k-slater

[k-slater]

Only in the Dark

⸻

Toby Cavanaugh x Reader (Established Relationship)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Secret relationship, emotional vulnerability, post-trauma intimacy (Toby’s past), intense emotional scenes, passionate but soft makeout, implied intimacy, possessive tension, soft angst, no smut

A/N: Set around Season 1, post “Jenna Thing” fallout. Reader is a friend of the Liars, but not fully in the inner circle. You’re the one person Toby lets see him without his armor. This is slow, intense, and all about love in the shadows —

⸻

He doesn’t trust people.

But he trusts you.

And when the whole town turns its back — you’re the only thing that makes him stay.

⸻

You wait for him in the old shed behind his house.

It’s not romantic. It’s barely even warm. But it’s yours.

Because when the whispers get too loud, when the hallway stares burn through his skin, when even the Liars look at him like a question mark —

You’re the only one who looks at him like a person.

You don’t flinch.

You see him.

And that’s why he lets you in.

You hear the crunch of gravel just before he opens the door. His hoodie’s pulled up, jaw tight, hands buried deep in his pockets like he’s holding the world together with clenched fists.

“Toby,” you breathe, crossing the room.

He doesn’t say anything.

But when you wrap your arms around his waist, he exhales like he hasn’t taken a breath all day.

“Rough one?” you ask gently, face pressed to his chest.

He nods once.

You pull back just enough to look up at him. “What happened?”

He shrugs. “Just people doing what they do best.”

“Which is?”

“Believing what they want,” he says bitterly. “And pretending they know me.”

His eyes flash, hurt rippling beneath his calm.

You reach up, brushing his hair back. “I know you.”

His voice cracks. “You’re the only one who does.”

You kiss him.

Softly. Like a promise. Like a reminder that whatever’s said in town, whatever’s carved into bathroom walls or muttered behind lockers — he is more than that.

He melts into you slowly, arms wrapping around you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. You feel his breath against your cheek. It’s shaky. Like he’s holding something back.

“Toby…” You hesitate. “Talk to me.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then:

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just… waiting to be proven right. Like no matter what I do, people are looking for a reason to say I’m dangerous.”

“You’re not,” you say immediately.

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“You don’t know what you’ve survived.”

That stuns him.

You see it — the flicker in his eyes, the emotion caught in his throat. No one talks to him like this. Not even Spencer. Not even himself.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Not even if the whole town turns against you. I’d still be right here.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” he says hoarsely. “It’s not fair.”

“Love never is.”

He exhales, sharp and broken.

And then he’s kissing you again. Harder this time.

Not desperate. Not angry. Just real.

It’s the way he holds your jaw so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. The way his hands settle on your waist — familiar, reverent. The way he kisses like he’s memorizing it in case it’s the last time.

“I hate hiding this,” he says into your neck. “I hate pretending you’re just another face in the hallway.”

You bury your fingers in his hair. “Then don’t pretend when it’s just us.”

He leans his forehead against yours. “Sometimes I think you’re the only good thing I’ve ever had.”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true.”

You kiss him again — slow, steady, anchoring.

And for a while, that’s all there is.

Just breath and hands and soft moans, tangled bodies on worn-out blankets in a room that doesn’t care what the world thinks.

You’re not careful with each other. But you’re not careless, either.

You’re real.

When you finally settle into his chest, legs tangled, your fingers tracing patterns across his ribs, he says it. Soft. Almost afraid.

“I love you.”

You don’t hesitate.

“I love you more.”

And even though the town still whispers, and Jenna still watches from behind her blinds, and A still sends secrets like bombs in your inbox —

This moment is untouched.

You and Toby.

Just you.

⸻

They said he was poison.

But you know better.

He’s a fire — and you’d rather burn than live without his warmth.

