#I... went back and messed with it a bunch as usual

[to-the-stars8]

Vigilant Coffee

Batfamily x Reader Chapters AO3

What Happens in a Bathroom, Stays in a Bathroom

You stood outside the bathroom, listening to the unholy sounds of a couple getting it on, with a broom in your hand. 

It was late, around two AM, and they had stumbled in after a rock concert from the venue down the street. Usually, you locked the bathrooms at midnight, to avoid this exact thing, but they had bribed you with a hundred dollars. And, it wasn’t like this job paid you enough. So, how could you say no? 

The girl went in first, blowing a kiss to her boyfriend as she disappeared behind the door. As you swept, you kept an eye on him, just to make sure no funny business would happen. It wasn’t until you had turned your back for half a second did guy slip in.

Now, you were stuck listening to her give too loud of a performance for something you had no doubt was mediocre. After two minutes, you should have stopped it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to make that awkward confrontation. 

Vigilantes, robbers, and Gotham villains you could deal with. Awkward confrontation like this? You’d rather face the Joker. 

“A coffee shop bathroom? Really?” A modulated voice next to you asked. 

You jumped a little, turning to see Red Hood standing there. His arms were crossed as he came up to stand next to you. Sighing, you leaned into the broom in your hand. 

“I know, right?” You said. “Go to an alley or something. I don’t wanna have to go in and clean your mess afterwards.”

Red Hood looked ready to say something before a high pitched squeal cut him off. It sounded dramatic, and you would have ignored it if it wasn’t succeeded by a bunch of grunts. 

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous.” Red Hood grumbled, already stepping toward the bathroom. He banged the side of his fist against the door, making a thunderous sound in the quiet shop. He yelled at them to get out, lest he have to break the door down. 

Silence had ensued, followed up by the quiet sound of clothes shifting and whispering. The lock on the door clicked before swinging open. The guy stopped short when he saw Red Hood towering over him, and his flushed face went pale. The woman behind him gasped, taking a step back. 

Red Hood jabbed his thumb toward you. “Yo, you just traumatized this poor barista, say you’re sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine, really,” You began to say, cheeks heating. 

“No. No, it’s not.” Red Hood’s voice didn’t sound as harsh as his words did. In fact, under that modulated tone, you could have sworn he was amused. “I think they could at least apologize. Since you gotta go in there and clean it again—Better yet, they should clean it.”

“I��” The guys began. “I—We have to get home.”

“And that mess has to be cleaned,” Red pointed out, taking a step closer. “So, I’ll give you two options, you tip the nice barista more or you get to cleanin’.”

Never before had a hundred dollar bill been put into your hand. Seconds later, the couple ran out like the place was on fire. Smiling, you shoved the money into your pocket. 

“Coffee? This one’s on me.”

Red Hood could hardly say no to free coffee.

[nemorein]

Emissary of the Lawbearer.

@noshirdalal

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

.

[seaborgium-dazies]

think of me ♡mdni

walking in on mha boys masturbating pt.2

🌊: deku, bakugo

Deku:

You noticed that deku wasn't on top of his game 30 minutes into class. He kept drifting off and looking around the room in a panicked manner and when you tried to help him by whispering what the teacher just said he looked even worse.

Deku looked uncharacteristically lost, he kept squirming in his seat and he looked a little flushed too. So naturally you tried to convinced him to go get some rest. You assured him that you'd give him the notes as soon as he felt better. You pushed your worries away as he took you up on your idea. Still, dekus behavior was more than odd.

You bought some chicken soup after class, copied your notes and even drew a silly doodle on a sticky note, to cheer him up. So you continued your usual after class routine; you walked to dekus dorm room and pushed the door open.

Dekus was laying between a mess of sheets and blankets, his shirt bunched up and most of his body visible. You saw the gentle yet precise movement of his hand against his cock. His thumb massaging the tip, which was a beautiful shade of pink. Dekus eyes were shut and his lips were contorted in a breathy moan.

And as if that hadn't given you enough reason to gasp, the fact that you heard your name fall from his lips, definetly did.

This mix of lust and adoration was so raunchy that you let out an audible gasp, which made dekus eyes shoot open.

It took a hot minute for deku to cover up and stop rambling as if his life depended on it. You took your sweet time coming down from that shock as well. You were both left speechless and furiously blushing, unsure how to proceed.

Finally, you put the soup down next to his bed, feeling like the sun was shining from within you.

"You know I can't hear you if you call out to me like that, next time try my phone instead"

Bakugo:

You were sparring with bakugo when he stormed off after defeating you once more. He left you lying on the floor, huffing and puffing, massaging your shoulder as you tried to collect yourself. Due to this intense sparring session you were utterly spent and you couldn't help but wonder how bakugo had enough energy left to power walk away from you. He mumbled something about taking a shower and before you could process his words he was already gone.

When you were discharged from training you noticed that some piece of metal was lying around where you and bakugo had sparred. It was the same shade as his bracers and some screwdrivers were also laying around in the general vicinity. Did it fall off? Or did he take it off intentionally? Either way, you should probably return it.

