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cherry-fields-lover · 1 day ago

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Held in the Hollowed Fragments 7: The Weight of Her Silence

Synopsis: He returns to the dream-fog only to uncover the brutal truth: you had always been there, sacrificing yourself across lifetimes for his happiness, while he remained blind to your love. As echoes of your deaths unfold in haunting, mythic detail, the realisation of what you gave and what he failed to see crushes him. Now faced with your final, irreversible absence, he is consumed by grief and regret, clinging to memories that begin to unravel. Only too late does he understand the depth of your love, your silence, and the irrevocable cost of his inattention, as you fade, not just from life, but from memory itself.

Pairing: LADs x Non! Mc (you) Genres: Heavy angst

Word count: 2.6k Content Warning: Heavy angst, Major characters' deaths, obsession, grief, emotional neglect, mention of unrequited love, mild-moderate body horrors, slight mention of blood, self-sacrifice. Some parts are based on or inspired by the LADs myth cards, main characters ooc. mdni

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Music: Regret by A.W. Smith

Taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme, @miuangel, @xiisblogs, @loreleis-world, @animegamerfox, @cherlouu, @chaoticfivesworld, @reni502, @nm4565natty, @satansdaughter123 Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. We're reaching the end of this series. I want to say that I'm really honoured by everyone of you who decided to take part in my journey from the start and up to now. If it wasn't for your love and support, I don't think I would have carried this series this far, nor would I have imagined it. So thank you all so much. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, as the next chapter will be the series's finally.

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He returned to the fog again, drawn by an instinctual pull he could neither define nor resist. But this time, the fog no longer held its former dreamlike quiet. It had evolved, become a waking nightmare, saturated in memory and mourning. The air clung to his skin with a damp, suffocating weight. What once welcomed him now repelled and revealed. The mist, once a veil, was now a mirror reflecting him in fragments.

The most recent dream sequences revealed only himself, not as he was now, but as he had been across lifetimes. Over and over again, he witnessed other versions of himself overlooking you and choosing someone else. Letting you slip through his fingers. He observed himself rejecting your quiet kindness, your patient care, to pursue a more radiant presence, always reaching for what he thought he wanted, never realising what he already had. Each memory sliced through him, embedding deeper with every pass.

At first, he interpreted it as punishment. But soon, he recognised it as a revelation. The truth he had refused to acknowledge now consumed him. Each revisit to the dreamscape came with sharpened awareness because now, obsession had set in. His longing for you had morphed into something visceral and raw. It was no longer tender. It was ravenous.

Each glimpse of your suffering was unbearable. Each repetition of your pain was a wound. His love, which once lay dormant beneath oblivion, now burned with ruthless clarity. He could not scream. Could not change anything. All he could do was watch himself fail you, again and again and again.

But the worst was yet to come.

Your story had never been fair. He saw it now, not through blurred half-memories, but through sharp recollections fate seemed to force him to witness. The fog enhanced your presence, not obscured it. Your sorrow took shape, no longer background noise, but the loudest part of the dream.

He stood paralysed on the edges of your memories, watching you move through echoes of a life that had once belonged only to you. Now they rose around him, sacred ruins built from pain, love, and silence. Every motion, every breath you took, held the quiet ache of endurance. Your earlier words returned to him, no longer soft but searing.

Life has always been cruel to me for as long as I can remember.

Your voice haunted him, not as a nostalgic sound, but a living entity lodged in his chest. Every word reopened scars from every life you had shared. Your sorrow had always been there, woven into your smiles and silences, but he had never truly heard it. Now, it was deafening.

You moved through your world alone, a world he had helped shape through ignorance. He watched you, no longer as a participant in your story, but a distant, grieving observer. Not your lover. Not even a friend. Only someone left behind.

"The dull to sharp unbearable ache of watching the love of my life fall deeply in love with someone else..."

He recognised it now; you had meant him. The weight of that truth was crushing. You had been invisible, unnoticed, despite always being there. He remembered resting on your shoulder when the world crumbled, your arms catching him every time. You had been his solace. And he had never thanked you.

"To him, I was a mundane necessity…"

And he had treated you accordingly. He remembered it all now, how he abandoned your emotional sanctuary in pursuit of someone more radiant, someone who became his sun. You had always been his harbour, but he had sought the horizon. Your tears, once unseen, now carved through him.

You had tried to save him. Pulled him back. Held him close. But he pushed you away, again and again, for someone else. For a love that demanded his life. For a dream that destroyed you both. And each time, your efforts grew more desperate, because you remembered what he didn’t. Every death. Every failure. Every lonely end.

She's worth the pain.

She's everything to me.

I can't live with the idea of not being by her side.

I'll do whatever it takes to protect her and make her happy.

I would rather die in her arms than not save her.

You don't understand what I'm going through.

Those words haunted you. They broke your spirit, fractured your resolve. You never screamed. You wept in silence. You gave without demand. And he ignored you. Across every lifetime, you were the one who bore the cost.

Now, he clenched his fists, helpless. He wanted to undo it, to grab your hand and say the words you always deserved. But he was trapped. Still a spectator. Still too late.

I hate how he always gives his life away so easily for her…

He no longer judged your anger. He revered it. Your love remained unyielding, even when it broke you. He felt it now, in every memory, every glance, every lifetime you gave him without question. He remembered the way you mourned him, how you cradled his body when he fell, whispering words that would never reach his ears. He saw you kneel beside the ruins of his mind after MC’s death, gently holding the pieces of the man he used to be. You never turned away. Never gave up. Even when he was long gone. You bore every version of him with quiet strength, loving him even as he faded into someone unrecognizable.

Then something shifted. The fog blurred, bent, and he saw something new.

His past self stood at the edge of fate with MC, and his past self stood at the edge of fate with MC, and this time, they survived. No tragedy. No sacrifice. They lived. A miracle, on paper. A version of the story that should have brought him peace.

But it felt wrong.

He froze in shock. This had never happened before, and yet, instead of relief, a sickening hollowness spread through his chest. This was the ending you had fought for, the one you gave your life to create. And now that it was real, it felt incomplete. Off-kilter. Tainted.

He stepped closer, heart pounding in confusion, dread curling tightly in his gut like a storm gathering behind his ribs.

And then he noticed, you weren't there with them.

Most of all, I hate that I was never enough for him to love instead. But yet… in the end, he and I were no different.

The line echoed in his mind, twisting everything he thought he knew. She had given him everything, her loyalty, her sacrifices, her soul, and he had realized it only when it was far too late. The finality of what she had done settled like ash in his lungs.

His legs moved before he could think. He sprinted into the fog, wild with dread, heart pounding like war drums in his chest. He had to find her. He had to bring her back. Even if it was only her memory he could hold onto.

Panic gripped him. The dream distorted. He searched wildly.

Where were you?

And then it hit him. You had rewritten the ending.

You had traded your life for theirs.