⸻

Reblog if Toby Cavanaugh whispering “you’re the only thing that feels right” would emotionally ruin you 🖤🪵

Requests: Open | Canon-Era Toby Taglist: Send “blue eyes” to be added 💬

[k-slater]

Toby Cavanaugh

Only in the Dark

[k-slater]

Mine

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Jealousy, heated arguments, semi-public makeout session, implied smut (no graphic details), possessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, language, established relationship

Ezra is canon-compliant—charming, reserved, but when it comes to you? Absolutely undone. Enjoy the slow burn turned wildfire.

⸻

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

But that didn’t stop Ezra from losing his mind.

⸻

The dim lights of the faculty mixer flickered over the high shelves of old books and glossy cabinets filled with dusty literary journals. You were used to Ezra in this setting—warm smile, tailored blazer, an old soul disguised as the youngest English teacher in the district. But tonight, he looked different.

He looked pissed.

You caught the tension in his jaw from across the library. A strained smile as your coworker—some new substitute with a too-wide grin and way too much cologne—laughed a little too loudly at something you said.

Ezra’s eyes were on you. Piercing. Watching. Waiting.

You were used to his eyes softening when they landed on you. Not tonight.

Tonight they were molten.

You excused yourself from the conversation with a polite nod and made your way toward him, heels echoing against the hardwood. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even try to pretend.

“Ezra,” you breathed, forcing a smile. “You okay?”

His lips twitched into something resembling a smirk. But not the kind you liked.

“You tell me.”

You raised a brow. “What?”

“Is he funny?” Ezra asked, voice low, clipped. “That guy. Is he really that funny?”

Your heart skipped.

Oh.

So we’re doing this.

You stepped closer, until there was only a breath between you. “He was just being polite.”

Ezra’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Polite? He was practically undressing you with his eyes.”

“He wasn’t.”

“You were smiling,” he accused. “That smile.”

You tilted your head. “What smile?”

He didn’t answer. His jaw flexed again, his breath shallow, and you could practically feel the heat rolling off him. And you knew Ezra—your Ezra—well enough to know this wasn’t about the substitute.

This was about him. About the way his hands shook a little when he saw other people get too close. About the silent war he fought every day between loving you and being terrified of losing you.

“I love you,” you said quietly, and that should’ve been the end of it.

But he shook his head. “You don’t get it. You don’t see what I see.”

Your hand curled into the lapel of his blazer. “Then show me.”

That was all it took.

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you out the side entrance—away from the mixer, away from the crowd. You didn’t protest. You couldn’t. His touch was fire and you were aching to burn.

The door slammed behind you as you stumbled into the hallway. It was quiet, dim, shadows crawling up the old plaster walls.

Ezra spun, crowding you against the lockers, breath hot and ragged.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan.

“I wasn’t trying to make you jealous.”

“I know,” he hissed. “But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to throw him against a wall for looking at you like that.”

Your lips brushed his. “Do it.”

Ezra growled—growled—and the next thing you knew, his mouth was on yours, bruising and desperate. Not like the usual slow, soft Ezra kisses. These were starving.

His hands gripped your hips, your waist, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. You moaned into his mouth, back arching against the locker as his thigh slid between your legs, pressing just right.

“Ezra,” you gasped, voice wrecked.

“I’ve tried to be good,” he panted, lips trailing down your jaw. “Tried to be the rational one. But when it comes to you—”

His teeth grazed your neck.

“I lose control.”

You shivered. “Then don’t be good.”

That shattered the last of his restraint.

You felt the shift—when he stopped holding back. When he let the raw, jealous ache consume him and show you exactly what it did to him to imagine anyone else touching you.

His mouth was everywhere—neck, collarbone, that sweet spot behind your ear that made you whimper. He kissed you like you were the only real thing left in the world. Like the fear and rage and love in his chest would crush him if he didn’t press them into your skin.

“I hate that you don’t see what I see,” he whispered between kisses. “You walk into a room and it stops. People notice you. They want you.”

“But you have me.”

He froze.

You took his hand and guided it under your blouse, over the curve of your waist, pressing his palm flat against your racing heart.

“You have all of me, Ezra. Always.”