You were standing in front of his room and when you didn't hear the shower running you figured you'd be in the clear. You couldn't have been more wrong.

When you opened the door you saw bakugo sprawled out on his bed, a white towel beneath him. While his body was still glistening with drops of water, his eyes were clenched shut and his fist was moving up and down his cock at a fast pace. His lips were slightly parted and he held something against his face, inhaling deeply. You recognized the color immediately - bakugo took your clothes?!

You were so shocked the metal fell out of your hands and landed on the floor of his dorm. Bakugos eyes shot open and you saw a brief look of shame turn into anger.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

Bakugos voice was accompanied by the throw of a pillow which you masterfully dodged. In the span of seconds he covered himself up and you started furiously apologizing, tripping over your words.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to! I thought- because the shower wasn't running- I should've knocked; really- I just came to bring- return this"

You went to hand it to him but placed it on his bed instead. As you met his intense gaze both of your breaths hitched and you realized that there really was no going back.

The romantic tension that both of you tried so hard to hide upwards to that moment was unavoidable after this incident.

"Let me just-"

In your shocked daze you reached over his body to grab your clothing off of his bed and bolted out of his room.

©️ seaborgium-dazies 2025

do not steal, translate, reupload or edit.

[ghostlyglimmer]

You're Grounded Mister

Summary:

A mission gone wrong leaves the Batkids bickering—until Batman grounds them and Danny Fenton, a confused civilian caught in the chaos. This one-shot is based on this post by Shower-Phantom-Ideas

It had all gone downhill fast.

The plan had been Dick’s idea—though Tim and Jason definitely could have pointed out the glaring holes in it, and Damian hadn’t exactly offered his usual dose of cynicism. It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out operation. Minimal risk, maximum payoff.

But things got complicated when that guy showed up. Just some kid, and not even a vigilante or a rogue. It was supposed to be a straightforward job in Gotham’s shadier district—stop the exchange of a highly dangerous chemical, break up the bad guys, be home in time for breakfast. But, no, some civilian had gotten in the way and distracted the gangsters long enough to mess with their timing.

As Jason would tell it later, “It was just bad luck.” As Bruce would say, “It was complete negligence.”

And as for Danny? Well, he didn’t have much of a say in it. Not that he was about to back down from a bunch of armed gangsters, especially with the Batkids swooping in around him, leaving chaos and knocked-out criminals in their wake. Danny had handled a few of them before they even showed up, quietly taking out the last of them when Bruce finally stepped in.

And now they were here, a tense, heated argument in a dark Gotham alley.

“You should have waited for backup!” Bruce snapped, his voice slicing through their squabbles. “I told you it was a risk to go in alone—especially when we didn’t have all the intel! This is about safety, and clearly—”

“Right, clearly we were fine until you stepped in,” Jason shot back, scowling.

“It would have gone smoothly if someone didn’t just happen to be there,” Dick muttered, clearly feeling defensive.

“It was your idea, Grayson!” Tim hissed, his voice laden with frustration. “Don’t turn this around.”

“Maybe if you’d listened—”

Damian scoffed. “I could have handled them on my own.”

Bruce’s frown deepened, and he turned to Danny, who was awkwardly inching his way toward the exit.

“And don’t think you’re getting out of this,” Bruce said, turning his Batglare on him. “You’re grounded too.”

Danny froze, one foot halfway lifted in a tippy-toe pose. “I… I’m sorry, what?”

The Batkids stopped mid-argument and looked at Danny, then back at Bruce, then at each other, as if piecing something together. Dick’s face morphed from irritation to confusion; Jason’s went slack.

“Uh… Mr. Batman, sir, with all due respect, I’m just some guy,” Danny said slowly, staring at Bruce. “Can… Can Batman even do that?”

“Everyone in the Batmobile,” Bruce said firmly, ignoring Danny’s question. “We’ll discuss this further in the morning.”

Danny, still too stunned to process much beyond “Batman grounded me,” felt himself nodding along. Guess we’re going with it.

The ride was silent and tense. Jason looked broody, arms crossed, staring out the window. Tim rubbed his temples, probably rethinking every tactical choice. Dick was sulking, and Damian, surprisingly, just looked mad at being lumped in with the others. Danny, meanwhile, stayed very still, wedged between Tim and Jason, trying not to breathe too loudly. It was a surreal experience—he was tired, his limbs ached, and his brain was reeling from the absurdity of it all, but it was Batman. The Batmobile wasn’t exactly the place to make his objections.

By the time they reached the Batcave, Danny figured he’d try for some clarity.

“Uh,” he started, looking around at the cavernous space, vast and impressive, filled with tech and lights. “So, do you mind if I, uh, call my family to tell them I won’t be home tonight?”

The entire cave fell silent. Jason froze mid-complaint, Dick and Tim stopped sulking, and Damian’s scowl melted into shock. All four of them stared at Danny, and then slowly, like someone had hit pause, their heads turned to look at Bruce.