He ran through the fog, his pulse thundering in his ears. The world shook around him. From somewhere deep within the haze, distant yet vivid, he either saw or heard the remnants of each sacrifice you had made:

A towering structure on the frozen mountainside collapsed in the distance, its foundations giving way as ancient stones tumbled violently down snowy cliffs.

A dragon’s final, mournful roar rose from a burning battlefield, its echo cutting through smoke and flame like a last, defiant hymn before silence claimed it.

A violent storm raged at sea. Fierce waves crashed relentlessly while powerful undercurrents swept everything into the churning depths below.

The explosive resonance of a planet collapsing in on itself. Tectonic plates ground and skies tore apart as molten fire engulfed the surface in a final, cataclysmic breath.

The rupture of the atmosphere as space debris re-entered, glowing like meteors as molten metal streaked across the dark sky.

The fog tore open one final time, and this time, he could move. And as it did, the reverberations of what he’d just witnessed didn’t fade; they tore through him with renewed force. He stumbled forward, but every step was weighted with the unbearable truth. The images, the sounds, the echoes of your sacrifices had not just been memories. They were revelations.

He realised, truly realised, what you had done. How far had you gone. How utterly you had given yourself to him, over and over again. Your life, your joy, your light, all extinguished just so he could live. Just so he could love someone else.

It gutted him.

The sound of the collapsing tower, the roar from a battlefield, the crashing storm and the shattering skies, he felt them not just in his ears but in his bones. They were the sound of you breaking. And he had never heard them until now.

He pressed forward, grief rising like bile in his throat, because now he knew: this wasn’t just about love lost.

It was about the life you lost every time he failed to see you.

He found you.

Your body was still. Lifeless. Cold.

He fell to the ground as his knees gave way. With trembling arms, he reached for you, bringing you into his embrace, cradling you, the unbearable silence closing in like a vice around his chest. The world faded into grey around you; there was nothing but your stillness and the weight of what he'd never said. His fingers trembled against your skin, desperate to feel a flicker of warmth, some cruel miracle that you might return.

Your body was limp, heavy in his arms, and in that moment, the truth struck with such force it shattered him completely. This was real. You were truly gone. Not a dream. Not another memory. Gone.

His chest caved inward. His breath hitched on a sob that tore from somewhere deeper than his lungs, something primal, something soul-bound. Grief clawed up his throat and spilt from his lips as he buried his face against yours, whispering your name like it could somehow hold you together.

He wept.

Not just because he had lost you.

But because he had never truly seen you until now.

In his mind, your deaths replayed, not as passing memories, but as haunting, visceral impressions tied to the lifeless body in his arms.

Each recollection now struck with brutal finality, because he had found your corpse. Broken, cold, and irrevocably still. Your face, once filled with warmth and silent pleas, was now empty. Your form bore the quiet evidence of every sacrifice etched into your flesh. The brambles, the scorch marks, the fractured limbs, each one a cruel testament to the pain you bore alone. You had died so many times for him, but this death was the one he had to hold.

This was the one he would never recover from.

Your body, encased in ice, shattered beneath the collapsed tower but held together by brambles that pierced into your frozen form. Your lifeless eyes were open, gold blood weeping from your now right cloudy eye.

Your scaled body, lifelessly washed ashore, face down, a gaping void where your heart had once beat, the sea weeping as you slowly became sea-foam.

Your floating silhouette, parts of your body slowly becoming stardust among meteor trails in the void of space.

Your bloodied draconic form that was found in the ruins, flowers blooming from your open wounds and bones, especially where your heart once beat.

Your cybernetic frame burned and fragmented into irrecoverable pieces scattered across the planet’s crust, only your body's upper half was partially intact, after using your final energy to create a forcefield to protect him and his former beloved.

The very memory stabbed through him.

You had always chosen him.

And once again, he had arrived too late.

In the end, he and I were no different. We're both willing to risk our lives to be with the love of our lives, even if the moments together were short and fleeting.

Those words destroyed him.

He watched you in memory, standing proud and quiet, offering your soul to save him. You asked for nothing. Didn’t even look back. And now those words. In the end, he and I were no different…cut through the illusion that separated you. He had thought you were on opposite ends of fate, but in truth, you were mirrors. Both of you willing to throw yourselves into ruin for the ones you loved. Both of you willing to endure, even if it meant fading away.

It was never just grief in your eyes; it had been recognition. Of yourself in him. Of the same doomed ache to protect, even when it hurt.

And now, knowing that, he broke. Because you had always known this truth. And he had only just begun to understand it.

"Please… don’t leave me," he whispered.

But the fog swallowed his cry.

He clutched you tighter, desperate to preserve some part of you. But the truth was undeniable: you were gone. And he had only just begun to understand how deeply he had loved you.

Maybe there won't be another next time… maybe there really won't ever be a chance for me to love him so openly, as his and MC's love was already set in stone, and I was just destined to fade into the cold, lifeless void like always.

The final words cut him open, clean through to where he had once convinced himself he had no room left for regret.

He wept once more, not just in sorrow, but in devastation, because you had known all along. You had never believed there would be another chance. You had always understood that your story was one-sided, destined to vanish in the margins of someone else’s love story. And yet you had stayed quiet, unwavering, giving all of yourself to someone who never once turned around.

His love had bloomed too late. His obsession, once silent, now screamed like a trapped animal inside his chest. Across countless lives, you had waited, fully aware you may never be seen, and still, you had loved him anyway.

Now, only his voice remained, fragile and frayed, whispered into the dark like a confession carved from regret:

"I see you now… I finally see you. I'm sorry it took this long. I'm sorry, I never looked back. I'm sorry you had to disappear for me to remember you were ever there at all."

His words trembled in the silence, too late to reach your ears, too real to deny. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath catching as if trying to share with you the warmth he should have offered long ago.

"I should've loved you. I should've known. You were always there. Always…"

But even that echo of his voice was fading.

The fog, once alive with memory, began to dissolve. Your presence, so vivid just moments ago, started to unravel like threads caught in the wind. He clung to your last words, terrified to forget even a syllable. Yet beneath them, he sensed a terrible silence pressing inward.

Something was missing. Something you had taken with you, something final.

A name never spoken. A truth never voiced.

And as the world darkened around him, he realised that even in death, you had protected him from one last unbearable revelation:

That soon, not even your memory would remain.

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cherry-fields-lover · 2 days ago

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Entertainer/idol/actress isekai’d non-mc pt. 2 (poly route)

Since non-mc is hyperfeminine, imagine that the most spoiled in the game is actually mc. She gets every outfit, whether paid or not. She has the most pictures in snapshots and glint photobooth, and even her solo poses are complete.

The Li’s are treated equally by non-mc and she loves all of them but mc? Her outfits and accessories are priority, non-mc would get mc’s first before any of the Li’s and it translates to her actions when she got isekai’d. She pampers mc. Non-mc loves to buy her make up and matching accessories.