And just like that, the fire turned soft.

His mouth gentled, brushing your lips like an apology. His hand on your chest trembled.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

You cupped his face. “Then earn me. Every night. Every fight. Every time you look at someone else and think they could take me—remind yourself who I come home to.”

His eyes darkened again. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Ezra.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t jealous. It wasn’t desperate.

It was devotional.

⸻

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

But that didn’t stop him from making sure you’d never forget who you belonged to.

⸻

Reblog + Comment if Ezra Fitz in unhinged boyfriend mode is your Roman Empire.

Requests: OPEN | Ezra x Reader Taglist: DM to be added 💌

[k-slater]

Ezra Fitz

Ink-Stained Hands and Late-Night Confessions

Mine

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Imagines

Ezra Fitz

Toby Cavanaugh

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Pretty little liars

[k-slater]

Noble Intentions

Ezra Fitz x Original Character

Imagines

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Noble Intentions

Wattpad book

Teasers

[k-slater]

Ink-Stained Hands and Late-Night Confessions

Ezra Fitz x Reader imagine

2,000 words

Please go check out my book Noble Intentions!!!

The rain was a soft drumbeat against the windows of Room 204—Ezra’s classroom, though it hadn’t felt like just a classroom in a long time. The chalkboard was half-erased from the day’s lecture, and the overhead lights hummed low and steady. You stood at the back of the room, your fingers toying with the straps of your backpack, heart pounding louder than the rain.

You weren’t supposed to be here this late. No one was. But Ezra had texted you: “Stay after. I need to see you.” Simple. Loaded. Dangerous.

When the last student had filed out and the door clicked shut, Ezra didn’t speak right away. He just watched you from behind his desk, his tie slightly loosened, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His forearms, ink-stained and lean, flexed subtly as he closed the cover of the book he’d been grading.

“You came,” he said finally.

“You asked,” you replied, voice quieter than you meant. Because the truth was, you would always come when it was him. You hated yourself for that a little—how easily he disarmed you with nothing but a look.

He walked around the desk, slow and deliberate, until he stood a foot away from you. “We need to stop pretending this isn’t happening.”

Your throat tightened. “You mean pretending we aren’t completely reckless and foolish and already halfway ruined?”

His jaw twitched. “You mean pretending I don’t think about you every second of the day?”

You swallowed hard. “Ezra…”

He stepped closer. So close that the scent of coffee and old books washed over you. So close you could see the smudge of blue ink on the side of his hand, and the faint freckles dusting his cheekbones. So close you forgot to breathe.

“I’ve tried,” he whispered. “God knows I’ve tried. But I can’t be near you and not want more. I can’t watch you walk into this room, sit in the front row, bite the corner of your pen when you’re thinking—like you’re doing it on purpose—and not lose my mind.”

You shook your head, emotions caught in your throat. “You know what this could cost.”

“I know,” he said. “But I also know that I’m already too far gone to pretend I can live with not knowing what it’s like to love you out loud.”

And then, without asking—because you were already answering with the way your eyes searched his, the way your lips parted—he kissed you.

It was like a fuse being lit. Months of glances, of lingering touches, of stolen moments that never dared become more—ignited in one heart-thundering second. His hands cupped your face with reverence and urgency, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if to memorize the texture of your skin. You melted into him, clutching his shirt, your body pressed against his with a desperation that scared you.

It was soft at first—slow, aching, like he was trying to map the taste of you. But then it deepened. Grew hungrier. His mouth moved over yours like he’d been starving and you were the only thing that could save him. And God, it felt like you could.

He broke away just enough to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop. If you’re not ready. If this isn’t right.”

But it was right. Maybe not by the rules, maybe not by the world’s standards—but in this room, in this moment, with the storm outside and your hearts colliding like waves against the shore, nothing had ever felt more right.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered.

He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring it. His hands moved down your arms, gentle but firm, like he was grounding himself in you. When you reached up and undid the first button of his shirt, your fingers trembling, he closed his eyes, a sharp breath escaping his lips.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured into the curve of your neck. “And it never—never—felt this real.”

