if the smile you give her isn’t special? What if the softness in your voice isn’t for her, just part of who you are?

What if she says something and breaks whatever this is…this fragile, unspoken thing that makes you look up when she walks into a room, that keeps you sitting next to her when everyone else has gone home?

What if she ruins the only version of closeness she’s allowed to have?

So she backspaces.

Slowly. Line by line. Until the message is blank again, like it never existed.

She tosses her phone on the nightstand and rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers.

The apartment is dark, quiet.

Too quiet.

She keeps thinking about your laugh. The one you gave him earlier, easy and unguarded. And how close you stood. The way your eyes crinkled at something he said.

She tells herself she has no right to be jealous.

But jealousy doesn’t care about rights.

It lives in her chest now…tight and loud and impossible to ignore. It colors everything. It makes her doubt every moment she thought was something. Every glance, every smile, every lingering second where she swore she felt you feel it too.

And underneath it all is that same helpless thought…

She doesn’t know if you want her back.

She doesn’t know if she ever stood a chance.

So she does what she always does when she doesn’t know what to do…she writes it down.

Half thoughts. Feelings. A mess of sentences scrawled in her Notes app:

“She looks at me like I’m more than just a jersey sometimes.”

“I think I’d burn everything just to hear her say my name like that again.”

“Is it possible to fall for someone without ever touching them?”

It’s pathetic. It’s real. She saves it anyway.

And when she finally falls asleep, hours later, her phone is still face up on the pillow beside her.

Just in case you text.

Just in case you already know.

240 notes · View notes

onlyangel4 · 13 days ago

Text

soft spot. damian priest.

damian priest x single mother!reader

synopsis: when you, a single mom join the smackdown roster, you are ready to fight both for your career and your child. damian priest isn’t known for his warmth, but the moment your kid starts following him around backstage, something in him shifts. he didn’t mean to care. he didn’t mean to fall.

but some families find you when you least expect it.

faceclaim: jenna dewan

wrestlingupdates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 45,682 others

wrestlingupdates: y'all already know that i'm so excited. y/n y/ln has been drafted to smackdown and i can't wait to see what my favourite girl gets up to on the main roster.

view all 4,586 comments

user1: i am so excited for content of cleo causing chaos behind the scenes

user2: i have been a fan of y/n since she started in tna, twenty years later she is finally getting the recognition she deserves

user3: that's my girl

user4: OMG IT IS FINALLY happening

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you’d gotten used to new locker rooms.

ring lights changed, logos swapped out, but the feeling always stayed the same, a twist low in your stomach, like your body hadn’t caught up with your brain. you’d stood under banners that read impact, aew, nxt, and now, finally, the unmistakable blue and white of smackdown.

your daughter cleo clutched your hand tighter than usual, her fingers curled into your palm. she was six, impossibly curious and maddeningly fearless, until it came to loud arenas and unfamiliar faces. you knelt beside her in the hallway, brushing a curl away from her cheek.

"remember what we said?", you asked softly.

she nodded, eyes wide. "no running. no yelling. no getting suplexed."

you smiled despite the nerves. "good girl."

there were wrestlers moving past you, some familiar from nxt call-ups, others legends you'd only brushed shoulders with at cross-promotional events. a few gave you polite nods. a couple of the women smiled at cleo. no one stopped.

a pa pointed you toward your locker room. it was smaller than you expected but clean. functional. you dropped your duffel bag and helped cleo settle onto the little folding chair beside your things, handing her a snack and her tablet.

"stay here, okay? i’m going to go check the board and find my producer."

she pouted. "can’t i come?"

you hesitated. the hallway would be full of people. "five minutes. don’t move."

you didn’t like leaving her, but you didn’t have a choice. you didn't want to overwhelm her, or yourself

the rundown board wasn’t far. you scanned the paper tacked to the cork, finding your name buried in the second hour, promo segment. no match yet. safe start.

you turned back.

cleo was gone.

your heart slammed into your ribs.

you pivoted fast, eyes darting down the hallway, nothing. the crowd around the gorilla position blurred as your adrenaline surged. you took a step forward.

then froze.

there she was, about thirty feet down the corridor, standing in front of someone tall, imposing, and completely draped in black.

damian priest.

you recognized him instantly, taller in person, every inch the brooding solo act he’d become post the judgment day. hair slicked back, leather jacket gleaming under the fluorescents. he looked down at cleo, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

cleo pointed at his boots. "you look like a vampire."

for a split second, you thought he’d ignore her.

then his mouth twitched. just barely. "maybe i am."

you moved quickly, heart still pounding. "cleo", you said, a bit more sharply than you meant to. she turned, grinning.

"mom! he’s huge."

"i see that", you breathed, placing a hand on her shoulder. you looked up at damian. "sorry. she tends to wander when i blink."

he looked at you then. something passed through his expression. not judgment. not even amusement.

recognition.

"it’s fine", he said simply. his voice was low, calm. "she’s not bothering me."

you blinked. "still, i should’ve... thank you."

he nodded once, then walked past you both, disappearing down the hall without another word.

cleo tugged at your hand. "he’s cool."

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "yeah", you murmured. "he really is."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

y/ninsta posted a story

written: if anyone is wondering why i showed up last night wearing a dress it was because miss cleo needed us to match

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the second week felt less like walking into a storm and more like stepping into a tide you were starting to understand.

no one looked twice when you passed catering this time. a few nodded. bayley threw you a quick wink. you didn’t stop. you had your gear bag slung over one shoulder and just enough caffeine in your system to fake confidence if needed.

cleo was safe. that mattered most.

she’d cried a little when you dropped her off with the wwe childcare team, new toys, kind staff, still too many strangers. but she was in good hands. better than last week, where she’d nearly walked into the lions den.

speaking of…

you rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into him.

he caught the strap of your bag before it could slide off your shoulder, steadying it like it was nothing. like you were nothing to worry about either.

"hey", he said.

you blinked up at him. "hi. sorry. i didn’t see you."

he let go of the strap and leaned back against the wall, arms folded. Same as last week. dark clothes, focused expression. less intimidating now, but only just.

"no cleo today?" he asked.

you raised an eyebrow. "you remembered her name."

he shrugged. "she made an impression."

you gave a short laugh. "yeah, she tends to do that. She’s with childcare this week. probably convincing someone to let her run a match or eat five granola bars in a row."

a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. it was quick. almost shy.

"you okay with that?" he asked.

the question caught you off guard. not how’s your kid, but how are you handling this?

you hesitated. "i guess i have to be."

he nodded, not pressing. just listening.

you sighed. "she’s great. adjusting fast, better than me half the time. but i still feel like i’ve got one foot in the ring and the other one stuck in a daycare cubby. not exactly the image you want when you're trying to prove yourself."

he tilted his head. "image doesn’t win matches. hunger does."

you looked at him. he said it like he’d lived it. like he still was.

"you always talk like that?", you asked, half a tease.

he smirked. "only when i mean it."

you paused, then leaned next to him against the wall. not touching. just closer.

"you’ve been on top of this brand for months", you said. "so what are you still hungry for?"

for a moment, you weren’t sure he was going to answer. his gaze drifted to a production cart nearby, like something just offstage had taken root in his head.

"quiet", he said finally. "something real."

you turned to him, brows furrowed.

"wrestling’s loud", he added. "noise. hype. people cheering for who they think you are. i like when someone sees through that."

you weren’t sure what to say. but the silence between you didn’t feel awkward.

it felt safe.

you watched as he pushed off the wall, giving you one last look before heading down the corridor.

"tell cleo i said hi", he said, voice quieter now.

you nodded. "i will."

and for the first time since your call-up, you didn’t feel like you were walking into the spotlight alone.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was small, but clean. two beds, dim lamplight, the low hum of some animated show playing on the tablet.

cleo sat cross-legged on the comforter, still wearing the glittery blue hoodie you’d packed for her in case she got cold. she had a juice box in one hand and was absently brushing her doll’s hair with the other.

you sat at the edge of the opposite bed, unlacing your boots one slow loop at a time. your body ached in all the familiar ways, tight knees, stiff shoulders but your heart that was quieter tonight.

cleo looked up suddenly. "mommy?"

"hmm?"

"did you see my friend at work today?"

you froze.

you didn’t need to ask who she meant. there was only one person she’d fixated on enough to give that title to. not rey mysterio, not liv, not even charlotte. damian.

you swallowed a smile. "i did, yeah."

her eyes lit up. "what was he doing?"

"standing around looking serious. you know. like always"

she giggled. "he’s so big. but he doesn’t scare me."