Non-mc’s first paycheck in the LADS universe? She bought a very famous skin care that is recommended when you are always in the battlefield (“mc you still need to look beautiful while slaying!! That’s mercy for the wanderers to see your pretty face before their demise.”) She plays dress up with her always and will make sure that she is available to listen to mc’s troubles.

Mc LOVES this and she gloats on it to the guys. She always has this smug face when she asks for non-mc’s presence and not even the combined forces of the five guys can stop non-mc to go to mc. Maybe that’s why the guys can’t also help but fall so much deeper for the two.

I mean, who could resist two empowered and very beautiful women? The guys would have a very hard time understanding that yes they do love mc but they also feel very deeply for non-mc, they can’t help but be drawn towards the two of them.

All while this chaos of emotions is happening, they solved the problem by directly asking mc, and what a very simple solution she had proposed.

“Then shouldn’t we just all date each other then? I really don’t mind if non-mc is part of it, I love her too.”

Her love is too big that it can include others too, bless her heart. Mc wouldn’t mind sharing the guys to non-mc. It even looks like they would have a harder time to get non-mc with mc around. Both girls are attached to the hip.

The problem though? Easing non-mc to the thought that all of them are ok with her being part of their dynamics. Non-mc is the type to truly wish for the best for mc and that includes her relationship with the guys. She will never cross mc’s boundaries and wish for a romantic relationship when it means that it can potentially hurt mc.

Will she feel jealous? Yes, but she will also always support women first before any men so she will prioritize mc.

Cue funny misunderstandings brought by failed plans and unsuccessful talks. Mc is just here to enjoy the show with her guys and non-mc, all while non-mc is confused but still goes along with what’s happening. The people who just really suffer at this point will be the guys.

Pt.1 (og idea)

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cherry-fields-lover · 2 days ago

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PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

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cherry-fields-lover · 2 days ago

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Zayne x CrushingNurse!Reader | Part Five

Where has your smile gone? ANGST PT.2

Part One • Part Two • Part Three • Part Four

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

I | Zayne drops his voice a little lower than necessary while standing beside you knowing it will usually make you nervous, murmuring, “You’ve stopped stuttering. I almost miss it.” Your heart skips a beat but you keep your face neutral, “I practiced.”, you reply before walking away.

II | Zayne purposely asks you to help with something simple, things he could easily do himself. He knew it made you nervous, he could always feel the ice around his heart melt everytime he saw your hands shake as you tried to help. What he loved even more was teasing you about it. “Hands shaking today?” he asks lightly- carefully. You don’t even smile. “Not at all." He frowns.

III | “Your notes are unusually thorough, much more than usual. Am I making you nervous again?”

“No.”

He pauses. He pauses in that way that would always make you squirm, eye darting everywhere but his way, fingers twisting in the cloth of your scrubs.Now, you don’t even blush.

IV | During rounds, he lingers at your side a beat too long- long enough that you’d normally turn tomato-red and trip over your words. Now, you just shift away and keep taking notes. He stares at you. Silent.

V | You haven't brought him coffee today, nor did you yesterday - or the day before that actually. A routine you had been stuck to for months, suddenly halted. Zayne tried to recall the few days before you started acting so distant, had he done something? Said something? Where has your smile gone? Zayne thought, just as he saw you walk past his office- cup of coffee in hand.

VI | He bumps your shoulder very lightly while reaching for a chart. “Careful,” he says dryly, “wouldn't want our nurse to fall and get hurt." You reply, “There are things that cause a lot more pain than just a fall." He stops mid-motion, like what?

VII | He starts standing closer when reviewing reports with you—close enough that your elbow brushes his. You used to flinch. Now you don’t even react. You shift your chair away and don't even look his way.

VIII | “Nurse." Zayne calls out one day, "Could I speak to you for a moment?" You hesitated for a moment before taking a step forward before halting again at the faint sound of giggles. "I'm busy, Doctor." “Yeah." Zayne mutters, eyes locked on you, "You seem to be a lot these days.” You could barely keep your bottom lip from trembling, responding with a simple, "Yeah." before you walked away.

IX | Zayne starts correcting your minor errors in a purposely sharp voice, just enough to gurantuee a reaction from you - at least it used to. You only say, “Thanks for pointing it out." and fix it. It feels too calm. Too clinical. Nothing like his nurse.

X | He tries to joke during a lull between patients: “Still not a slightest hint of a smile. Should I be worried?” You just reply, “Probably not,” without even looking up. Zayne’s smile falters just slightly.

XI | He casually mentions, “You haven’t tripped over the IV cart all week.” You respond, “I learned how to walk.” There’s no laughter in your voice. It doesn’t sit right with him at all.

XII | He walks up behind you while you’re writing and says your name. A few weeks ago that would’ve made you jump and stammer. Now, you turn slowly, blink, and wait.

“…Yes, Doctor?”

It irritates him- if only you knew how much.

XV | He's done, he can't take it anymore. He corners you one day, just as you're about to leavs, quietly and not so casually this time, “Did I… do something?”

You give him a polite smile. “Of course not.”

"Then why? Why have you been acting like this? Who hurt you?" He fires one question after another.

You feel the tears pool in your eyes but you don't say a word. Not one. You just push those tears back and smile sadly, breaking the doctor's heart into a millions of pieces and walk past him and out of the door.

This is a bit of a filler part but it is needed to fill the gap between the last part and the next one ( a lot of drama will go down )

Taglist : @sylusgirlie7 @jeonjenny @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @draftbeerbibi @weebinator01 @satorustorm @asilaydead @ninaandtuna @gremlinartstudio @keyiswatching @dreamlesssleepsaga @eurynam @amerti @neobitch127 @m30wk1ttycat @yuurisfavblog @dysphxriaii @zainaaryam @floofycookie @beesin03 @thatpersonnamedrook @chiikasevennn @ollie-the-fae @dramaticalsachan @babylilxc @minsified @destinysrequiem @xsammijoanneex @hirostrvw @pepperushia @starllight613 @seris-the-amious @moonlight-inthe-sea @luvvhue @gojosballsack69

If I have missed anyone, please let me know! I'll make sure to add you for the next parts♡

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cherry-fields-lover · 2 days ago

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Luka: What's the first thing you notice when a man approaches you?

Reader, who very clearly is interested in Luka: The audacity!

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cherry-fields-lover · 7 days ago

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That’s My Shirt (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Warnings: some kinda heated kissing? Requested: Yes! Lovely anon asked ‘can we get a more *blushes* heated drabble with Newt?…he is so sweet and pure I’ve always wondered if he would even consider *blush intensifies* making out or something like that’ Here ya go! I hope it’s okay x Pairing: Newt Scamander x Reader Summary: A short drabble about Newt getting a little riled up when he sees you wearing his shirt. A/N: This was a request and I hope you guys like it! In my mind Newt is shy and sweet of course but I also imagine he can get worked up sometimes when the reader drives him mad. And he trusts the reader not to ridicule him so that means he’s fairly confident when he’s comfortable himself. Words: 1,575

“Newt, honey”, you called, rushing through the apartment to where your boyfriend was emerging from his case after feeding the creatures. “Sorry I can’t have breakfast with you I forgot about morning stocktake and I’m already late”, you gushed out, pecking him on the lips quickly before you took off towards the door.