He seemed unbothered, glancing at Danny as if this were just standard procedure. But for everyone else, the realization was dawning. Dick was the first to speak, his voice wavering.

“Uh… Bruce?” Dick asked slowly, eyebrows raised. “Did… Did you kidnap a civilian?”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jason burst out laughing, doubling over, his hands clutching his sides. “Oh, this is gold. He’s not even a rogue, B. He’s just some random guy you told to get in the car!”

Danny held up his hands. “In my defense, it was Batman, okay? Who’s going to not get in the Batmobile when Batman tells you you’re grounded?”

Tim covered his face with both hands, muffling his laugh. Damian scowled, crossing his arms.

“This is embarrassing,” he muttered. “Father, you’re losing credibility by the second.”

Bruce’s expression tightened, clearly irked by the fact that his kids’ attention had wandered from the initial issue. They had disobeyed him, endangered a civilian, and now they were laughing because, okay, maybe he had unintentionally forced said civilian to join them in the Batcave.

He sighed, rubbing his temples, clearly rethinking several recent decisions.

“Alright,” Bruce finally said. “My apologies. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you don’t need to be here. We’ll get you a ride back home.”

Danny blinked, a little surprised. “So, wait, I’m not grounded?”

“No, you’re not grounded,” Bruce replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jason snickered. “Damn, you got off easy. We’re grounded for sure.”

Bruce cleared his throat, and the smiles faded from the other Batkids’ faces. “Yes, you’re grounded,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “All of you.”

They groaned in unison, but Danny, relieved beyond measure, was already edging toward the door. He nodded a quick thank you to Batman and managed a small, awkward wave to the others.

As he left, he could hear Dick muttering, “Grounded… from what? We’re grown men!”

Jason groaned. “Grounded as in, no solo missions, genius.”

Danny paused, letting the sounds of the Batfamily’s complaints echo behind him as he took the lift back to ground level. He shook his head, chuckling. Only in Gotham. Only with Batman would you end up “grounded” for just existing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But hey—at least he got a free ride in the Batmobile out of it.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: HOT AIR BALLOON * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where at the Branson show of the Surprise Party Tour, Matt reveals his first surprise without his brothers: flying in a hot air balloon, and Y/N is part of it, except she's afraid of heights.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　fear of heights, PDA, and extreme fluff.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I'm not sure if I liked this, so I'm so sorry if it doesn't reach you guys' expectations ☹️

"Okay, so." Matt started, his voice echoing around the theater through the speakers. He was standing in the center of the stage, hands holding the mic in both hands like it steadied him. "My first tour surprise in Boston was the fake Uber on Nick, right?"

Chris and Nick were already reclined on the left couch, each with a mic in hand, watching with attention.

The crowd laughed after the mention of his first surprise, Nick nodding in agreement.

"But Chris was with me." Matt pointed, gesturing toward his brother. "So this is the first one I’ve done completely alone."

Y/N, on the middle seat of the first row, bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too hard.

He was lying.

Kind of.

Because he hadn’t been alone. She had been there. She was there. With him the entire time.

"And I feel excited for it." Matt continued, and the crowd let out a collective aww, which he tried to ignore by glancing down at his brothers with a quick smile.

Y/N hugged her arms around her waist as she watched with eyes full of attention, heart fluttering stupidly.

"I went into this with the idea, and I was like, oh my God, I’m gonna be horrified." He continued, now pacing a few steps toward the right couch. "But I ended up having a really good time."

Nick and Chris both nodded, glancing out at the crowd while they cheered again. Matt was practically bouncing now.

"Alright, so." He said, holding out the mic. "Let's watch the video."

He collapsed onto the right couch, settling in, tucking one foot under his leg, messing with the sleeve of his jacket.

The video opened quietly. Just soft street noise, the gentle sound of wind brushing past a tree, a distant car humming by, and the sleepy rustle of someone adjusting their clothes.

The camera was set up across the street from a big, glowing house. Fairy lights clung to the porch, blinking lazily in the early morning dark.

It was just before dawn, and on the curb, backs to the house and fronts to the camera, sat Matt and Y/N.

Matt was bundled up in his red sweater, the soft one that he had used too many times to count. His usual cap was on his head, curls peeking out the sides. His legs were stretched long in front of him, ankles crossed.

And beside him, tucked fully into his side like she belonged there, was Y/N.

She was wearing an oversized jersey, one of Matt’s old ones from Boston, the sleeves swallowing her hands completely. Her head rested on his shoulder, hair slightly messy from sleep, eyes half-lidded in that dazed, dreamy way you get when you wake up too early and your soul hasn’t caught up yet.

Her cheek was pressed to the soft fabric of his sweater, and from the way she wasn’t even pretending to sit upright, it was clear she was one blink away from falling asleep right there on the sidewalk.

Matt’s arm was slung around her waist lazily, the fabric of her jersey bunched up under his hand.

"Alright everybody, what’s up? I hope you’re enjoying the show so far." He smiled at the camera, voice low and a little gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken much yet that day.