"i noticed."

you crossed the room and knelt next to her bed, brushing the juice-sticky hair back from her forehead. she yawned, blinked slowly.

"he asked about you", you said softly.

her whole face lit up. "he did?!"

"hhm. said to tell you hi."

She tucked her doll under the blanket like it was the most important thing in the world, then looked up at you with sleepy seriousness. "he’s nice. he seems a little sad though"

you paused.

"yeah", you murmured. "he kind of does."

"maybe he needs a hug."

your throat tightened unexpectedly.

you kissed her forehead. "you’re something else, kiddo."

she grinned, proud.

a few minutes later, she was asleep, small limbs curled, hair sticking out in every direction. you turned off the lamp, sat in the dark for a long time, scrolling through match footage on your phone.

but your mind wasn’t on wristlocks or crowd reactions.

it was on a man with shadows behind his smile, and the way your daughter had looked at him like she already knew he was safe.

you weren’t sure what was happening yet.

but it was starting to feel like more than just coincidence.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

damian wasn’t sure what made him do it.

one second he was walking past the crew hallway, the next he was crouched in front of a wide-eyed little girl in sparkly sneakers and a ponytail, whispering: "want to see your mom’s match?"

cleo didn’t hesitate. she just grinned and nodded like it was the best idea anyone had ever had.

it probably wasn’t.

he knew talent weren’t supposed to pull kids from daycare mid-show. knew security would ask questions if they spotted him dragging a six-year-old through the maze of cables and crates near gorilla. but when cleo slipped her small hand into his without a second thought, it was already done.

now she sat beside him in a folding chair behind the curtain, her legs swinging, her eyes locked on the monitor.

"is this where she comes out?" she whispered.

he nodded. "any second now."

cleo squirmed with excitement, holding a small bag of dinosaur-shaped gummies, he'd grabbed them from his own stash. he told himself it was just a kindness. something small. nothing more.

but then your music hit.

and cleo lit up like the fourth of july.

"there she is!" she squealed, pointing at the screen. "that’s my mommy!"

damian smiled, small, private. he watched as you stepped into the light for the first time under that enormous main roster stage.

no nerves on your face. just fire.

and something else. something determined.

he didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until cleo tugged his sleeve. "she’s gonna win, right?"

he nodded. "i’d bet on it."

and when your match started, he didn’t look away once.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t have time to be nervous. this week was your first real match on smackdown, it was even more daunting considering seasoned pro naomi was your competition.

your music was already queued. your wrists were taped. the production team was shouting cues and pushing talent past you toward Gorilla.

it wasn’t your first match, not by a long shot. you’d bled under different banners, fought in cages, flipped off balconies. but this one felt heavier. brighter. more visible. it was the first time under the big lights with wwe’s main roster eyes all on you.

your heart pounded like a drumline in your chest. not from fear.

just pressure.

you glanced toward the tunnel, looking for someone, anyone familiar but the spot was crowded. and cleo she was supposed to be far from here, in childcare on the other side of the building.

at least she was safe. that was all that mattered.

you rolled your shoulders, focused forward.

then the match producer tapped you. "you’re up. good luck."

you exhaled and stepped into the curtain.

and the crowd roared.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t hear everything after that.

the match moved in flashes. you remembered the pop when your name was announced. the sound of boots on canvas. the thud of your finisher landing clean. the heat from the lights. the way you breathed harder than usual, not from cardio, but from emotion that had no place in the ring but showed up anyway.

and then, three slaps on the mat.

your theme hit.

you’d won.

just like that.

you stood in the centre of the ring, arm raised, chest heaving, and scanned the crowd almost by instinct. you didn’t know what you were looking for

until you saw them.

tucked behind the timekeeper’s area, down low by the barricade where the cameras wouldn’t catch them unless they looked hard

cleo.

perched on someone’s lap, wearing her sparkly hoodie, waving both hands in the air like she was trying to call down lightning.

and behind her?

damian.

hat pulled low, hoodie up, clearly trying not to draw attention. but his eyes were unmistakable. focused entirely on you.

he gave you a slow, subtle nod.

not for the cameras. not for the roster.

for you.

you almost missed your cue to leave the ring.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later, when the show wrapped and the adrenaline faded, you found them both in the hallway near your locker room. cleo ran toward you the second she spotted you, arms outstretched.

"you did it!" she yelled. "you beat her so fast! and you flipped! and he let me sit in the chair with the headphones but i didn’t touch anything!"

you caught her in your arms, burying your face in her hair. "wait, what?"

cleo turned and pointed dramatically at damian. "he broke me out! like a ninja!"

you stared at him.

he looked almost guilty. almost.

"before you get mad", he said, hands up in mock surrender, "she asked nicely."

you just looked at him, speechless for a beat. "you snuck her out."

"she missed you", he said softly. "and i thought she’d want to see you win."

your heart stuttered.

and then melted.

You looked down at cleo. "did you have fun?"

"best day ever."

you looked back up at him. "you know this means she’s going to ask for this every week, right?"

he smirked. "guess i'll have to start showing up early."

you didn’t say anything else. you couldn’t, really, not with your throat tightening the way it was. so instead, you smiled.

a real one.

and somewhere inside you, something warm and dangerous started to settle in.

because this? this was starting to feel like something you might not want to walk away from.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was dark, save for the faint blue glow of the tv. some mindless rerun played without sound, but he wasn’t watching.

damian sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees, still half in his gear. he hadn’t bothered to take off his boots. Just the hoodie. the adrenaline had worn off hours ago, but something else hadn’t.

he could still hear her laugh. the kid.

cleo.

she’d sat on his lap like it was nothing. like she’d known him forever. no hesitation. no fear. she’d asked him how he got his hair so shiny and whether or not he’d ever wrestled a dinosaur. she’d called the match like a pint-sized commentator, whisper-shouting into the headset when her mom hit the finisher.

and when the match ended, she’d clapped so hard he thought she might break her hands.

damian hadn’t smiled like that in a long time.

he’d told himself it was just a gesture. something nice. a favor. maybe a small rebellion against the usual rules.

but that wasn’t true.

the truth was he wanted to see you win.

not just the match.

he wanted to see you find your place here. to be seen, the way you deserved to be, not just as "new call-up" or "former AEW star" or "the one with the kid." he’d watched the roster underestimate you for weeks. he knew the look. he’d lived it himself when he started.

but tonight, they couldn’t deny you.

not after that pop.

not after that finish.

and watching you walk up the ramp, shoulders squared, chin high, eyes scanning the crowd he’d felt something settle low in his chest. not nerves. not pride.

something quieter.

more dangerous.

damian sighed and leaned back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

this wasn’t just about admiration anymore.

it was becoming personal.

and that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t sleep deeply that night.

cleo curled into your side, one small foot lodged beneath your ribs. the hotel ac rattled faintly, and your back still ached from the match. But that wasn’t what kept you up.

it was him.

damian.

you kept replaying the moment you saw them down by the barricade. the way he’d looked at you, silent but so present. no big gesture. no smirk. just solid. like someone you could fall into and not hit the ground.

it was a ridiculous thought.

this business didn’t allow softness. or time. or relationships that lasted longer than the next tour loop.

but then there was cleo, asleep beside you, mumbling his name in her dreams.

you weren’t sure what was happening.

but it felt like the kind of thing that didn’t stop easily once it started.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

wwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: y/n has arrived ahead of her first ple, the elimination chamber where she has a tag match with tiffany stratton against nia jax and candace larae

wwe posted a story tagging archerofinfamy and rhearipley_wwe

written: the terror twins have been reunited for the first time since damian priest left raw during the transfer window

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

finally being back with damian rhea felt like she had missed a whole season of damian's life.

she noticed it before she even made it to catering.

damian, leaning against a stack of production crates, arms crossed, pretending to scroll his phone.

you, sitting cross-legged on the floor with cleo in front of you, helping her colour a foam championship belt from the merch table like it was the most serious thing in the world.

cleo asked something. you smiled, laughed, pushed her curls out of her face.

and damian?

that man didn’t so much as blink, but everything in his posture said, locked in.

rhea smirked.

she detoured straight toward him.

"let me guess", she said, stopping beside him. "you're just coincidentally standing here. middle of traffic. next to this specific hallway."

damian didn’t look up. "it’s not like that."

"right", rhea drawled. "it’s not like anything. you just ‘happened’ to wander near the girl you’ve been brooding over for the last three shows while her kid paints glitter on a fake belt."

he glanced over. "you done?"

"nope." she leaned on the crate beside him, arms folded. "she’s cool. you like her. cleo loves you. you’re literally the only person on this brand that kid listens to. this whole soft-parent-energy thing is actually very cute. so what’s the holdup?"

damian exhaled, jaw flexing. "it’s not that simple."

rhea tilted her head. "why not?"