You sat on the edge of his desk, fingers tangled in his dark curls, your legs wrapped around his hips as he kissed a trail down your collarbone. There was something holy about the way he touched you, like every brush of his lips was an act of worship.

“You make me feel…” you gasped, “like I’m the only thing that matters.”

“You are the only thing that matters,” he whispered fiercely, hands finding yours and lacing your fingers together. “I don’t care what happens after this. I don’t care what lines we’re crossing. I need you to know—I choose you.”

You could’ve wept from the weight of it. From the truth and terror of loving someone you couldn’t have. But in that moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was no Rosewood. No A. No rules. Just Ezra and you, and the way he looked at you like you held every secret he’d ever wanted to write about.

He kissed you again, slow and deep, and the room filled with the sound of rain and breath and something too sacred to name.

And when it was over—when your clothes were slightly rumpled and your lips swollen from the kisses you’d lost count of—he pulled you against his chest and held you there like he never wanted to let go.

“I know this won’t be easy,” he said quietly. “But tell me this wasn’t a mistake.”

You looked up at him, eyes searching his like you were reading the last page of your favorite book. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was the truth.”

And the truth, no matter how dangerous or complicated or forbidden, was that you were his—and he was yours.

At least for tonight.

[k-slater]

The Things That Stick

We don’t remember life for the loud moments—

the ones everyone talks about,

the ones that sparkle,

that grab you by the throat and take your breath away.

No, we remember the quiet things.

It’s the way the sun shifts in the late afternoon,

the slant of light that feels like a secret,

or the hum of the refrigerator at 2 a.m.,

steady and unwavering,

as if the world is still turning

even when we’re not looking.

It’s the sound of a car passing by in the distance,

the feeling of grass between your toes,

the taste of cold water

when you didn’t know you were thirsty.

It’s the kind of love that doesn’t need to be told,

just felt,

in the space between your own thoughts,

in the way the world keeps moving,

whether we’re paying attention or not.

We don’t notice these things,

and maybe that’s why they matter.

It’s the fact that we go about our days,

our busy lives,

but somehow,

these quiet, unnoticed moments

make us feel connected to something bigger.

Love isn’t a thing we find.

It’s the recognition that we were always part of it,

woven into the fabric of time,

in the little things we almost forget.

It’s in the way you stop, just for a second,

to appreciate the weight of the world on your shoulders,

and in the way you let go of it again,

because it’s enough

just to breathe in,

and know you’re alive.

[k-slater]

Chapter 1: The Stranger at the Table

The Brew was nearly empty, the kind of quiet that only happened during the last stretch of summer when most people were squeezing in final vacations or pretending school wasn't just around the corner. Rosewood held its breath this time of year, trapped between the sweetness of sunlight and the slow turning of something colder.

Sophia Noble sat in her usual spot, pressed against the window as golden light slipped through the glass and stretched across the table. Her laptop was open, but the blinking cursor mocked her. The essay wasn't due. In fact, it hadn't even been assigned. But writing gave her something to hold onto, something more solid than the silence that had settled into her life.

She hadn't spoken to the girls in months.

Not since before Aria left for Iceland. Not since the last group chat died a slow, quiet death and none of them had the courage to revive it. They hadn't had a falling out. Not officially. Just too many words left unsaid and too many secrets piled between them.

Sophia had seen Aria yesterday for the first time in almost a year—walking out of the bookstore with her mom, sunglasses on, shoulders stiff. They hadn't said anything. Just glanced at each other for a moment too long.

Sophia didn't blame her. The truth was they'd all drifted since Alison disappeared. Without her, they weren't orbiting the same sun anymore.

She'd been rewriting the same line for fifteen minutes when a voice pulled her attention away.

"Mind if I sit?"

She looked up, blinking.