He gestured off-screen casually.

"I know future me is sitting right here..."

And from the stage, Matt grinned and raised a lazy hand in time with his past self.

Then, on screen again, he turned his head to look at the girl resting against him.

"And sleepy Y/N here is probably sitting right there."

He pointed toward the middle of the screen and chuckled, the sound soft and teasing. Out of screen, Y/N smiled shyly, cheeks burning while the audience screamed.

Nick leaned forward on the left couch, furrowing his brow, eyes bouncing between the screen and Matt. His mic came up slowly.

"So it wasn’t a solo surprise, huh?"

Matt just shrugged innocently, his smile smug and way too satisfied.

"Eh."

Back on the video, Matt turned his face toward the camera again, his expression softer now.

"I’m so excited to surprise everyone. I know this might not be the first surprise I show on tour, but this is the first one I’ve filmed." He started. "So the anticipation is there. I feel great."

Y/N nodded beside him, barely lifting her head from his shoulder.

"I’m so excited too." She mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "I want everyone to feel a bit of what we're going to in a few minutes."

Matt smiled like his whole body agreed, and he nodded slowly, his nose a little pink from the cold.

A breeze rustled past on-screen, and Matt’s arm tightened around her, pulling her closer.

"It’s currently 5:21 in the morning." He said, looking down the road as if a car might appear. "And that’s why Y/N looks like a zombie right now."

Y/N let out a tiny huff of protest.

"We woke up at 4:30-"

"You woke up at 4:30." She argued, lips barely forming the words. "I got up at 4. I showered first."

Matt looked offended in the most dramatic way.

"Okay, facts." He admitted.

He turned back to the camera, lifting his hand to point accusingly.

"But we went to bed at 2:30 because this one-" He poked her arm. "Wanted to watch one more episode of Bones. So we’re like... no sleep. The anticipation is killing me. It’s freezing. And we’re about to be in the sky in like twenty minutes."

The crowd lost it.

People screamed, gasped, clapped, pure chaos. Nick’s eyes went comically wide.

"What?"

The last word made video-Y/N tense a little into him, and Matt caught it immediately.

"Also, Y/N's terrified of heights." He explained to the camera with a small smile, rubbing her arm gently through the thick sleeve.

"Yeah." She confirmed, breath visible in the air.

Matt tilted his head until it touched hers, warm cheek to cold temple.

"So this is gonna be a bravery proof, too."

The video cuts for a millisecond before a landscape so wide and open it almost steal the air from your lungs illuminated the screen.

The sky held that soft in-between blue, dark but warming up, the world slowly clicking back into color as the hours pushed through.

Matt was standing in the middle of the screen with his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his sweater. The cold has made him hunch just a bit, spine curved, breath puffing out in soft white clouds.

Behind him, the air balloon still lies on the ground, fabric like giant waves of color, rippling across the frosty grass as one guy in a high-vis jacket messes with cables and the giant wicker basket.

And then there’s Y/N, standing a little ways off from Matt, arms tugged into the pockets of her jersey, her legs pressed close together like she’s trying to keep every bit of warmth to herself. She’s not looking at the camera. Her eyes are locked on the man working the balloon, all fascinated and sleepy and freezing.

Matt glances over at her, eyes soft, and turns back to the camera, in which Memo was clearly holding a little unsteadily, probably shivering behind it.

"I’m gonna pull a Dorothy and start looking for Toto." He mumbles, his voice so dry it practically crunches in the cold.

Y/N snorts, cold clouds puffing out of her mouth. She turns toward him, taking a few slow steps closer, her sneakers crunching against the frost-bitten grass, and when she finally gets to him, she mutters under her breath.

"You go, Dorothy."

Matt's lips twitched wide as soon as she said it, rolling his eyes playfully.

The camera unintentionally shifted, wobbling slightly to the side, catching a glimpse of the huge, colorful balloon still half-inflated on the grass.

"Oh my God." Nick whispered in the mic, shifting on the couch so he could look at Matt, who just shrugged, grinning.

Back in the video, Matt glanced between the balloon and Y/N, bouncing slightly on the heels of his shoes, trying to stay warm, then looking right into the lens.

"I don’t trust these people." He says dramatically, eyebrows raised. "We’ve just met these guys like twenty minutes ago, and they’re doing this insane operation."

He juts his chin toward the man fiddling with the balloon, the basket now upright and looking way too real for comfort.

Y/N looks toward it.

"Well, they’ll be piloting us to the sky today." She says, turning slowly to the camera. "On a fucking balloon."

Chris practically screams through the mic back on the stage.

"A hot air balloon?"

The crowd erupts, clapping, and screaming.

Video-Y/N kept going without flinching, still facing the balloon.

"So you better trust them."

The screen cuts again, now closer to the balloon. The colors look brighter now, with the sun starting to creep in from the edge of the sky, Matt’s hair catching the gold light in little strands.

He leans in slightly to the camera, whispering with a tired smile.