"because she’s new. and talented. and already has enough to prove without everyone whispering that she’s sleeping her way up the roster. because she’s got a kid and i’m..."

he stopped. didn’t finish.

rhea watched him for a moment, the edge softening slightly in her expression. "because you’re scared."

he didn’t deny it.

"look", she said, voice quieter, "i'm not saying get down on one knee and propose tomorrow. but you’re already halfway in. the kid adores you. she clearly feels something. you showing up? that means something."

he shook his head slightly. "i don’t want to mess it up."

"then don’t." she nudged his shoulder. "tell her. before someone else does."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later that evening, following the elimination chamber cleo had passed out on a row of production cases, mouth slightly open, marker still clutched in her fist.

you were half-watching the monitor rewatching your match, the rest of your brain stuck in that foggy space between exhaustion and gratitude.

and then damian sat down next to you.

quiet. no preamble. close enough to feel the warmth of him but not enough to press.

"hey", you said.

"hey."

you both watched the screen for a beat.

then, without looking at you, he asked, voice low "if i said i wanted to take you out sometime what would you say?"

you blinked. looked at him, really looked.

"i’d say" you paused, smiling softly, "it’s about time."

and for the first time since you’d met him

he smiled back.

fully.

openly.

like something had finally been decided.

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one week into dating damian

cleo had a habit of crawling out of bed before you and wandering straight into whatever hotel room was across the hall, usually damian’s.

one morning you woke to an empty bed, slipped on your hoodie, and crossed the hall barefoot, fully ready to scold her.

but when you pushed open his door, you froze.

there she was, knees tucked under her, balancing on the edge of his bed with a tablet in hand, while damian sat beside her cross-legged, head tilted, listening intently.

"okay", cleo said, very seriously, "this one’s a therizinosaurus" , her pronunciation of the word was terribly wrong but utterly adorable. "it had really long claws and was a herbivore, but also terrifying."

damian nodded. "that’s actually a great name for a finisher."

you blinked. "are you guys naming moves after dinosaurs?"

he looked up. "only the deadliest ones."

cleo grinned. "we already picked one that is yours momma. wanna know what it’s called?"

you couldn’t say no.

and you didn’t want to.

archerofinfamy posted a story

written: tired on pretending dinosaurs aren't cool as hell

wwe posted a story tagging archerofinfamy

written: damian priest just debuted a terrifying new move that is calling the spinosaurus ddt

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

three weeks into dating damian

you had a big match, one you wanted cleo to watch.

damian had been eager to be the one to watch her.

he sat at gorilla, watching you from behind the curtain. not in a possessive way. just proud. like watching the moment before lightning struck.

cleo stood beside him with a headset way too big for her head, shovelling gummy sweets into her mouth, free hand holding his wrist tape like it was treasure.

"do you think she’s nervous?" she whispered.

"no", he said, eyes still forward. "she’s ready."

he meant it. but he also meant: you always are. that’s who you are.

cleo giggled and held up the tape. "can i wear it?"

"only if you promise to cheer loud."

she nodded like it was a blood oath.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

a month into dating damian

cleo was sick.

nothing major, just a fever and exhaustion, but it hit hard after travel day, and she clung to you like gravity. you were supposed to wrestle that night, a solid match with a new push behind it.

but cleo had her arms locked around your neck, flushed and sweaty, and you’d already texted the producer your regrets.

then damian appeared in the doorway.

you started to tell him it was fine. that you had it under control. that you’d ordered Pedialyte and she’d be okay by morning.

he didn’t say anything.

just walked over, sat on the floor beside the bed, and held cleo’s tiny, fever-warm hand until she fell asleep.

later, after everything calmed down, you whispered, "thank you."

he shook his head. "you don’t have to do all of this alone."

and somehow, for the first time in years

you believed it.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

eight weeks into dating damian

you weren’t exactly hiding anymore.

people talked. rumors swirled. a few fans had caught on via glances, hallway sightings, or the time cleo accidentally called him "d" in front of a camera crew.

but you kept it quiet. protected.

not for shame, but for peace.

still, moments slipped through. you brushing glitter off his shoulder. him sneaking you cleo’s favourite snacks in catering. cleo climbing into his lap during a production meeting, chewing on a lanyard, and declaring him her "most bestest backup daddy."

he didn’t correct her.

not even once.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

two months dating damian

you didn’t mean to say it that night.

not in the way people usually plan for those moments. there was no candlelight. no big romantic speech. no music playing in the background. just the hum of the a/c, cleo’s quiet breathing from the second bed, and the weight of his arm draped across your stomach.

damian was half asleep beside you, still in joggers and a thermal shirt. the room smelled like takeout and travel-sized lotion. it was one of those rare nights where you had nowhere to be. just here.

just with him.

you rolled to your side slowly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. He looked peaceful like this. less guarded. younger, even.

he stirred at your touch, blinking at you.

"you okay?" he asked, voice low and rough.

you nodded. "yeah. just thinking."

"about what?"

you hesitated, then exhaled.

"how lucky i am", you said quietly. "to have this. to have you. to not be alone in it all anymore."

damian didn’t say anything at first. just brushed your wrist with his thumb, soft and steady.

then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you whispered it, barely above the buzz of the a/c.

"i love you."

silence.

and then

his hand stopped moving.

your breath caught.

he sat up slightly, his eyes finding yours in the dim light.

"you do?", he asked, not teasing. just stunned.

you nodded, nerves bubbling under your skin. "i didn’t mean to say it like that. not all weird and sleepy and-"

"i love you too."

he said it before you could spiral further. no hesitation. just warm certainty.

"i’ve been trying not to say it for weeks", he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "didn’t want to freak you out. or mess this up."

you laughed, quiet and shaking. "you could never."

damian leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, both of you breathing the same small space.

"i love you", he said again. "both of you. it’s not even a question anymore."

across the room, cleo turned in her sleep, murmuring something about "dinosaurs and pancakes."

you smiled.

this wasn’t flashy. it wasn’t loud.

but it was real.

and for the first time in years, love didn’t feel like something you had to fight for.

it just was.

y/ninsta

liked by archerofinfamy, beckylynchwwe, biancabelairwwe and 489,322 others

tagged: archerofinfamy

y/ninsta: just us. some snacks. a few late nights. cooking classes. & a man who carries stickers in his gear bag "just in case."

view all 18,283 comments

archerofinfamy: my girls

beckylynchwwe: i knew it. didn’t even need the detective hat. congrats mama

rhearipley_wwe: i’ve been WAITING. cleo’s the real star here tho, sorry not sorry

user5: the soft launch era is OVER. we are FEEDING

user6: damian "i destroy men for fun and braid toddler hair" priest??? iconic

user7: you went from indie darling to smackdown star to mom of the year with a hot wrestling boyfriend. living the dream fr.

#wwe #wwe fandom #wwe fic #wwe fanfiction #wwe smackdown #wwe raw #damian priest smau #damian priest #wwe smau #damian priest x reader #damian priest fanfic #damian priest fluff

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dark-night-hero · 20 days ago

Note

All of the boys swear they love non-mc so much, but you can just see in their actions that they do not give any real fucks 😭 MANNNN, what do you mean you ignored your partner because you wanted to do something nice for them?? WHATTTT. What do you mean you sang a love song for your ex and hoped your partner doesn't know? BROTHER WHATTTT 😭😭😭😭😭

(love your writing)

I know right. I know right?! Trust me I have lines I needed to take off and alter because its just too much and you guys might kills the dude.

Caleb: He keep thinking, if only be had stayed longer at the movie, if only he had held your hand a little tighter, if he had never gotten up from that seat. You'd still be alive. Instead, he chose her. Not because he loved her. He don’t. He can't, she's not you. She never was and never will be. She was just his obligation. But you, you were his heart. And now, you're gone. You're gone alongside his heart.

Sylus: Didn’t know that while he sang to someone he should’ve let go of long ago, the one person he loved now was watching. Watching him choose the wrong person. Again. ; And that maybe, deep down he wanted to feel like the person she still saw in him. Even just for a song.

Rafayel: "She thought I loved you," Rafayel utter, voice breaking. MC stood beside him, hands in her pockets, silent for a long while before answering. "You didn’t?" "I don’t know anymore." He close his eyes. "But it was never supposed to be like this."

: no shit, reviewing my drafts i forgot to add a few details on rafayel's story but yeah. What ever, I don't think I'll make it better anyway.