The man standing beside her table looked slightly out of place—but not in a bad way. More like he belonged somewhere with dim lighting and jazz playing low, not in a sleepy suburban café. He had dark, slightly messy hair, eyes the color of old books, and a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. A tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye rested in his free hand.

Sophia glanced at the rest of the café—empty except for a barista scrolling on her phone behind the counter.

"You could sit anywhere."

"I could," he said, smiling. "But you look like someone who appreciates quiet conversation and literary company."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "Is that your way of asking to crash my table?"

"Guilty."

She nodded, sliding her coffee slightly to the side. "Sure."

He sat across from her, setting his book down like it was something precious. For a moment, they just sat—two strangers sharing space, breathing the same summer air inside a building that smelled like coffee beans and cinnamon.

"Let me guess," he said after a few moments. "Literature major?"

She raised a brow. "Why?"

He gestured toward her laptop. "Gatsby in August. Voluntarily. Most people avoid Fitzgerald until a syllabus forces them otherwise."

Sophia smiled faintly. "It's familiar. Comforting in a tragic kind of way."

He nodded. "I respect that. I've always had a soft spot for Gatsby. There's something beautiful about loving an illusion even when you know it'll ruin you."

She blinked at him. That wasn't something most people said offhand.

"You a professor or something?"

He chuckled. "Not quite. I used to teach. High school English. I'm taking some time to figure out what's next."

"Writing the next Great American Novel?"

"That was the dream once," he said. "Now it's more like trying not to forget how to hold a pen."

Sophia studied him for a beat. "I'm Sophia, by the way."

He smiled again, this time more softly. "Ezra."

They shook hands briefly across the table. His palm was warm. Steady.

Conversation flowed easily after that. They talked about favorite books, movie adaptations that failed them, songs that made writing easier. He asked what she was working on and didn't press when she hesitated. When she finally admitted she was still in school, he didn't blink.

"College?"

Sophia paused.

It would've been easy to correct him. To say she was seventeen and about to start her senior year of high school. But she didn't.

Maybe it was because he didn't treat her like a child.

Maybe it was because it felt good to be seen as something more than the ghost of someone she used to be.

She simply nodded. "Something like that."

Ezra smiled and leaned back, sipping his coffee. "That makes sense."

"What does?"

"You carry yourself like someone who's already seen the world lie to them a few times."

She didn't know how to answer that.

So she didn't.

Outside, the sky was starting to dim, and the light across the table had turned amber. The coffee shop had grown quieter somehow, the rest of the world slipping away into stillness.

Sophia glanced down at her laptop. The screen had gone dark. She didn't care.

She looked back up to find him watching her—not in a way that made her shrink, but like he was reading a poem and trying to figure out where the heartbeat was hidden.

Her breath hitched.

She wasn't used to being seen like that.

"You okay?" he asked, voice lower now.

She nodded. "Yeah. Just—" She stopped. She didn't know how to finish the sentence.

Ezra didn't push.

Instead, he reached across the table, just enough for his fingers to brush hers. Light. Careful.

Her eyes flicked down to where they touched, then back to him.

And maybe it was the quiet. Or the softness. Or the way she was so, so tired of feeling like she didn't exist—

But she leaned in.

So did he.

The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like they were both waiting for someone to call them back before it was too late. His hand slipped to her jaw, fingers feather-light, and she tilted her head just slightly, deepening it.

She felt her heart stumble.

His lips were warm, and his mouth tasted like dark coffee and something a little like hope.

When they finally pulled away, the world came rushing back—mugs clinking behind the counter, a door opening, a gust of air.

Sophia sat back slowly, breath uneven.

"I should go," she said quietly.

Ezra watched her carefully. "Did I... was that okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I just... should."

"Will I see you again?"

Her lips curved, a little sad. A little uncertain.

"Maybe."

She slid her laptop into her bag, her pulse still dancing beneath her skin. As she passed him, she didn't look back—but she felt his gaze follow her to the door.

Outside, the air was warmer than it should've been. Rosewood glowed in the last orange streaks of the day.