“Have a good day!”, you called out with one last smile over your shoulder before you slammed the door shut behind you, promptly disappearing out of his sight and leaving Newt to stand in the hallway completely dumbfounded.

Newt blinked to himself because he could have sworn you were wearing his shirt. It only caught his eye because it was absolutely swimming on you but he couldn’t be completely certain because of the way you had the shirt tucked into your skirt, cinching it in at the waist.

He remembered that it certainly wouldn’t be the first time you had worn his clothing. You had nicked several of his jumpers during your days at Hogwarts, and you had occasionally pinched one of his scarves over the years and that had always made his heart flutter pleasantly. But this would be the first time since you had officially began dating and Newt felt a simmering heat in his stomach at the prospect.

Keep reading

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cherry-fields-lover · 7 days ago

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A Million Little Battles That I’m Never Gonna Win (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Warnings: minor violence, mentions of bullying, mentions of anxiety, and a pretty trash toxic masculine antagonist Requested: YES! My first ever request. Lovely anon asked: ‘could you write a fic set in hogwarts where newt and the reader has some sort of a huge argument from a misunderstanding, leading to him ignoring or snapping the reader while she (desperately) tries to explain? just a little angst with a happy ending “ Here ya go anon! I hope you like it. Pairing: Newt Scamander x Reader Summary: Newt overhears another student ask you to the Yule Ball after you’ve already agreed to go with him. ANGST and lots of fluff to make up for it. Featuring angsty/hurt!Newt , protective!reader , mild mentions of anxiety and includes little Scamander babies! I’ll try and link my angsty song inspo too if anyone cares. A/N: Thank you so much for the request anon! I wasn’t expecting to have this done so fast but I really enjoyed writing it. Sorry if I went a little overboard with the angst. Please send me more requests. Hope you enjoy x

Words: 6,131

It was a slow and sunny morning in the Scamander household. Y/N was preparing breakfast while Newt was attempting to help, occasionally flipping the pancakes or stirring the odd pot. Though for the most part he was just taking the opportunity to cuddle his wife from behind.

She moved away from him to lay the food on the dining table, but Newt was close behind her, finally noticing the presence of his children at the table. How long had you two been sitting there?

“Mum, did you go to the Yule ball?”, your daughter called out when she saw the two of you had finally remembered that you weren’t alone in the kitchen. Her older brother was sat across from her at the table, turning to look at both of his parents expectantly. Usually he would make a fuss of being disgusted by his parents’ public displays of affection but even he was curious when he saw the way your eyes lit up in response.

“Oh yes! I think I know where the photos are stashed away”, you said excitedly, disappearing into the next room for a few moments and reappearing with a small pile of photos that you handed to your daughter. You smiled and ruffled your sons curls when he moved closer to look at the photos too.

“Wait, you went together?”

“You two were already together back then?”

“Mum, you look so beautiful!”

“WHAT happened to your hand?”

Your kids asked in rapid succession and you could only blink in response as Newt chuckled “she punched someone that’s what happened”, he said, only laughing harder at the incredulous looks your kids both shot you then.

“He DESERVED it!”, you huffed, folding your arms when your children continued to stare at you wanting answers. “It’s a miracle that dance ever happened. Your father can be incredibly stubborn, did you know that?”, you nodded at the photo of Newt spinning you around the great hall, standing behind where your now husband was sat at the table and looping your arms around his shoulders.

“I can’t believe you actually had the gall to ask Mum to go with you, Dad”, your son jested teasingly to which Newt rolled his eyes, laying his hands over the top of yours.

“I didn’t. She asked me first.”

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

Newt had a smile plastered on his face as he wandered through the corridors of Hogwarts in search of you since you’d left your textbooks behind at lunch again. He couldn’t help but smile fondly as he set out to make sure you got them back in time for your next class. He’d had a perpetual smile plastered on his face all week really since he’d finally garnered the courage to ask you to go to the Yule Ball with him and you’d said yes without a moment’s hesitation.

In truth the ball hadn’t even crossed his mind until you’d asked him to go with you the week prior and Newt had laughed in response, stating it really wasn’t his scene and that he’d rather let one of his mother’s Hippogriffs peck his eyes out. You had nodded in response and tried to laugh it off, but Newt had known immediately that he’d hurt your feelings and he instantly regretted his words. He knew he had to make it up to you.

So he set about, gathering you all of your favourite sweets from Hogsmead and your favourite flowers before he’d asked you to the ball himself, making a show of wooing you like he felt you deserved and he was relieved beyond measure when you agreed.

So yeah, he hadn’t stopped smiling since. That was until he heard the unmistakable voice of one Derick Drysdale, the tall and buff Gryffindor beater in the year above that had made it his life mission to torture Newt at any chance he got. Newt spun around on his heel to head the other way, freezing when he heard your voice.

“Oh h-hi Derick,”, you stuttered slightly when the boy in question stalked over to you, standing over you with his huge frame completely overshadowing you.

You despised Derick and you’d made the mistake of standing up to him once before which had only resulted in Newt copping a particularly nasty beating from him, so you’d resolved to keep your mouth shut rather than provoke him in future.

“Hi there, little lady”, Derick murmured lowly, in what was meant to be a seductive tone but came across as more threatening in your ears “I was wondering if you would go to the ball with me?” Though the way he said it barely sounded like a question, more a demand.

Newt’s interest was suddenly spiked, and he peeked around the corner curiously at the chance to see his high school bully rejected in some sort of poetic justice, expecting to see you turn Derick down. But Newt only frowned when all he could see was the boys hulking frame, with you backed against the wall of the corridor.

Newt waited to hear you tell Derick no, but you were frozen in place, imagining the torrent of abuse Derick would hurl at Newt if you told him the truth.

Derick raised his eyebrows at you and tutted his tongue impatiently when you were just gaping at him stupidly “what, did somebody already ask you?”, he asked, his voice rising slightly with a clear edge to it. Most of the other girls would be swooning over him right now.

“No!”, you barked out quickly with wide eyes, panicking as you recalled every taunt and every shoulder barge Newt had been on the receiving end of. “Nobody’s asked me yet. Nobody at all.”