"It’s like 6 in the morning, Chris and Nick are one hundred percent sleeping while I go to the sky."

Memo quietly zoomed out and caught Y/N turning to the guy who was tightening ropes around the basket.

"How high do we go?" She asked him, her voice scratchy.

The guy laughed like he got that question all the time.

"Depends on the day." He said. "But usually around two thousand feet."

Y/N blinked. Her whole face went blank for a second.

Then she turned slowly to the camera, wide-eyed, jaw slightly dropped, shifting her right hand so her index finger was pointing right at Matt.

"If he doesn’t hold me with all his life two thousand feet up in the sky, I’m throwing him out of the basket."

The audience laughs, Nick and Chris's laughter echoing together.

And then, the next cut.

Matt’s left arm is draped over Y/N’s shoulders now, her body tucked under it. Her arms are crossed tight around her body, trying to trap the heat in, and Matt keeps her snug against his side like he’s a built-in human heater.

He’s looking to the side, lips pursed like he’s thinking too hard. Then his eyes shift up to the camera, and he speaks softly, a little more serious than before.

"My nerves are starting to kick in more and more as time goes on."

Y/N nods gently, her head bumping his shoulder a bit. She’s still staring out at the balloon behind the camera, her voice quiet and warm.

"I feel like we’re in the movie UP, you know?"

Matt’s head bobs in an immediate nod, so fast his cap shifts back slightly, laughing through his nose a little, looking at the balloon.

"Yeah, Carl did this with his house. He just... put a bunch of balloons on his roof and went up in the sky, huh?"

Chris’s laugh bursts through the mic.

"Oh my fucking god."

Matt’s eyes flicker down to Y/N, then back to the camera.

"Who’s in the movie UP now?"

Y/N blinks up at him, nose pink from the cold, the ghost of a smile on her lips. She doesn’t even hesitate.

"Us."

Matt nods, like that’s the only answer he wanted.

"Yeah." He murmurs. "Us."

The video flickered for a second, then cut to a super close shot of the massive, full balloon, its fabric fluttering in the morning wind. The flame roared as the burner system blasted fire into the balloon.

Everyone in the theater flinched a little with the loud sound.

In the video, Matt’s arm was visible first, then the camera panned as he turned to Y/N, gently squeezing her shoulder, his fingers lingering like he was silently asking 'you ready?', looking at her with that soft, cheeky grin of his before he stepped up and climbed into the basket.

The wicker creaked under his weight, the balloon wobbling a little. Matt, now standing inside, turned immediately, bracing himself on the rim and leaning halfway out.

"C'mere, angel." He said softly, his hands ready to catch her.

She clumsily lifted a leg up, and he caught her instantly, hands warm and wide, steadying her.

Her nervous laugh echoed as she climbed awkwardly into the basket.

"I look ridiculous." She mumbled, but Matt’s arms didn’t let her go even once.

As soon as she was in, fully upright inside the basket, her arms automatically slid around his waist like her body had been waiting for that exact position to feel safe.

Matt burst into laughter, his arms instinctively wrapping around her as he looked straight at the camera with a shake of his head before pressing his cheek to the top of her head, eyes closed for a heartbeat as he swayed them gently in an attempt to calm her.

The balloon started rising. It was subtle at first, only a sway, but Matt noticed it, opening his eyes and leaning over the edge then, slightly pulling Y/N with him as he peeked at the ground beneath them.

"Oh my Lord. We’re off the ground." He said, wide-eyed.

From inside the basket, Y/N yelped.

"We are?" As she tried to twist and see. But she couldn’t. Not from where she was, tucked safely in the middle, half-buried against Matt’s chest.

She craned her neck, eyes darting, only to feel Matt’s soft hair brush against her temple as he nodded enthusiastically, his jaw pressing gently to her head.

"We’re flying, baby."

The basket shifted, and she squeaked, making people back in the crowd giggle. Her eyes squeezed shut instantly, and Matt softly chuckled, tightening his arms around her.

The burner system roared again, louder this time. The sound echoed inside the basket like a thunderclap.

Matt’s head snapped up. Y/N startled with a sharp gasp, her whole body jumping before her eyes flicked up too, watching the sudden blaze of flame with this dazed awe, like she couldn’t decide if she was amazed or scared.

Back in the stage, Nick’s voice echoed from the mic.

"A dragon!"

The crowd lost it, laughter bubbling.

They were up.

Like, way up.

The sky behind them looked like a water painting, smudged blue and peach, and Y/N was still under Matt’s arms, folded in like a favorite hoodie. Her fingers were sweaty against the fabric of his sweater, and one of them twitched every time the basket swayed even a little. Her eyes stayed mostly ahead, but you could tell they weren’t quite seeing.

Matt looked down.

His chin brushed against her hair, some strands catching on his jaw and tickling it. The movement made her look up at him with big, glassy eyes that were trying so hard to be brave.

Matt smiled that specific smile that was only reserved for her.

"You’re okay. I'm right here." He whispered, a quiet breath against her. "Wanna get closer to the edge?”