#dark night hero #live laugh love lads #lads ask #ask answered

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mydarlingclaudia · 7 months ago

Text

every word I meant to say

note : ermmmm hi. don't ask where I went for like almost a month work is eating me alive and I was sad. this was inspired by that the unsent project thing andddd idk if I really like this it's def ooc but I was thinking about it again today and this has been in my drafts since September so I figured why not

wc : 2.1k

tags : @luvrgreyy @clitorphosis @sonya-semyonova

desc : letters that went unsent. kind of unrequited love, angst (???), more Leon focused, re2r!Leon - DI!Leon, fem!reader, ooc, not proofread

"I meant to write sooner, I really did. I know it's been a year, my life is so different now, I don't think you'd even believe me if I tried to explain it. I hope you're doing better than I am, I'm happy you weren't able to move to the city with me."

Leon hasn't written a letter since, what, his first few years in the academy? Maybe the end of his senior year of high school? He can't really remember, but he knows that this letter is important because it's to you, his friend he hasn't seen since the night he left for Raccoon City. This isn't even an actual letter, he's scribbling out what he thinks might be good excuses as to why he hasn't talked to you in a year on the back of pieces of scrap paper he took from the office.

He's supposed to be asleep right now, same as everyone else in boot camp, but it's been a year since Raccoon City and he's wondering if you ever tried to reach him. Maybe you tried to go to Raccoon City to look for him, only to see the pile of rubble that stood in its place, sectioned off by the government. Maybe you thought he was dead, he wouldn't blame you.

You and Leon had stuck together all throughout high school, even managed to stay friends when he went off to the police academy and you moved a few hours away for college. He doesn't even know if your address is still the same, he really hopes it is, there's no phone-books in boot camp if he wanted to try and call you, you're supposed to have your loved ones numbers memorized.

The last time Leon saw you was the night before he was supposed to move to the city, before he got a letter in the mail the next morning telling him not to come in, he really wishes he had listened. You were so happy for him, starting out as a city cop was a big deal and he had worked so hard to get there, you and a few friends had thrown him a going-away-party, telling him not to forget you once he got to the city. Leon couldn't forget you if he tried.

You had talked about moving to the city with him for a short period of time, it was really just ramblings the two of you kept bringing up. "Oh, when we live in the city..." "I can come visit you at work..." "I'll handle dinner, you'll handle cleaning..." Nothing ever really came of those ideas, but it gave him a warm feeling in his stomach knowing you wanted to come to the city with him.

He hopes you’ve been well, that life has been kinder to you than it has to him. Leon hopes you got that job you were gushing about the last time he saw you, he hopes you still think of him on his birthday because he thinks of you often.

He shouldn’t have gone to Raccoon City, he should’ve stayed home the day he left and instead stopped by your house to bother you about going to see a movie. Or he should have taken you to lunch, anything would’ve been better than walking into a city that was beyond saving.

"I’m not really sure what I’m saying, but I know I miss you. How have you been? I hope I’m able to come and visit soon, everything’s been moving so fast, but I’ll figure something out. Maybe we can get dinner, or something. Whatever you want, I’ll pay for it, don’t worry."

Leon's hands shake a tiny bit when he thinks of you, it's that school boy nervousness that movies portray whenever there's a boy with a crush on a girl who he knows is probably too out of his league. You were friends, at least.

"You're done with school now, right?" He knows you are. "I wish I was there for the graduation ceremony, I know your parents are proud. Do you remember my graduation party? Someone spiked the punch and we both ended up passed out in the bathtub at your house, you looked really pretty that night. I hope your graduation was better than mine. This would probably have been better as a phone call, but I don't know, you said letters were always more thoughtful.

– Leon"

–

That letter never got sent. Every letter needs an envelope, Leon just never got around to finding one, but he kept that scrap piece of paper tucked inside his pillowcase on the odd chance that he got his hands on one. He had stricter rules to follow than the other recruits, being legally dead and all.

But even after he got out of boot camp, he kept the letter. It's hidden away in some drawer in his house, he's not sure where, though.

He didn't make it into the army, he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but being in the position he was in now wasn't much better. He's stronger now, hardened, more mature.

Leon's written a few more letters to you over the years, ones that still never got sent because he either deemed them unworthy or because he became unsure of himself halfway through writing it. But he hasn't thrown any of them away, he'll send them one day, he swears it.

Leon's not using you as a way of journaling, either, even though he should find some way to actually write down his thoughts to get them out of his head. What he writes to you is mostly memories, telling you that his life keeps changing and that he misses you. He knows you're different by now, too. You're both grown, no longer in high school, no longer in college or the academy. If he could turn back time, go anywhere other than Raccoon City, he would. He thinks that's selfish of him, him not being there would've left Claire and Sherry in that city, but how would he have even known?

"Me again, hope you're doing better than I am." Leon's way with words gets worse and worse by the week, not that he cares. "I met someone who kind of reminded me of you, she's a sweetheart, like you. You'd probably become fast friends if you were ever able to meet."

Leon's not allowed to tell you about his mission in Spain, or about the president's daughter. President Graham is putting more body-guards in place for his daughter once she steps foot in D.C. again, Leon's sure the president considered appointing Leon as one of them at some point since breaking the news that she was going to be coming back home safely.

Leon should stop thinking about you so much, it's not like you were his only friend in the world, you've probably forgotten him, anyway.

"My life is still different, but yours probably is, too. This probably sounds stupid, but I miss being in high school. You probably don't, your mom was up your ass all the time and you worked yourself to the bone. Has that changed at all?

I remember that one year I went to Thanksgiving at your house, your uncles were all drunk and your cousins kept trying to get me to come sit with them, your grandpa was trying to get me interested in football. I haven't had a holiday like that since then, your family was always really nice to me."

He's not sure what to say anymore, these letters always just end up dragging out, but Leon has a lot of memories and he hopes you think of them as often as he does.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited. It's harder for me to get time off of work these days, even though I could really fucking use it. I promise one day I'll come back, it's just not going to be for a little while. Just don't do anything dumb.

– Leon"

–

Those letters he's been writing you have piled up in the drawer of his nightstand.

He's definitely sure that your address has changed by now, you're probably not even in the same state anymore. He could always try to find you on Facebook, explain everything that's been building up over the years in a simple text, but there's still rules he's supposed to follow even in his personal life.

Leon didn't stop writing, though. The letters did eventually get shorter, he's not sure if you like the same things anymore or if you'd even be interested.

He writes now mostly about how different his life would be if he was with you, if he had just asked you out in high school or kissed you the night he was supposed to leave for Raccoon City. It almost feels real to him when he goes to sleep, but that might just be the alcohol numbing his brain, not the dream of you sleeping next to him or the feeling of your breath on the back of his neck, not even the little pitter-patter off tiny footsteps coming from down the hallway.

It does make him feel a bit pathetic, dreaming of a life with someone he hadn't talked to in years. Leon can't help but think of you, he always thought you were pretty, and the past always lives in the back of his mind, but it comes alive late at night.

You're an entirely different person by now, someone who he hasn't had the opportunity to meet yet. You're probably married, maybe you even have a few kids running around, Leon's jealous of that. That could've been him, but it's not. But he's not even sure if you'd recognize each other if you passed by on the street, so is it even worth it to dwell on all the maybe's?

"I'm not sure I'll get to visit you for a while, not without a lucky fucking twist of fate, anyway."

All these letters are starting to sound the same, but Leon clings onto the thought of someday sending them to whatever corner of the country you were hiding in and hoping that there's still room in your life for a stranger.

"Do you still want me over for dinner? You don't know what I'd give to just eat a shitty meal with you right now."

You don't know what he'd give to do anything with you, really. He knows that there's a lifetime worth of things he's missed out on and that maybe every once in a while you think about him in the same way he thinks about you.

"I don't know how to ask this, but are you married? I know you'd look stunning in a wedding dress." You probably are, you're a catch, who wouldn't want to put a ring on your finger? Your husband's probably a better man than he is, too. One who hasn't had years worth of trauma jammed into his brain with the proof of it marked across his body, your husband probably takes you out on a date every week, maybe even surprises you with breakfast in bed and kisses the nape of your neck to gross out your kids. "I really hope you're happy, in my head you are.

I wanted that to be us, I never told you, but I was a chicken-shit kid and didn't know how to say it. You show up in my dreams sometimes, you deserve nothing but the best. I meant to get back in touch with you forever ago, but I think it's probably too late.

– Leon"

–

Two years after his last letter and Leon's still thinking of you, seventeen years after Raccoon City and the image of you sitting across from him for the last time still loops in his mind. He doesn't really remember your voice but he knows that you thought handwritten letters were romantic, and he still reads over the ones he meant to send to you but kept avoiding.