Keep reading

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cherry-fields-lover · 7 days ago

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ᡣ𐭩 zayne | scrubs ᡣ𐭩

cw: vaginal fingering, p in v, finger sucking

zayne has an inkling that you have some sort of obsession with his scrubs.

he doesn’t exactly know why, but there’s been too many instances of you ogling him in his scrubs for him to pass as simple coincidences. the first time, he’d just finished up in surgery, the complications making it run longer than most, his body weighed down by exhaustion that he’d simply decided to return to his office, without changing. he hadn’t expected to find waiting for him was you, a cute, little bento box clutched in your hands, wrapped up in a snow-patterned cloth.

he’d been thankful, he always is, what kind of boyfriend would he be otherwise?

but you hadn’t smiled at him that night, instead stared at him blankly with wide eyes and parted lips. he’d tried talking to you, but it was as though your mind was preoccupied, your gaze solely fixated on his scrubs, every flex of his lithe fingers as he’d undone the knot of the cloth. zayne thinks he might’ve heard your breath catch when he sat down in his chair, his thighs spreading slightly to get comfortable, scrubs pulling over his thighs a little.

you’d excused yourself with a flustered air, not without kissing him, however, the movement of your lips a little too desperate for him to consider normal, the scrape of your teeth against his lips enough to have him readjusting his half-hard cock in the privacy of his office.

the next few times it happens, zayne can’t help but be intrigued.

you’re handsy, the desire in your eyes barely concealed, the press of your thighs hard to miss when he spins a pen between his fingers, pretending to think. but it’s not his scrubs only, his glasses seem to have some hold over you too.

like when his glasses slide too low on the slope of his nose and he pushes them up, zayne can spy the way you bite your lip, your hand curling into a fist on your lap. he wishes you’d just act on your urges, but all he gets are eager, little kisses, your hands drifting over his chest for a moment before you pull back with a sweet smile and a kiss to his cheek and say you’ll be waiting for him at home.

he can’t have that. when grayson mentions next month’s observational surgery for medical interns, zayne knows exactly what to do.

one call later to akso hospital’s chief of surgery, with the promise of attending whatever upcoming medical conference is next, he’s managed to get you a front row seat.

zayne hopes it’s enough to make you finally snap.

you don’t know how you’ve managed to find yourself here.

you thought observing surgeries was strictly for residents and interns, but apparently the invitation extends to doting girlfriends too. to your mortification, you think zayne might be catching onto your blatant, although extremely appreciative, ogling of him in his scrubs. which is why you’re sitting here now, perched on a metal bench, watching as your boyfriend’s gloves slip on, a mask covering the lower half of face.

aortic aneurysm, grayson had mentioned.

any longer and you may as well have had an aneurysm yourself.

you can hardly sit still, teeth sinking into your lower lip as zayne’s low, commanding voice comes through the speaker, narrating the surgery with precision. you shouldn’t be feeling this way, thighs pressing together under your skirt as you listen to his voice, watching the way he works, completely in his element with such professionalism that has you feeling hot and entirely too bothered.

which is probably why you’re pawing at his broad shoulders and pulling him down with a rough tug, lips pressing against his in a feverish kiss the moment he’s out of the operating theatre.

“sorry,” you whisper against his lips, “you just- you look really good, zayne. really, really handsome and if you don’t fuck me right now, i think i might die.”

zayne huffs out a laugh, his arms wrapping around your waist tightly, kissing the corner of your mouth affectionately.

“yeah, sweetheart? i suppose it would be against my oath to neglect someone so direly in need.”

you nod rapidly, pulling him down for another searing kiss, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the soft strands. zayne smiles against your lips, guiding you towards his desk, your lower back hitting it as he boxes you in against it, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

a soft moan leaves you when he squeezes at your ass, groping at the fat, his breath hot against you as his other hand slips under your skirt, rubbing up against your embarrassingly drenched panties.

“you’re this wet?” zayne asks hoarsely, groaning when he pulls your panties to the side and feels your slick sticking to his fingers stubbornly as he rubs the pads of his fingers against your slippery, puffy folds. “just from watching me perform a surgery?”

“surgery, scrubs,” you mutter absentmindedly, half-lidded and drunken gaze dragging over the length of his arm, pussy clenching at the visible flex of his bicep and the muscles in his forearms, the sinewy skin littered with scars nearly enough to make you cum right and then there. “i think i’m just always wet around you, zayne.”

his smile against your cheek makes your heart flutter, an airy, contented sigh leaving you as he sinks two fingers inside of you, curling them with practised ease.

“it is flattering,” he whispers, pecking your lips gently, his hand pulling your sweater up until your bra is exposed, fingers unclasping your bra quickly. zayne sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, his jaw clenching. “fuck- you’re beautiful, love.”

“thank- ah- thank you.”

you flush under his gaze, head tipping back as he thrusts his fingers into your clenching cunt, the low, hoarse groans he lets out into your ear making you curl your hands into his scrubs, pulling him impossibly closer. the praise he gives you makes everything spin around you, swirling and melding into nothing until all you can hear are his soft whispers.

“good girl… taking my fingers so well, yeah? pretty, pretty fucking baby… all mine… you sound so pretty, sweetheart… i love you…”

you can barely handle it all, mouth opening for his fingers when he slides them inside, sucking dazedly, hips rocking down against his hand, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, gasping when he curls them further and presses his thumb against your swollen, aching clit. when his mouth latches onto your breast, kissing and sucking, tongue flicking at your nipple before he bites down with measured restraint, you know you’re done.

he groans when you pull at his hair, muffling your sounds with a sloppy kiss. zayne’s arm wraps around your waist to hold you up when he feels you shake, licking into your mouth with such fervor that has you whining and whimpering until he pulls back to shush you.

“what- what are you doing?” you ask, voice slurring, shaking your head in a panicked gesture when he tries to pull his scrub top over his head, “don’t do that. the scrubs and glasses stay on.”

“you’re serious,” zayne muses when you stop him again, his fingers lacing with yours. “so, i was right.”

“mhm,” you smile up at him, tongue licking over his lower lip playfully.

he smiles lazily, pushing his glasses to sit higher on the slope of his nose, sitting in his chair, his thighs spreading invitingly, the fabric tight around the hardened bulge that makes your pussy throb.

“c’mere, sweetheart.”

as if you needed an invitation. you’re pulling your skirt and panties off, clambering up onto his lap, his chair creaking as you kiss him, hand slipping between your bodies to free his hard, thick cock that’s smeared with milky beads of pre-cum.

there’s a collective sound of relief leaving both of you when you sink down on his warm length, his hands grasping your waist as you rock your hips down, whining softly into his mouth.

you lean back, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that has zayne’s eyes fluttering shut, his head tipping back to rest against the back of his chair. the bob of his adam’s apple has you growing wetter, pussy fluttering around his fat cock, zayne’s hand roughly squeezing at your ass.

“that’s it,” he breathes out, hooking his thumb against your teeth to pull you closer, lips pressing against yours. “ride my cock, love. take what you want.”

his collarbone is exposed, peeking through the v of his scrubs, your hands guiding his hand to your throat, whimpering when he squeezes your neck gently. his fingers are pushing back into your mouth before long, the same fingers that were moving so precisely only hours ago; saving someone’s life.

you let your tongue lave between his fingers, head bobbing as you ride his cock, fingers pushing at his scrub top, walls clenching around his cock when zayne bites the hem, holding it between his teeth. he looks good like this, almost as fucked out as you are, a hazy smile spreading across your face as you lean forward, breasts squishing up against his warm chest while you work your hips, bouncing on his cock, your hard nipples brushing against his pecs.