She bit her lower lip, her eyes flicking sideways toward the vast view surrounding them. You could see the hesitation bubble behind her lashes. Then, she looked back up at him, her brows drawn with the softest little frown.

"Are you gonna hold me? 'Cause if you're not, just... let go now and let me fall."

She said it with such a fragile laugh, so sweet and unsure, and Matt immediately let out a full-body laugh, holding her tighter like she weighed nothing.

"I’m never letting go of you, dummy."

The crowd in real life cracked, and Nick's voice rang out loud, followed by Chris's.

"Y/N, yesss!"

The crowd hollered, clapping and cheering like they were all in the basket with them.

Back in the video, Matt carefully shuffled them toward the edge, step by step. He muttered little things only she could hear, 'almost there, you’re okay, I got you', his arms snug around her shoulders, hers tightening with every inch.

Finally, they reached the edge.

The basket swaying a little with their modem, and Y/N’s eyes slammed shut. Her face pressed against his chest, and her fingers dug into his back like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

Matt turned to the camera with this hilarious painfully fake wince, and the real-life audience burst into laughter again.

Memo’s camera moved closer, carefully capturing every inch of them.

Matt ducked a little, bending his knees to line up with Y/N’s face, his cheek brushing hers.

"Hey." He whispered, low and calming, his voice barely a thread above the breeze. "Open your eyes, sweetheart. I’m holding you. It’s okay."

Y/N didn’t move right away.

Then, slowly, her lashes fluttered. One blink. Two. Her eyes peeled open like a flower in time-lapse, so painfully slow, and when her gaze finally focused, she gasped.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fake. It was the softest, smallest 'wow', breathless and barely there. But it hit so hard.

Because the view around them was stunning. Miles and miles of rolling hills, tiny buildings like dollhouses, clouds stretching wide like frosting.

Matt kissed her temple like a reflex, his lips lingering there before he straightened up just enough to rest his chin on the top of her head. His fingers traced little half-circles over her hips like he was drawing invisible affirmations.

Her arms stayed wrapped around him, her head turning slowly against his chest, eyes drinking everything in before turning up to him, lashes shiny with tears she didn’t expect, and he immediately leaned in, brushing his nose against hers.

"You like it?" He asked softly.

She nodded, whispering back.

"It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."

Matt laughed, pulling her in tighter.

"Same." He said.

"You're both so in love it makes me want to throw up." Nick's voice suddenly echoed around the theater, raising his eyebrows to Matt, who rolled his eyes at him, scoffing.

That’s where the video cut again.

Video-Matt then turned his attention to the man standing casually at the edge of the basket, one hand on a rope. He looked like someone who lived in the clouds, worn-in baseball cap, sun-wrinkled face, calm energy.

"How long you’ve been doing this?" Matt asked, his voice floating up like the breeze.

The man smiled, soft and proud.

"I’ve been around my entire life."

Y/N’s brows shot up at that. She dodged Matt's body a bit and turned to the man, curiosity written all over her face.

"Wow." She said, her voice low and full of awe.

Matt tugged her a little closer, his palm spreading warmly across her side when a soft gust of wind rustled through the air, blowing her hair across her face. She laughed quietly, brushing it back.

The man continued, eyes twinkling with memory.

"My dad started this company 42 years ago."

"Wow." Nick repeated into his mic on stage, the awe laced in his tone, making the crowd laugh softly.

Video-Y/N nodded, the wind brushing her cheeks.

"What’s the highest you’ve been up?"

The man didn’t even hesitate.

"Fifty thousand."

Her eyes went so wide, and she immediately turned to Matt, grabbing his arm with this half-scandalized, half-impressed look. Matt laughed at her reaction, nose crinkling like it always did when he laughed too hard.

Then the video cut again, and now they were way higher.

Y/N was holding onto the edge of the basket, eyes moving, soaking it all in. Matt was behind her, practically wrapped around her like a living blanket. His arms bracketed hers, hands resting on the edge too, his chin barely touching the top of her head. Her hair kept tickling his skin, and it was obvious from the way he kept twitching his nose and smiling into her hair that he didn’t mind at all.

"It’s much more peaceful than I thought." Matt murmured, voice thick with surprise. "I thought I’d be up here shitting myself."

Y/N burst out laughing, tilting her head slightly to look at him over her shoulder.

"You did a little bit."

Matt rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Oh, I was the one shitting myself, huh?" He asked with exaggerated offense, making her giggle.

Back in real life, Nick leaned toward his mic, eyes wide.

"I can’t believe y’all are not strapped in anything."

From her spot on the first row, Y/N nodded seriously, like she still couldn’t believe it either.

On the screen, Matt dipped his face into her temple again, his nose brushing over it before he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, letting his cheek rest there after like it was his favorite pillow. He let out a content sigh, one of those deep, full-body ones.

────────────────────────────

The video cut again, now showing the balloon descending toward the ground, the dusty field growing larger as they floated closer to earth. Matt hopped out first, but his foot caught the edge, and he stumbled forward, catching himself just barely.