He's done with the letters, hasn't written one in a long time. But he just got back from California and your old favorite song is playing on the radio, and he's remembering how in love he is with your memory.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I'm too old for this and I'm sure you'd tease me if we had somehow kept in touch. I don't blame you if you thought I died in Raccoon City, I hope you're still alive and that life is good to you.

You were always important to me, I think you've given me something to cling to over the years. This letter won't find you and I'm not even really sure if I want it to, but I hope you'd still call me if you were able to. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen, but I'm happy you never got to see them.

Love, Leon

p.s. I'd say I love you but it feels like something you'd say in person"

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #resident evil x reader

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elliespassagerprincess · 2 months ago

Note

Hiii! Would you be able to write a fic with Spider-woman!ellie x reader, it can be about anything really! I just really like the concept of Ellie being spider-woman:)

Thank you bae<3

Beneath the mask - ellie williams x reader

hi anon!! i hope you enjoy... i lowkey had this in my drafts for a while, this gave me the perfect opportunity to post it:)

Pairing: spider-woman!ellie x journalist fem!reader

requests are open, send me your thoughts:)

Warnings: Violence, blood, injury, language, emotional intensity, sexual tension

summary: in which she saved you

masterlist

Rain battered your coat as you stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, neon lights casting puddles in green and pink. The tip had been simple: “Meet me at the docks. You want a real story? Come alone.”

Maybe you should’ve known it was a trap.

You only saw the glint of the knife when it was too late.

“Gotcha,” a man growled behind you, arms coiling around your waist like a vice. You struggled, panicked, your scream muffled by his gloved hand as you were dragged into the warehouse.

Inside, it smelled like rot and old metal. Four men. All armed. All staring at you like a problem they were about to solve with bullets or blades.

"You're the little journalist, huh?" one of them sneered, pacing toward you. "The one asking questions she shouldn't."

You were thrown to the ground. Pain exploded in your ribs. You tasted blood.

They circled.

You fought to stay conscious as a boot slammed into your gut, curling you up. Laughter echoed off the walls. And just as the knife rose above you—

Crash!!

Glass rained down. Something black and red dropped from the rafters like a meteor, slamming into the floor with bone-crunching force.

She stood there, tall and unshaken, the white spider emblazoned on her chest almost glowing in the dark. A mask with angry red lenses. Her suit was armored, sleek, and stained with what might’ve been someone else's blood.

Spider-Woman.

Everyone froze for one heartbeat. Then chaos erupted.

One of the men lunged. She moved like smoke, dodging low, and drove her elbow into his gut with a crack. He crumpled. Another fired—she twisted in mid-air, the bullet skimming off her shoulder with a shriek of metal. Webs shot from her wrists, pinning two of them to the wall in seconds.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t hesitate.

When the last one raised his gun, she leapt—arms wide, legs swinging—and drove him straight into a stack of crates with a deafening boom. He didn’t get up.

You were still gasping on the floor when she turned to you.

She didn’t say a word. Just stalked toward you and knelt down, scanning your face through that glowing mask.

"You're bleeding," she said—distorted, robotic.

"You noticed," you rasped, barely conscious.

Then you passed out in her arms.

You woke up on a worn-down cot in a room you didn’t recognize. A space heater buzzed softly in the corner. Concrete walls, dim lights, and the faint metallic scent of blood and antiseptic.

You sat up too fast. Pain screamed through your side. Bandages wrapped tight around your ribs. You blinked, heart pounding.

And then you saw her.

Spider-Woman stood in the shadows, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Mask still on. Silent.

"...You're the one who saved me," you said hoarsely.

She nodded. No words.

You exhaled shakily. “Why?”

Nothing.

“I—I could’ve died back there.”

“You almost did.” Her voice was softer now. Not robotic. Like she turned off the modulator. Your blood ran cold.

You’d heard that voice before. In a different place. A different life.

Your eyes narrowed.

“…Why do you sound familiar?”

She stiffened.

You sat up more, ignoring the pain. “Say something else.”

She turned away. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

Something in your chest twisted. “Wait. I know that voice. Ellie?”

She paused.

Then slowly, almost hesitantly, she lifted her fingers to the edge of her mask and pulled it back.

And there she was.

Messy auburn hair falling in sweaty strands. Green eyes that avoided yours. A busted lip. Blood on her cheek. And a look of guilt and fear so raw it made your throat close up.

Your best friend.

“Ellie?” you whispered again, stunned. “You’re Spider-Woman?”

She looked at you then, finally meeting your eyes.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” she said, her voice shaking. “But I couldn’t let them kill you.”

You stared. Shock warred with betrayal and something else—recognition. The bruised knuckles. The nights she disappeared. The lies. The pain in her eyes every time you asked where she’d been.

“You’ve been lying to me for years.”

“I was protecting you.”

“From what? The truth?”

“No. From them.” She stepped closer, jaw tight. “You don’t know what I’ve seen. What they’d do if they knew you mattered to me.”

You rose to your feet, adrenaline fueling your steps despite the pain. “You should’ve told me.”

“And then what? Let you look at me like I’m some freak? Let you walk into danger thinking I’d always be there to pull you out?”

“You were there,” you snapped. “You saved me.”

“I always save you,” she growled. “Even when you don’t know it.”

The air between you was hot. Sharp. Electric.

Her hands flexed at her sides.

You stepped even closer. “How many times?”

She swallowed hard. “Too many.”

You stared up at her. “Why?”

Silence.

And then, her voice broke. “Because I care about you. Because it’s always been you.”

Your breath caught. Your heart thudded.

You reached out—hand shaking—and cupped her jaw. She leaned into your touch like she hadn’t been touched in years.

“I should hate you,” you whispered.

“But you don’t.”

You didn’t. You wanted her.

So you kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It was bruising. Desperate. Her hands gripped your waist, dragging you in like she couldn’t help it, her mouth opening against yours with a groan that came from somewhere deep in her chest. You clutched her suit, fingers tangling in the material, feeling the heat of her body through the armor.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched. Breathless.

She whispered, “Say something.”

You opened your eyes.

“I still see you. Not the suit. Not the mask. You.”

She let out a shaky exhale—half-laugh, half-sob—and kissed you again.

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iraot · 5 months ago

Text

Did You Even Think | s.r

pairing steve rogers x small!reader word count 4,277 a/n gif credit - this fic did not come to me in one go like my original a/n said, in fact it sat in my drafts since 2022. :) yeah so here you go - its finished. I might have missed a few tags but its all pretty basic stuff. :3 Hope you enjoy. warnings angst, dom/sub dynamics, 1st time in relationship, innocence kink, fingering, oral (f receiving), domestic kink, hair pulling, 18+ only, size kink, age gap

She and Steve had been together for just over four months now, and though their relationship was solid in many ways, a gnawing doubt had started to creep into her mind. Sweet kisses, lingering touches, the warmth of his hand resting at the small of her back—these were all constants. But the moment things threatened to turn into something more, something deeper, he pulled away. Not harshly, not with rejection in his eyes, but with a quiet, almost reverent hesitation that left her feeling unspoken words pressing between them like a wall.

They’d talked about a lot since the battle with Thanos—what they wanted out of life now that the fighting was done. When Steve returned the Stones and finally let the weight of the shield slip from his grasp, he told her he was ready for something real. A normal life. A simple life. He’d grown out his beard again, rough and golden in the sunlight, because Captain America had been clean-shaven, and Steve Rogers wanted to be anything but him now. The mantle belonged to Sam Wilson, and Steve had no interest in reclaiming it. The idea of picking up the shield again felt wrong when all he wanted was apple-pie Sundays and lazy mornings tangled in sheets.

So why did it feel like he was still holding back?

She thought about the night before, how his kisses had deepened, how she had pressed herself against him, fingers curling into the fabric of his Henley, heart hammering with the silent question—Will you stay? Maybe this would finally be the moment he let go. Maybe he’d touch her the way she ached to be touched. But instead, he stiffened, pulled back, and then practically leapt off the couch like it had burned him.

"I—I gotta go," he stammered, pressing a final kiss to her forehead before grabbing his jacket.

She barely had time to process it before the door clicked shut behind him.

Now, hours later, the rational part of her told her there had to be a reason. Maybe something was weighing on him. Maybe he was struggling with the idea of moving forward. Maybe—maybe. But the darker voice in her mind whispered crueler thoughts: He doesn’t want you. Not like that. He never will.

She busied herself at the lab, preparing tools for Bucky’s usual tune-up. The Winter Soldier—no, Bucky Barnes, as he liked to remind people now—strode in, rolling his shoulder like the vibranium arm had a crick in it.