“i love you,” you mumble, voice shy and airy and cheeks flushed, despite the fact that his cock was currently stuffing you full.

“i know,” zayne whispers, hand pressing against your back to keep you flush against him as he picks you up, laying you down on his desk. “i love you too, sweetheart.”

which is why he fucks you like he means it, because he does, guiding your ankles to lock around his back as he leans over you, pounding his cock into your cunt, forcing your pussy to stretch around his thick cock, his hand cradling the back of your head so it doesn’t bang against the desk.

his glasses slip off with a clatter, but neither of you can find it in yourselves to care, too consumed by pleasure and lust, your teeth sinking into his shoulder when he grinds his hips into you, cock buried so deeply inside of you that your thighs are twitching, eyes squeezed shut.

“zayne,” you gasp, “zayne, i- i can’t-”

“gonna cum?” zayne asks, his voice hoarse and trembling from the pleasure, “please, sweetheart? cum on my cock, wanna see you look all pretty and undone, my love.”

the brush of his thumb against your clit is all it takes to send you over the edge, that and the way he drives his cock into you, in one measured, deep thrust that you’re almost sure you can feel his cock in your throat.

“c’mon,” he rasps into your ear, the lewd words accompanied by the sweetest, gentlest kiss to your cheek in encouragement, “c’mon sweetheart, cream my fuckin’ cock.”

you’re crying out, back arching, fingers scrabbling for purchase, wrapping around him, gripping the fabric of his scrubs desperately, your squeal muffled by zayne’s mouth slotting over yours, the heels of your feet pressing against him, trying to keep him stuffed inside of you.

“fuck-” zayne groans, “oh fuck- sweetheart, take it, take my cum.”

he thrusts into you unevenly, grunting as he cums, his body falling over yours, hot cum flooding your pussy as his cock throbs and jerks inside of you. a contented sigh escapes you as you lay limp on his desk, nails scratching at his scalp gently, fingers running through his hair soon after.

zayne smiles at you when he props himself up, his lips brushing across your jaw fleetingly.

“maybe you should exclusively wear scrubs from now on,” you suggest, brushing his damp hair out of his eyes, pecking his lips.

“you’d never let me leave the house,” he whispers against your lips, amusement lacing his words.

“how could i?” you pout, your nose nuzzling against his, “not when you look this good.”

zayne lets out a low laugh, helping you sit up, cleaning you up with a few tissues before he does the same, helping you with your clothes after, his hands smoothing over your ruffled skirt.

you yawn contentedly, pressing yourself against him, rising up onto the tips of your toes to kiss him again, mewling softly when he pets his hands along your waist and hips.

“you did really good today,” you offer when he drags you onto his lap, curling up against his chest. “the surgery, i mean, i don’t know a whole lot about hearts and aortas, but i think you did great, zayne.”

“you don’t know a lot about hearts?” he muses, tipping your chin up with his finger, “that doesn’t sound right.”

“what?” you ask confusedly, brows furrowing as he kisses your forehead. “what do you mean?”

“how could you not?” zayne whispers, his gaze soft and riddled with overwhelmingly love and affection. “how could you not when you’ve completely captured my heart and soul?”

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cherry-fields-lover · 7 days ago

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I’m Gonna Keep You In Love with Me for a While (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Warnings: none

Pairing: Newt Scamander x Reader Summary: This is a 5 + 1 imagine of shy and nervous Newt trying to propose to the reader and backing out last minute every time until the reader has finally had enough and takes matters into her own hands. Mostly tooth-rotting fluff with some slightly angsty flashbacks and some blink-and-you-miss-it sibling rivalry.

A/N: This is my first time writing in years and years and my first time writing Newt. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know what you think and send me any requests! <3 Title: Dark Side of the Gym - The National (will honest to god be my first dance song if I ever get married) Words: 10,673

The first time it happened, you knew something was up the second you saw the look of pure excitement Queenie shot Newt for the briefest moment when he finally emerged from his case. You had been talking with Queenie and Tina about your respective working days as you waited for Newt to go on your dinner date. You couldn’t miss the sparkle in her eyes as she looked at the man and you managed to sneak a glance at him and noticed his jaw clench in response, eyeing the Legillimens with an expression that you knew as his ‘please stop’ face.

You blinked to yourself, your eyebrows furrowing for a moment as you wondered what on earth Queenie had heard in your boyfriend’s mind and why she was so excited but you were quickly shaken out of your musings when Newt was gently pulling your hand into his own and pressing a kiss to your temple “come on, love. Don’t want to be late for our reservation,” he murmured softly into your ear, taking your hand and leading you out of the Goldstein apartment.

You didn’t miss the gasp from Tina as her sister had obviously filled her in on her discovery and you definitely didn’t miss the way Newt’s shoulders tensed up in response. He squeezed your hand tighter in his own, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand, which you knew to be one of his nervous habits. “Newt, are you okay my love?’ you asked gently, sliding your other hand up his arm as you peered up at him in concern.

Newt seemed to relax at your touch again and he nodded, pressing another kiss to your hairline as he muttered some excuse. You noticed during the walk to the restaurant that he had his other hand buried deep in his trouser pocket the entire time, which struck you as odd since he usually liked to have his hands free as he gestured excitedly and told you about his creatures. In fact, he’d been rather quiet since he’d gotten back to the apartment that afternoon.

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cherry-fields-lover · 8 days ago

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Mornings (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Warnings: none Requested: Yes lovely @cyborgfromthesupermarket asked for mornings with Newt and what waking up with him would be like <3 Pairing: Newt Scamander x Reader Summary: Short super fluffy drabble about a few of the many different trypes mornings you share with Newt A/N: I’m tired but bone app the teeth. I hope you like it! I’m such a hoe for fluff

Words: 2,456

Taglist: @moonkissk7

Mornings were probably one of your favourite times to spend with Newt because you never knew what to expect. He was a creature of habit throughout the rest of the day, going down to feed his creatures at 9am sharp, taking observations at 10am, coming back up for lunch at 11.30am and so on. So mornings were always your free time together where you got to take your time, just the two of you before the usual hustle and bustle of the day set in.

* * * * *

More often than not you would wake to find Newt already awake beside you, gazing at you lovingly and smiling bashfully at you when he would realise he’d been caught.

“No I’m not waking her up, you’re just going to have to wait”

You stirred slightly, just making out the sound of Newt hissing under his breath, presumably to Pickett. You kept your eyes closed as you listened to Pickett chirp back in rebuttal and you couldn’t help but smile fondly, wondering how long the pair had been bickering.

“Because she deserves her rest…and she just looks so…so lovely when she’s sleeping”, you heard Newt whisper from beside you and you laughed softly as you blinked your eyes open, feeling your cheeks warm when you saw your boyfriend propped up on one elbow, looking at you in adoration.