"I’m gonna break the damn basket." He muttered, arms flailing a bit.

Y/N laughed loudly, her whole body shaking before she leaned out of the basket, putting her arms out toward him, wiggling her fingers like a little kid, waiting for him to help her down.

"C'mon, Matt."

He rolled his eyes to the camera, reaching up and helping her down like she was made of glass, his hands firm but gentle as always. Once she was safely on the ground, he kept a hand on her lower back for a beat longer than necessary before turning to the camera.

"I feel like Katy Perry coming from space." He deadpanned.

The crowd in real life lost it, Chris crackling up with the reference.

Y/N was shaking her head, hiding her face in Matt’s shoulder as she giggled.

"This was so crazy." She said to him onscreen, looking around at the open field like she couldn’t believe they’d actually done that. "The whole experience."

────────────────────────────

Another cut of the video, and now they were sitting side by side on that same curb from earlier, the sunrise now traded for a soft blue sky. Y/N had her arm slung across Matt’s thigh, fingers drawing little patterns over the denim while his arm rested lazily across her shoulders, thumb brushing the edge of her jersey collar.

Matt looked into the camera, clearing his throat a little before speaking.

"Okay. My final remark." He started, tongue poking his cheek. "I have to say, that was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I never thought that I was going to do it."

Y/N nodded, grinning at the camera.

"When Matt came to me with this idea for a tour surprise and asked me to come with him, I was so ready to say no."

Matt looked at her, his smile crooked and knowing.

"But you couldn’t."

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully.

"But I couldn’t." She repeated with a dramatic sigh.

Real-life Chris, not missing a beat, leaned into his mic with a smug little smile.

"Of course she couldn’t. She can’t say no to Matt."

Laughter burst from the audience, and Matt shrugged like, glancing down at Y/N, who rolled her eyes at him.

Back in the video, Matt looked at the camera again, his expression suddenly more sincere.

"I hope that this was a surprise for you, Nick and Chris, and to everybody in the crowd. I’d love to come back if Nick and Chris are down. I just think this is such a cool experience. Nick would love it. I know he would."

Y/N leaned forward slightly, throwing a cheeky wink at the camera.

"All the guys here have mustaches." She said in this mock-whisper voice.

The crowd laughed again. A few people clapped while Nick sent a shocked gaze toward Y/N, who blew him a kiss.

Matt snorted on screen, looking down at her with a grin.

"So... is your fear overcome?" He asked.

Y/N turned her head slowly, squinting at him like he’d just grown a second head.

"Know your limits." She said seriously. "This was a one-time thing."

Matt threw his head back, laughing, shaking his head like he should’ve known better than to ask.

"Well, this was it. I hope everyone liked it and felt a bit of what we felt up there." Matt's voice echoed again after his laughter calmed down. "Now, let's talk about it."

© vanteguccir

[sunderwight]

SV fic where Luo Bingge discovers that Shen Jiu had a long-lost half-brother or something, and subsequently decides that he's going to infiltrate the minor sect which this "Shen Yuan" belongs to in order to get close to him and then indulge in revenge fantasy 2.0 when it inevitably turns out that Shen Yuan is like Shen Jiu (i.e. a horrible abusive scum teacher).

So Bingge uses some magical object or technique or other, makes himself look like a scrawny 12-14 year old, then puts himself in Shen Yuan's path in hopes of convincing the man to take him on as a disciple. The idea being that after Shen Yuan abuses him, Bingge will be justified in reenacting his Shen Qingqiu Revenge Arc again and maybe finally feeling some closure about the whole thing.

Yes, this is a very deranged plan. No, no one is going to tell the emperor of the three realms that. Bingge also wants it to be clear that this has nothing whatsoever to do with his recent escapade in an alternate universe, except that he was inspired to find Shen Jiu's relative as a consequence of that. But he's absolutely sure that this guy is going to turn out just as rotten as his brother, given the opportunity. That is definitely the only reason he is doing this!

Flash forward about four years. Bingge's retainers are begging on their knees for him to actually come back and do some administrative work. The harem is running itself at this point and they're all very terrified of the situation with Liu Mingyan and Sha Hualing (i.e. ruling with lesbian iron fists) and whatever the heck Ning Yingying is up to (no one is certain but it's something). The outer provinces are rebelling. Mobei Jun's somehow found another weird human surnamed Shang to cavort with, except this one is basically running admin for the entire northern kingdom now and no one's even sure if they're fucking or if it's some kind of mind control situation or what.

Bingge is annoyed. He doesn't have a good explanation for why a bunch of demon lords would be showing up on the doorstep of Tiny Cultivation Sect to beg him for anything. They're going to spoil his cover! And they're interrupting his schedule! It's already four o'clock and he hasn't started on Shizun's dinner yet! Shoo! Get lost!

Anyway, eventually some of his demon followers get desperate and dramatically kidnap him. Shen Yuan is horrified and grieved when it seems that his precious disciple, so like white lotus Luo Binghe from the novel, has been captured by demons. He tries to track the assailants down, but they've covered their tracks too well. In the end, there's only one path left to him to pursue: taking this matter to the protagonist!