"Alright," he said, narrowing his eyes at her silence. "What’s going on?"

She glanced up at him. Bucky wasn’t one to dance around things. He was blunt, cutting, and she should’ve known he’d pick up on the fact that she wasn’t her usual self.

"It’s nothing," she mumbled, adjusting the wrench in her hands. "Just… stupid."

Bucky snorted. "Bullshit. Talk to me." He plopped down in his usual seat, watching her with the same sharp stare that had once made HYDRA operatives piss themselves.

She exhaled through her nose, then finally admitted, "I think Steve’s going to end things."

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift at first, but then his brows pinched together, his mouth pulling into something between confusion and annoyance. "The hell are you talking about? He doesn’t shut up about you."

That made her pause. "What?"

Bucky leaned forward, resting his metal arm on his knee. "You kidding? Every time we get together, it’s ‘She said this funny thing at dinner’ or ‘You should’ve seen the way she kicked my ass at chess’ or ‘Do you think she’d like this book?’ If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re the only thing running through that punk’s head."

Her throat tightened, her fingers gripping the wrench harder. "Then why does he act like I’m radioactive? Why does he barely stay for an hour when we have date night? Last night, I didn’t even get a chance to say anything before he bolted, mumbling something about paperwork."

Bucky shook his head, clearly baffled. "That doesn’t make sense."

"Tell me about it," she muttered.

He stared at her for a moment, then pulled out his phone. "Text him."

She blinked. "What?"

"Ask him to lunch," Bucky said, already tapping away at his own screen.

She knew what this was. She’d done the same thing before with a friend who thought their boyfriend was dodging them. If Steve replied to Bucky and not her, well… that would tell her all she needed to know.

"Bucky..."

"Just do it." His tone was firm. "If he ignores you and texts me back, I swear to God, I’ll rip him a new one."

She sighed, but her fingers moved before she could stop them. Hey, want to grab lunch today?

A minute later, Bucky sent his own message.

They waited.

Her message sat, cold and blue. Read. No reply.

Bucky’s phone buzzed immediately. He turned the screen toward her, and her stomach twisted.

Steve: Sure. The lobby’s got a great menu.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. "Oh, that motherf—"

She looked away, swallowing hard, ignoring the sting behind her eyes. Maybe she really had been fooling herself. Maybe Captain America had saved the world, but Steve Rogers didn’t have the courage to love her back.

Her bottom lip trembled, and she sniffed, swiping the back of her hand over her eyes before the tears could fully fall. This was it her worst fear staring her in the face. If Steve Rogers, the Steve Rogers, couldn’t want her, then who the hell could?

“Hey...” Bucky’s voice was softer than usual, a rare gentleness lacing the edges as he pulled her into his arms, rubbing slow circles along her back. “None of that, alright? I’ll talk to him… we’ll straighten this out.”

“And if..”

“If he wants to end things,” Bucky cut in, “then we’ll figure that out too. But I gotta hear his side before I knock some sense into his star-spangled ass.”

His dry humor forced a snicker out of her despite everything, and she wiped at her eyes, nodding.

She motioned toward his arm, and he let her go so she could get to work. But her mind was elsewhere—dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. This could be the end of her relationship, and her career in one fell swoop. If Steve broke it off, what then? The Avengers Compound wasn’t exactly known for its clean breakups. Would she have to pack up her desk? Start over somewhere else, if she could even find a job in her field again?

The rest of the day crawled by in a haze. No word from Bucky. Nothing from Steve. The old saying—"No news is good news"—didn’t cut it today. It never had.

By the time she packed up for the night, she had checked her phone so many times that the ghost of the screen lingered behind her eyelids. Still no texts. Still left on read. Even from Bucky.

Her heart pounded as she stepped inside her apartment, tossing her keys onto the counter. The silence was thick, oppressive. She scrubbed a hand down her face, exhaling.

“Took you longer than usual.”

Steve’s voice.

She yelped, spinning on instinct, hand flying to her chest as her heart tried to beat its way out of her ribs. “Jesus, Steve! What the hell?!”

Her pulse hammered, anger rising to mask the anxiety. He knew she hated being startled. If he wanted to talk, he could’ve waited with the damn lights on, or sat on the couch like a normal person instead of lurking in the dark like some super-soldier cryptid.

He turned the lamp on, and for the first time, she saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed like he was barely keeping himself together. Good. Let him squirm. He was the one who had been avoiding her, not the other way around.

“Bucky talked to me today,” he started, voice level but heavy. “Said you seemed really upset. You wanna tell me why?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she hung up her purse. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose but stayed silent, watching her. She hated that unreadable expression, the one that made her feel like she was talking to a wall.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she continued, voice rising with every word. “And not just today. Not just this morning when you completely ignored my text. This has been happening for weeks. You ignore me, you leave in a rush like you can’t stand to be near me, and you never stay longer than you have to.”

Steve nodded as she spoke, like he was absorbing her words, but she wasn’t sure if he was actually listening or just waiting for her to get it all out.

Her throat was tight now, but she pushed through. “So if you’re gonna end things, just do it. I don’t like waiting in limbo. I don’t like sitting here, wondering what I did wrong, what I did to make you pull away. I hate this, Steve.”

He exhaled, rubbing at his beard. His silence stretched between them like a chasm before he finally spoke.

“I was doing what was best for you.” His voice was rough. “If… if you knew the things I think about you, you’d want me gone.”

Something in her stomach twisted.

He shook his head, cutting her off. “Do you even realize what you do to me?” His voice was low now, raw. His hands flexed at his sides, like he was restraining himself. “I haven’t been able to think straight for days. Can’t eat. Can’t focus. I sure as hell can’t sit across from you at lunch when all I can think about is you on your knees—”

He stopped himself with a grunt, rubbing a hand down his face like the thought physically hurt him.

Her breath hitched. That… definitely wasn’t where she thought this was going.

“You what?” she whispered.

Steve took a step forward, and instinct had her stepping back until her spine met the wall behind her. His eyes were dark now, sharp with determination. There was something else in them too, something that made heat pool between her thighs before he even touched her.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you,” he admitted, voice low and thick with restraint. “But I knew if I didn’t leave when I did… I’d ruin you, sweetheart.”

A shiver rolled down her spine. She clenched her thighs, pulse hammering.

“How?”

His nostrils flared, and then he was on her.

His hand slid up her cheek, fingers curling against the side of her neck, tilting her face up to meet his. Then his lips crashed against hers hard, messy, all teeth and heat and barely-contained desperation.

She gasped into his mouth, hands fisting into his shirt. He didn’t hesitate grabbing the hem, yanking it over his head, and tossing it to the floor like it was offending him.

“This is the last time,” he murmured against her throat, his voice a gravel rasp.

“After this…” His teeth grazed the sensitive skin beneath her ear, making her whimper. “…you’re mine.”

The words sent molten heat flooding through her, soaking her panties before she could stop it.

“Steve, please..”

He lifted her like she weighed nothing, pressing her into the wall as his hands palmed her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her moan.

She barely registered him moving before she landed in the middle of the bed, breathless.

Steve stood at the foot of it, eyes dark, his gaze dragging over her like he could see straight through her clothes.

“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Oh, she had a damn good idea.

Steve was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling as he looked at her sprawled out on the bed—her hair wild, her chest heaving, lips swollen from his kiss.

"Take this off," he ordered, voice hoarse, fingers twitching at his sides.

She swallowed hard, hands fumbling at the hem of her shirt. Steve didn’t move as she pulled it over her head, exposing bare skin to the cool air. She had barely tossed it aside before he was on her again, pinning her to the mattress with his weight.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he muttered, his hands sliding up her body, mapping her like he needed to memorize every inch. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

Her breath hitched as his mouth descended on her throat, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her pulse. She arched into him, pressing her body against his, feeling the heat of his skin and the hard planes of muscle beneath it.

"Then why did you keep pulling away?" she whispered, fingers threading through his hair, nails raking against his scalp.

Steve groaned, his teeth grazing her collarbone before he pulled back to meet her gaze. His pupils were blown, his expression wrecked with barely-contained hunger.

"Because I knew," he admitted, his hand sliding down, fingers tracing the band of her leggings before slipping beneath it. "Knew if I let myself have you, I wouldn't stop."

She gasped as his fingers brushed over her soaked panties, his touch feather-light, teasing.

"And now?" she asked breathlessly, barely able to form words as he pressed his palm against her, applying just enough pressure to make her squirm.

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes darkening further.

"Now," he murmured, voice rough with conviction, "I don’t give a damn."