“Are you implying I don’t look lovely when I’m awake, Newton?” you said teasingly as you stretched your arms out over your head, smiling more when Newt immediately started to sputter in response “no! I mean yes- wait no. I mean you’re lovely all the time. You’re lovely, and beautiful and I-“, he trailed off when he saw the amusement on your face, scowling at you a moment later “oh you’re a cruel cruel woman.”

He huffed as he leapt at you, pinning you down onto the bed and smirking down at you when you let out a gasp in response, your legs coming up to frame his hips “who’s the flustered one now?” he chuckled before he leant down and captured your lips in a lazy but sensual kiss, one of his hands trailing down your side slowly before coming to rest on your hip.

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cherry-fields-lover · 8 days ago

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Zaddy Zayne ❄️🩵

My man my man my mannnn.

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cherry-fields-lover · 10 days ago

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The Great Cock Revelation.

AKA: The Divine Dicking.

A/N: ..... :) this is one of the best things i've written. NOTE: the image that used to be there was from Leviathan

warnings: smut, reader is unhinged, i wrote this in like... two hours don't judge me okay. pls enjoy. crack fic.

It starts, like all great love stories, with capitalism.

You're high on the fumes of a sales pitch victory, both of you still breathless from verbally suplexing some smug execs into a PowerPoint grave. Nanami had his sleeves rolled up and a vein in his neck doing numbers. You had your killer blazer on and that one shade of lipstick that says I will gut you with kindness and sue your mom after.

And now—now you're kissing him against your apartment door like he’s the last cigarette before a storm.

"Keys," you gasp, fumbling in your bag. Nanami’s mouth is on your neck, and he’s groaning like he’s the one being devoured. You finally get the door open—and almost die tripping over Chairman Meow.

"Jesus Christ—!" "Sorry—!" "Mrrrow." (Translation: "Degenerates. Sluts. Whores.")

Nanami stumbles inside, flustered, apologieses to the cat-fucking bows to Chairman Meow. What a man.

You kick off your heels. He’s already unbuttoning his shirt like he’s on a goddamn calendar shoot and doesn’t even know it.

The door SLAMS behind you two like it owes someone money. Nanami’s tie is already halfway undone—his usually pristine shirt untucked, hair slightly mussed, his jaw still clenched from arguing with that smug bastard in the blue suit at the pitch meeting.

“You were incredible,” you gasp, practically climbing him as he backs into the hallway.

He’s got a hand around your waist, the other fumbling for his keys, voice low and wrecked. “You almost bit that guy’s throat out. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“He interrupted me, Kento. Three times.”

“You called him a ‘corporate barnacle.’”

“I blacked out. You were so hot when you took off your glasses to glare at him. Like—like an angry CEO in a smut fanfic.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Shut up and get naked.”

He does. Oh boy. He does.

Clothes are shed in a trail from the door to the bedroom—somehow his belt ends up slung over the doorknob like a weird congratulatory ribbon. You’re down to your bra and panties by the time he kicks off his slacks, now fully, gloriously nude in the dim bedroom light.

You’re on him again in seconds. It’s messy and chaotic and a little too desperate to be graceful. You kiss like people starved. Your jacket hits the floor. And then it happens.

He steps out of his slacks. And you see it.

You freeze. Actually freeze.

Your bra is still on. Your panties, slightly askew. And yet—you are transfixed.

Nanami, confused, halfway to naked and very much at full-mast, pauses mid-unbuckling. His brows knit together in gentle concern.

"...Did I—?" He looks down at himself. "...Is something wrong?"

You're staring at his dick like it's a riddle sent by the gods. Like the Sphinx herself was like ‘Solve this or perish’ and you’re like ‘no notes, it’s art.’

"Wait," you whisper. Then louder. "Wait."

Nanami straightens up like he’s about to apologize for existing. "If I’ve misread—"

"No, no—" You blink. "Kento."

"Yes?"

"You have the prettiest dick I have ever seen."

A beat.

Another beat.

"...What?" His voice cracks. The most composed man in Japan? Sounds like someone’s nephew trying weed for the first time.

"Sir," you say, voice now absolutely reverent, like you’re kneeling in church. "That is a spectacular cock. I’m talking… museum exhibit. I want to commission an oil painting."

Nanami looks down at his dick like it just betrayed him. "I— It’s just... normal?"

"You’re HUNG." You gesture vaguely. "Like, intimidating but inviting?? Like a gourmet baguette?? And it’s got this, like… curve?? But not aggressive??" You’re approaching it like you’re giving a TED Talk. "And it’s veiny but tasteful. Like an artisanal sausage. It looks like someone designed it in CAD. This is aesthetic porn. You’re like the Apple product of penises.”

He covers his face with one hand.

“I—okay—what does that even mean—”

“Sleek. Sexy. Expensive. Makes me want to take out a second mortgage.”

“...You’re insane,” he mumbles through his hand.

“No. You don’t get it. This is top-tier dick. S-tier. If I had to Yelp review your dick I’d write an essay and get banned for erotic content.”

“…Would you like me to put it away?” he offers helplessly, and you lunge at him like he just suggested burning the Mona Lisa.

“Don’t you DARE. I’m trying to memorize it. I need to be able to describe this in vivid detail to my future ghost.”

“I didn’t know you were this—vocal.”

“I’m usually not! But you just revealed to me the Biology Textbook Gold Standard and I’m spiritually unwell now.”

Nanami sits down on the edge of the bed, dragging a hand down his face while his ears go progressively pinker.

“You’re making me feel like an exhibit.”

“I would pay admission.”

He groans.

“…Are you okay?” he asks again, voice wrecked.

“No. I’m not okay. I’m so turned on I might cry.”

Nanami covers himself with his hand, flustered beyond belief. "I— Are you… mocking me?"

You gasp, scandalized. "Sir. SIR. I would never disrespect this weapon."

He stares at you like he’s buffering. Naked. Hot. Kind of turning red in the ears. And then your panties hit him square in the face.

You fling your bra next. "C’mon, pretty boy."

"Wait—"

"Make me s-cream."

Nanami just stands there, bare-assed, holding your underwear like he’s Hamlet with the skull. For a second. Just a second. And then?

He pounces.

*-*

There’s a moment—like, a literal fraction of time—right before Nanami’s mouth touches your inner thigh where you realize:

You are no longer a civilian. You are at war. And your opponent has a tongue made of pure fuckery and finesse.

You are whore-iffic™, yes. A certified menace to society. And Nanami? Nanami is quickly realizing he has never met this version of you before.

You’re both half-melted, hands all over, kisses searing and ravenous—you’ve already made a complete meal of his collarbone and probably whispered more obscenities in the last ten minutes than your entire life combined.

Nanami’s currently got you on your back, legs parted, and his head buried between your thighs like he's been sent on a goddamn pilgrimage. He’s slurping you down like he’s being graded.