She walked slowly, her fingers brushing her lips like she wasn't sure it had really happened.

Maybe she didn't want to be sure.

- to read more check out my Wattpad: k_slater

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Here’s a sneak peak!!!

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“Mind if I sit?”

She looked up, blinking.

The man standing beside her table looked slightly out of place—but not in a bad way. More like he belonged somewhere with dim lighting and jazz playing low, not in a sleepy suburban café. He had dark, slightly messy hair, eyes the color of old books, and a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. A tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye rested in his free hand.

Sophia glanced at the rest of the café—empty except for a barista scrolling on her phone behind the counter.

“You could sit anywhere.”

“I could,” he said, smiling. “But you look like someone who appreciates quiet conversation and literary company.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Is that your way of asking to crash my table?”

“Guilty.”

-

Please give it a read and tell me what you think!!!!

Hey!!!! Please give my book a read, and give me your thoughts!!!! Much love xoxo, K

[k-slater]

Hey!!!! Please give my book a read, and give me your thoughts!!!! Much love xoxo, K

[k-slater]

I saw all the twilight movies in theaters

[k-slater]

Raw and Unspoken

Love isn’t something you promise;

it’s something you show in the moments

where words fail and time stands still.

It’s not the easy parts—

not the smooth edges or the perfect smiles,

but the moments when everything cracks open

and you let the pieces spill out.

It’s raw,

it’s messy,

it’s the things we don’t say

because we can’t,

because some parts of us are too jagged to share.

But somehow, in the brokenness,

there is a truth we can’t deny—

you and I,

always stumbling toward each other,

always needing the other more

than we are willing to admit.

I don’t need you to be whole—

I need you to be real,

to be here,

to be unfiltered,

even when the edges of you are torn,

even when you don’t know how to show up.

Because that’s what makes us human,

and that’s what makes this us.

Love isn’t clean or pretty.

It’s tangled in our flaws,

our flaws that make us real,

and in the chaos, we find each other again—

not in the calm,

but in the storm.

It’s not about fixing anything,

it’s about showing up

when the world feels too heavy

and still reaching for each other,

even when we don’t know how to hold on.

This love isn’t a fairy tale—

it’s something we choose

every day,

even when it hurts,

even when it’s hard to breathe.

We’re here,

and that’s enough.

- me

[k-slater]

Unwavering

I love you,

not because you are whole,

but because in your brokenness,

you are everything.

I love you in your silence,

in your storms,

in the corners of you that tremble

and the places that refuse to heal.

I love you,

not in spite of your scars,

but because of them—

each one a testament to your strength,

each one a story I would never trade,

because they have made you who you are.

And I would never ask you to be anything less.

No distance could stretch my love thin,

no absence could erase it,

no trial could diminish its fire.

I will love you when the world turns its back,

when the nights grow too dark,

when you are a shadow of the person you once were,

and when you stand in the light of who you are becoming.

I will love you through the fractures,

through the breaking,

through the places where even you can’t reach.

I will love you as the storm rages,

as the years change the shape of us,

and when time has its final say,

I will love you still,

in every form,

in every life,

in every universe where we meet.

For you are my heart’s eternity—

not just in the moments of joy,

but in the moments that tear us apart

and put us back together.

I will love you,

in the depths of your pain,

and in the heights of your triumph.

I will love you,

no matter what you become,

no matter what you endure,

because you are mine,

and I am yours,

and that is all that matters.

- me

[k-slater]

Every Day, Again

I fall in love with you,

not just once,

but every day,

over and over,

like the first time I saw you,

like the first time you spoke my name.

In every version of us,

in every world where we are somehow separate,

I find you again—

I recognize the shape of your soul

before your eyes even meet mine,

before your hand touches mine,

before time even knows we are meant for each other.

I fall in love with you,

not in spite of everything we have faced,

but because of it—

because every moment with you

is a reminder of how lucky I am

to love you,

to be loved by you,

in this universe,

and in every other one,

again and again,

forever.

- me