His patience snapped like a frayed wire. In one swift movement, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings and yanked them down, dragging her panties with them. She barely had time to process before he settled between her thighs, his broad hands gripping her hips to keep her still.

"Goddamn," he rasped, eyes locked on her as if he’d never seen anything so devastating in his life. "You’re perfect."

Heat flooded her cheeks, but she barely had time to be embarrassed before his mouth was on her, tongue sliding between her folds in a slow, deliberate stroke that sent shockwaves through her entire body.

She cried out, fingers tangling in his hair as he groaned against her, like he was the one being undone.

"You taste like heaven," he muttered against her, voice muffled, lips dragging over her in a way that had her hips bucking against his mouth. "Better than I ever let myself imagine."

She moaned his name, thighs trembling against his shoulders as he sucked her clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over her with devastating precision. Her body was burning, heat pooling deep in her belly, pressure building too fast.

"Steve," she gasped.

His grip tightened on her hips, keeping her firmly against his mouth. "Let go, sweetheart," he ordered, voice rough. "Give it to me."

Her body obeyed before her mind did white-hot pleasure crashing over her as she shattered beneath him, her back arching, her cries muffled by her own gasping breaths.

Steve groaned as she came against his tongue, lapping her up like he needed it, like he was starving.

When she finally slumped against the mattress, boneless, he pressed one last lingering kiss against her thigh before pulling himself up, his lips shining with the evidence of what he’d done.

His expression was wrecked, his jaw tight with restraint, but his voice was steady when he spoke.

"I meant what I said." He leaned down, caging her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the mattress. "You’re mine now."

Her breath hitched, a fresh wave of heat rolling through her at the sheer certainty in his tone.

"Then show me," she whispered.

Steve groaned, dragging her into another bruising kiss as he reached down, undoing his belt with one hand. Steve’s belt hit the floor with a dull thud, and she barely had time to breathe before he was over her again, his weight pinning her down, his mouth consuming hers with a hunger that felt like it had been caged for years.

Her fingers scrambled against his back, tracing over thick muscle as he settled between her thighs, his clothed hardness pressing against her slick heat. He was big—she could feel it even through the fabric of his jeans, the pressure sending a thrill up her spine.

His lips ghosted over her jaw, down her neck, his breath hot as he growled, "You have no idea what you do to me, sweetheart." His fingers curled under her chin, tilting her head up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

There was something feral in his eyes—something dark and starved. Possession.

Her breath hitched as he dragged his free hand down her stomach, his fingertips barely grazing her overly-sensitive skin before dipping between her thighs. She was soaked, and Steve felt it.

"Fuck," he groaned, his jaw clenching as his fingers slid through her wetness, teasing, testing. "You were made for me, weren’t you?"

She whimpered, bucking against his touch, desperate for more, but he didn’t give it to her—not yet. His fingers moved slowly, deliberate, just barely dipping inside before retreating, smearing her arousal over her swollen clit.

"Steve," she gasped, frustration lacing her voice as she tried to move her hips, but his other hand pressed firmly against her stomach, holding her down.

"Be patient, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her jaw. "I wanna take my time with you."

A whimper left her lips as he dipped his head, trailing hot kisses down her throat, his mouth searing against her flushed skin. He was moving like a man determined to devour her, to imprint himself into every inch of her body.

"Tell me you want this," he rasped, his voice shaking with restraint, like he was this close to snapping.

She shivered beneath him, her fingers threading into his hair as she pulled him closer. "I want this. I want you."

Something inside him snapped.

He kissed her like he was starving, teeth clashing against hers, tongue sliding deep as he ground his hips into her, letting her feel just how hard he was. His hands were everywhere palming her breasts, gripping her hips, holding her like she was something he was afraid to lose.

Then, suddenly, he was gone sitting back on his knees, undoing his jeans with one hand, yanking the zipper down with a rough jerk.

Her mouth went dry as he freed himself, his cock thick and aching, flushed red at the tip, already leaking precum.

Steve caught the way her eyes widened, and a smirk tugged at his lips. "You can take it," he murmured, dragging his length over her slit, coating himself in her slickness. "I’ll make sure you do."

She barely had time to brace herself before he pushed in, just the tip, stretching her impossibly slow, letting her feel every inch as her body opened for him.

"Jesus Christ," Steve groaned, his fingers digging into her hips as he fought to keep himself from slamming into her all at once. "So fucking tight, sweetheart, squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go."

She whimpered, nails raking down his back as she felt him stretching her inch by inch, every thick, pulsing inch sinking deeper until he bottomed out, buried to the hilt.

Her head fell back against the pillows, lips parted in a soundless moan as she struggled to breathe. "Steve..."

His mouth was on hers instantly, swallowing her gasps as he stilled, his body shaking from the effort. "Look at me," he demanded, voice barely more than a growl.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, her vision blurred with heat, with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.

"You feel that?" he murmured, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged. "You were made for me, baby,” then he moved.

A slow, torturous drag before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that was devastatingly deep, rough, and possessive.

She cried out, her body jolting with every thrust, the pleasure so intense it bordered on unbearable.

Steve groaned, burying his face in her neck, his breath ragged. "Mine," he growled against her skin, punctuating the word with another sharp thrust. "Say it."

"Yours," she gasped, nails clawing at his shoulders. "I’m yours."

A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest, and then he was gone, lost in her, lost in the pleasure, lost in the feel of her wrapped around him, squeezing him like she never wanted to let go.

Her body was fire, nerves ablaze, every single inch of her consumed by him, the overwhelming stretch, the unrelenting force of his thrusts, the deep, possessive way he took her, like she was something he had finally allowed himself to have.

She could barely breathe, barely think. The only thing that existed was the way Steve filled her, the deep, ragged sounds that escaped his throat, the desperate way his hands held onto her like he thought she might disappear.

"Fuck," Steve groaned, his voice wrecked, his body trembling with restraint. "Sweetheart, I can't…not gonna last!"

His words sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through her. "Don’t stop," she whimpered, nails dragging down his back, leaving marks he wouldn’t feel but she knew he’d wear like a brand. "Steve!”

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His grip on her hips tightened, and suddenly, he was driving into her, rougher, deeper, the rhythm frantic, almost desperate. Each thrust sent pleasure shattering through her, wrecking her, his body pressing into hers, so close yet somehow not close enough.

She was right there, right on the edge, her entire body coiling.

"Come for me," Steve ordered, his voice barely human, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath hot and ragged. "*I need you to come, sweetheart." he cursed.

Her body obeyed before her mind did.

The orgasm tore through her like a shockwave, her vision whiting out as she screamed his name, body convulsing around him, gripping him like she never wanted to let go.

Steve choked out a curse, his rhythm faltering as he felt her clench around him, pulling him deeper, sending him straight to the edge. His breath stuttered, his entire body shuddering as he slammed into her one final time, spilling deep inside her with a low, wrecked groan.

He froze, buried inside her to the hilt, his entire body shaking, a deep, guttural moan rumbling in his chest as he emptied himself completely, filling her so full it left her dizzy.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Their bodies were tangled, breath mingling, skin slick with sweat, the only sound in the room the rapid, erratic pounding of their hearts.

Then, slowly, Steve slumped forward, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath still uneven, his arms trembling as he caged her beneath him.

"Jesus," he whispered, voice wrecked, like he’d just been ruined.

She let out a shaky breath, hands sliding up to thread into his damp hair. "Yeah," she murmured weakly. "Jesus."

Steve exhaled a breathless chuckle, then—very carefully—pulled out of her, shifting to the side, immediately pulling her into his arms.

For a while, neither of them spoke. He just held her, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles along her spine, his lips brushing the top of her head.

But then, he sighed. A deep, heavy breath that made his chest rise beneath her cheek.

"I’m sorry," he murmured.

She blinked, tilting her head up to look at him. "For what?"

Steve groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "For being an asshole," he admitted, his voice dripping with regret. "For making you think I didn’t want you."

Her stomach twisted at the way his voice softened, at the sheer remorse in it. "I did," she confessed quietly. "I really thought you-"

"I know," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair, his grip tightening around her. "I hate that I made you feel that way."

She shifted in his arms, pressing a palm against his chest, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat beneath her fingers. "Then why did you pull away?"

Steve inhaled sharply, his fingers stilling on her back.

For a moment, she thought he might not answer.

"Because I was scared," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Scared I’d ruin this. Scared I’d ruin you."

Her breath hitched. "Steve-"

He shook his head, tilting her chin up so he could look her in the eye. "I’ve spent my whole life fighting, being a soldier, being ‘Captain America,’ being whatever the world needed me to be. But with you…" He exhaled sharply, his expression raw. "With you, I don’t have to be anything other than just…me."