You’re gripping the sheets like they insulted you. Voice wrecked, laughing a little, eyes crossed.

“Fuck—Kento—holy shit, you eat pussy like you’ve got something to prove.”

He groans against you, deep and smug, like a man who knows. One big palm pins your hip down as your legs twitch around his shoulders.

“Do I need to slow down?” he rumbles against your thigh, voice a little hoarse.

“You slow down, I riot.”

You’re a menace. A beautiful, writhing menace.

“God, I love your thighs,” you groan, sprawled out and already halfway to speaking in tongues. “Thick and useful. Like sexy architecture. Structural integrity: ten out of ten.”

Nanami doesn’t even respond. He just presses a kiss to the meat of your thigh like you’re some ancient deity he’s preparing a blood sacrifice for. His hands are huge and firm, spreading you open with reverence and intent.

You’re basically already vibrating when his tongue finally hits your clit, and the first thing out of your mouth is:

“Oh my fucking God.”

Nanami hums. Literally hums. And your soul exits your body like a power outage.

“Again. Do that again.” Your fingers tangle in his hair like a medieval witch trying to hex him. “Oh my GOD. Oh my GOD, I love your mouth. Do you understand the fucking havoc you’re causing right now?”

He looks up from between your legs—glassy-eyed, lips wet, jaw slick, like an erotic Renaissance painting—and he still has the audacity to look calm.

“You taste good,” he says. Like that’s a normal thing to say while actively devouring someone’s soul via clit stimulation.

“I love you,” you say immediately.

“I know.”

And of course, because you're... well... something to behold, you pant:

"You're built like a Renaissance wet dream. Like if Zeus wore slacks.”

He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, panting slightly.

“You're speaking in tongues,” he says, dazed. “You're delirious.”

“Your titties are beautiful,” you whisper reverently, reaching out and thumbing one of his pecs. “Like, respectfully, your chest is immaculate. Peak architecture. If you ever die I’m selling plaster casts on Etsy.”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or frightened.”

“Be both. Be flattred. Be flenlightened.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re bending me in half like origami, and I’m the menace??”

“Let me stretch you out,” he says suddenly, voice ragged, mouth swollen, pupils blown like he just sniffed a line of you. “You’re soaked, but—fuck, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Oh.

Oh, okay.

You don't blush—you detonate.

He’s gentle, of course. One finger, then two. Talking you through it, whispering praises, kissing your knees, your stomach, your mouth. The whole thing feels almost sacred—except for the part where you keep begging like a little freak.

Ten minutes and three orgasms later, you’re a limp, breathless maniac, and he’s dragging two fingers through your slick pussy like he’s checking the consistency of a fine sauce.

“We're still going to need to stretch you out more, darling,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and patient, like a man about to do carpentry. “You’re tight.”

“You say that like it’s my fault,” you pant.

“You’re small.”

“You’re hung.”

“…I am, yes.”

“Say it.”

Nanami blinks. “Say what?”

“That you have a monster cock and it’s going to ruin me. For science.”

“...I’m not saying that.”

“I will.”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh my GOD your dick is a paranormal entity. They’re gonna have to call in experts when I’m done. I’m gonna have to get baptized again. I’m gonna see colors no one else sees.”

“...I’m going to get the condom.”

He leaves, finally, because someone (read: him) is responsible. And where is the condom, you ask?

In the back pocket of his pants.

And where are his pants?

Why, dear reader—Chairman Meow is sitting on them. Loafed up. Judgey. Fluffy. Full of vibes.

Nanami crouches. “Chairman,” he says gravely. “Please move.”

Chairman Meow blinks. Does not move.

Nanami squints. “I need the condom. For your mother.”

Chairman Meow yawns.

And then—it happens. The ancient ritual. The sacred standoff. Nanami vs. Cat. It’s primal. It’s biblical.

Eventually, Nanami emerges victorious. Slightly scratched, holding the condom packet like a trophy of war.

He returns to the bedroom and there you are, staring at the ceiling, half delirious, mumbling: “He’s bringing it back, I know he is, my brave soldier—My brave warrior… you went to battle for this pussy.”

He leans down. “I always go to battle for this pussy.”

You shriek. He kisses you.

He tosses the condom onto the nightstand. “Your cat challenged me to a duel.”

When he slides in— Let’s be real: it’s like being reformatted. Your whole OS just blue-screens.

It’s not just big—it’s mean. It’s got curve. It’s got grit. It’s got a mission statement. But he’s so gentle—until he’s not. Until you ask for it, beg for it, praise him like you’re high on him (you are) and then?

Then he breaks you apart like bread and eats you like communion.

You make a sound that can only be described as a corrupted angel weeping.

“OH my FUCK,” you gasp. “You’re—holy shit—you’re up in my lungs.”

Nanami groans, slow and controlled, breath caught like he’s physically trying not to unravel. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Because you’re massive, Kento. This is structural intrusion. I’m getting renovated. My cervix has filed a complaint.”

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back. “You’re taking it so well. So good for me.”

Reader, you whimper. You bite his shoulder. A soft, horrible little mlem like a feral animal tasting skin for the first time.

He freezes. “Did you just—bite me?”

“You taste like a wet dream, Kento,” you hiss. “I am OBSESSED with you. I love your titties.”

“…Again? My what??”

“Your chest. Your titties. Let me hold one. You’re so tittylicious.””

You grab it. Cup it lovingly. Like a devoted worshipper touching the sacred relic.

Nanami chokes. “You’re a menace.”

“And your ass?” You slap it. “So firm. Love that for me. Incredible. Firm. Excellent jiggle. I want to write poetry about your ass.”

He raises an eyebrow, nibbles your throat. “…Poetry?”

“Let me sonnet your cake, Kento.” You mumble against his lips after pulling his face up.

“You are insane,” he says, and thrusts hard.

You black out for a second. Reboot. Reincarnate. Moan like a sacrificial lamb.

And still, he’s so fucking patient. So goddamn sweet. Like he's not packing a weapon of mass destruction between his thighs.

*-*

By the end, you’re puddled. Soup. A boneless, twitching, happy little slut pile. Nanami collapses beside you, chest heaving, looking less like a salaryman and more like he just emerged from a goddamn vision quest.

“Everything hurts,” you mumble dreamily. “But in a good way. Like spiritual muscle soreness.”

Nanami just hums, wrapping an arm around you. “I’m glad.”

You roll over, a noodle. A soup. A formerly living person.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing hair out of your face.

“I’m soup,” you mumble. “You made me soup, Kento. Like. Emotionally? Physically? I am jus. Broth.”

“…That’s not a sentence.”

You reach up, boop his nose.

“You have the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen. And the best titties. I’m in love with you and your whole situation.”

He chuckles. Kisses your forehead.

You nuzzle his chest. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Let’s do that again tomorrow.”

“…I might be the one to need to need to stretch this time.”

A/N: this is pure crack. live laugh love or wahtever. also i still have no beta reader so apologies if this has mistakes.

Massterlist.

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