Her heart clenched. "And you thought that wasn’t enough?"

Steve’s jaw tensed, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "I thought if I let myself have you, I’d lose control. I thought I’d need you too much." He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Turns out I was right."

She swallowed hard, fingers threading through his. "I don’t mind."

He gave her a look. "Sweetheart, I just fucked you so hard I nearly broke the bed."

She snorted, cheeks flushing, but didn’t look away. "I still don’t mind."

Steve groaned, pulling her against his chest, burying his face in her hair. "God help me," he muttered. "I’m never letting you go."

She smiled, her lips pressing against his bare shoulder. "Good." Steve Rogers finally allowed himself the one thing he had denied for too long, peace.

Because she was his and he was never letting her go.

#steve rogers smut #stever rogers x freader #marvel smut #this has been sitting in my drafts for three years #ya'll lmfao

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jaeyunluvbot · 4 months ago

Text

footnote

this is part two to my series emails i can’t send

note .ᐟ OUCH OUCH OUCH

Subject: You’ll Never Read This To: (unsent)

I know you said the email thing was stupid, and I guess it is. But I have to put my feelings somewhere so I don’t tell you and ruin everything. I don’t know exactly when it happened. One moment, you were just my best friend, someone I’ve known forever, someone I felt like I could be myself around. Then, one moment, everything changed. I can’t pinpoint when or why it happened, but it did. Maybe it was the way you laugh when I tell a joke, or maybe it’s the way you have the special smile you seem to only use around me. I guess it’s always been there, and I just couldn’t see it, or I refused to. I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ll never tell you. I’m afraid to ruin everything we have, to throw ten years of friendship down the drain over a one-sided love. I won’t ruin this, so I’m just writing it down where you’ll never see it. I hate that I’m even letting myself feel like this, but I don’t know how to stop. I don’t think I even want you to know, because even if you did return my feelings, you deserve so much more than me. I’m a mess and I can’t ask you to take that burden on, even though it hurts, I’ll try to be happy just being your friend.

Love,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 2:13 AM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: Please don’t make me watch you fall in love To: (unsent)

Jay,

I watched you with her today. I didn’t even notice until I saw the way you looked at her, and heard how you said her name. It’s like she was the only thing in your world, like I didn’t even exist. I guess I can’t blame you, she’s gorgeous, it’s only natural that she’d take up all your focus. You didn’t even know that the ground beneath me felt like it was slipping away. You’ve always asked for my advice, about clothes, about school, about crushes. I was always fine with that, I wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who you knew would always be there for you. But now I’m not sure I can be ok with that. I’m trying so hard to be happy for you, but it hurts in a way I don’t know how to explain. I should’ve never let myself feel this way. It hurts so bad, but at the same time, I can’t lose you, so maybe it’s better to keep this to myself and continue supporting you as a friend. I just wish I was more than a footnote in your life.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 9:19 PM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: Things Aren’t the Same Anymore To: (unsent)

Jay,

I hate that we’re like this right now. We’ve never gone this long without talking. I don’t even know what changed, or what happened to make you distance yourself from me. I know it’s probably not on purpose, but I can see the small things adding up, the late responses, you forcing a laugh at my jokes that used to make you crack up, the way you won’t even look at me. I see you with her a lot now, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did before. Or maybe it does, but in a different way. I’m just remembering how we went to that restaurant and the waiter asked if we were a couple. You laughed and denied it, but I was so happy that someone else saw what I saw. Why can’t you just see me how I see you? I guess you’re outgrowing me. I knew this would happen, but I thought we’d have more time. Even though we’re both changing, some things stay the same, like how I’d resign myself to a lifetime of pain if it meant keeping you near me. But I guess that’s not enough anymore. I wish I could be happy for you, you deserve every good thing in this world, I just wish it was me making you smile like that.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 12:02 AM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: I Don’t Know How To Say This To: (unsent)

Jay,

It’s hard to admit this, but I think I’m losing you. And it’s not even because of her, or the fact that you’ve found someone else. It’s because I’m realizing that I was never really yours to begin with. You’ve always been mine, Jay, but I was never yours. It’s like I’ve been living in this illusion, holding onto something that was never meant to happen. You’ll never see me the way I see you. I’m not the one you think of when things get hard. I’m not the one you turn to when you’re upset. And I hate that I’ve been waiting for that moment, that moment when you realize I’m the one who’s always been there for you. I keep telling myself that I should be happy for you. I should be glad that you’re happy with her. At this point, it’s like you don’t even remember I exist. The second you met her, everything changed and all of a sudden, I wasn’t important anymore. I understand why, but I would’ve never done this to you. I guess that’s where we differ, I was wholly devoted to you and ready to give you anything you needed, but you had bigger dreams. I guess sandbox love doesn’t last, and I should’ve seen this coming, nothing good lasts forever. But still, I thought I mattered to you, and I thought that maybe, just for a second, we could’ve been good together. I mean, hell, even our parents wanted us to get together. Even so, I’ve accepted that I’ve lost you, and I wish you the best with her. I hope you’re happy together and I hope I can move on, though I doubt I will.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 3:21 AM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: I Can’t Keep Doing This To: (unsent)

Jay,

I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I think it’s time. It’s time for me to let go. I’ve accepted that love isn’t precious and that life isn’t like the movies where the childhood best friends always end up together. You’ve been avoiding me, so I guess I won’t be able to tell you in person, but I’m moving away. I got accepted into a professional program at my dream school, and I wasn’t going to go. I couldn’t bear to be away from you, but now I see that there’s no point in me staying here. It’s kind of funny, we always said we’d go to university together and move in with each other after school, but now I’m going without you. I guess in a way, this is just part of life, watching your childhood dreams fade away and be replaced with the harsh reality of the world. I know you probably won’t even notice that I’m gone, since you never seem to text me anymore, but I hope you occasionally think about me, and maybe even miss me a little. I’ve accepted that I’ll be relegated to a small role in your life, and I know you’ll go on to do wonderful things. I hope life brings you nothing but success and happiness, even if it’s without me. I want to tell you everything I’ve written in these emails, just so you finally know, but I can’t. I hope you don’t think I don’t care about you, because I do. I care too much. My reckless feelings ruined everything and I can’t continue living like this, so I’m letting you go. I’m leaving next week, so I guess I won’t see you before I go. Goodbye, Jay. I love you, even though I shouldn't.

Yours,

Y/N

(Draft saved at 8:29 PM)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Subject: Bye To: Jay

Jay,

I’ve been writing these emails for months. To myself, to you. You told me they were stupid, and you were right. I don’t know why I thought they would help. Every time I see them sitting in my drafts, I feel the same old hurt all over again. The same pain that’s been festering beneath the surface. So, I’ll send you one last email, and after this, I’ll delete all the others. I don’t want to keep holding onto them anymore. I’m in love with you, Jay. I’ve been in love with you for so long, it’s impossible to even pinpoint when it started. Maybe it was when we were kids, and I thought I would never feel anything but friendship for you. Or maybe it was when we got older, and I started seeing you in a new light. But I never admitted it, not even to myself, not until you met her. It’s been there all along, under the surface. Every laugh, every inside joke, every late-night conversation, every small moment that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something more between us. But it wasn’t real, not the way I wanted it to be. I spent so many years wishing I could be the one for you. Wishing that one day, maybe, you’d look at me and finally see me the way I’ve always seen you. But you never did. And that’s okay. I get it now. I understand. It’s not your fault. You never promised me anything. You were never mine to begin with. And maybe that’s what hurts the most, the fact that I let myself believe, even for a little while, that there was a chance. We were never meant to be. And I’m okay with that, I have to be. But it doesn’t stop the pain from being real. I wanted to tell you all of this in person, to say goodbye face-to-face, but every time I’ve tried, you’re never around. And I’ve stopped waiting. So here I am, telling you in an email. It’s dramatic, I know. But I’ve always been a bit melodramatic, haven’t I? I’m leaving, Jay. I’m moving far away. I need to let go, finally. I’m going to chase the career I’ve put on hold for too long, the one I convinced myself wasn’t as important as being there for you. I’m going to move on. At least, I hope I will. It’s time. I don’t want to be this person anymore, the one who keeps waiting for you to turn around, the one who’s always there for you when no one else is. I can’t keep hoping that maybe one day, you’ll wake up and realize I was the one who was always by your side. I don’t want to hurt anymore. So this is it. This is goodbye. I hope you find the happiness you deserve. You deserve someone who can love you the way you need to be loved. And so do I.

Goodbye,

Y/N

(Sent at 4:33 PM)

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