Yes, the protagonist! Because the thing is, Shen Yuan noticed the similarities between his disciple and the book character he so admired. Not only that, but he did manage to glimpse Bingge one time from afar. It wasn't anywhere near to a real interaction, but it was enough for him to notice the strong resemblance between the protagonist and the mistreated little lamb who showed up at his doorstep. A resemblance for which there can only be one explanation:

Shen Yuan's disciple is one of Binghe's kids!

Yes, he had it figured out since fairly early on. Not only was there a resemblance, and not only were their dispositions quite similar, but also the boy showed a lot of signs of some demonic heritage. Shen Yuan was just working up to broaching the subject, partly because he had been trying to avoid any direct or even indirect interactions with the emperor, and partly because he... became somewhat reluctant to part ways with his student. Sue him! He got attached! And anyway, he knew how missing child plots usually went. There was probably someone in the harem who was out for his disciple's blood, and it wouldn't be safe to send him back into that mess until he was strong enough to look after himself.

But as is inevitable, the plot seems to have reclaimed Shen Yuan's student all on its own.

He just... needs to make sure that it isn't a tragic outcome. It seems it falls on him to make the emperor aware of his son's survival, and subsequent peril, and help launch a rescue!

Which also means approaching Luo Binghe in person, which he knows is very risky indeed, due to his connection to the infamous Shen Qingqiu! He'd been avoiding the protagonist at all costs for that exact reason.

But if it's his only hope of rescuing his disciple, he will simply have to take the risk, and hope that enough time has passed that Luo Binghe doesn't read too much into a shared surname and a passing resemblance. Or that restoring the emperor's long-lost son to him will be worth seem lenience for the crime of being connected to Shen Qingqiu. Maybe if he's lucky, he will even be allowed to continue visiting his disciple! (Ha, yeah right! More likely, Luo Binghe's going to take his head for hiding his own kid from him for so long!)

Anyway, cue Luo Bingge running around swapping between his Emperor and Disciple forms, dramatically trying to orchestrate a situation where he can fake the emperor's death and go back to the sect with Shizun as his disciple, or something, only for it all to blow up in his face because Shen Yuan keeps flinging himself between Bingge and potentially fatal threats that could plausibly kill him???

[scoupsakakitty]

Svt ot13 x reader, where like, reader made a single mistake during one of their concerts. Then when they practiced for the rest of tour reader keeps on spotting their flaws even when its fine. Maybe even overworking to the point she sleeps in the practice room? Then they(ot13) was confused to why reader hasn't come home yet, only to find reader passed out on the floor of the practice room, like literally passed out..

This is my first time doing a req, sorry if its too detailed.. please dont overwork yourself irl!!

Don‘t Dance Alone Tonight | idol!Scoups x 14thMember | angst fluff

The cameras stopped rolling. Lights dimmed. Staff members clapped as the director yelled “Cut!” for the final time. Cheers erupted. Another long MV shoot was done. But even through the chatter, the laughter, the scattered energy of a wrap party brewing — Seungcheol noticed it.

Y/N was gone.

She hadn’t said goodbye. No jokes. No nods. She didn’t even take her usual post-shoot selfie with Hoshi or tease Chan about his expressions in the last take.

Just… vanished.

And the worst part?

They hadn’t spoken all day. Not since that morning — the fight.

“You think just because you’re leader, you can talk down to me?” she had snapped in their dorm room.

“I’m not talking down to you. I’m trying to help you not burn out!” he had replied, voice rising with frustration.

“I know what I’m doing, Cheol. You don’t get it. You’re not the one messing up on stage.”

She had stormed out, leaving his words stuck in his throat and his heart heavier than he could explain.

Now she was gone. And his gut twisted.

“Y/N’s not here,” Chan said, peeking into her room in the Performance Unit’s dorm.

Seungcheol frowned. “I thought she stayed with you guys.”

“We thought she was with you,” Jun added from the kitchen, phone in hand. “She left right after the shoot.”

“She didn’t say anything,” Minghao said quietly. “Not even in the group chat.”

Seungcheol pulled out his phone again — five missed calls. All to her. None returned.

“She’s not answering?” Chan asked, voice rising slightly.

“No.” Seungcheol shook his head, trying to keep the worry from surfacing, but his tone betrayed him. “Goes straight to voicemail.”

“I’ll check the building rooftop,” Jun offered. “She goes there when she needs space.”

“I’ll try the stylist team,” Minghao said. “Maybe she went back for something.”

“I’ll text the managers,” Chan added.

“I’ll check the practice rooms,” Hoshi said without hesitation, already grabbing his hoodie. “If I were her… I’d be dancing it out.”

Studio 3 was nearly dark, save for the moonlight pouring in through the high window. Hoshi pushed the door open softly and froze.

There she was.

Y/N lay curled up on the wooden floor in the corner, her hoodie bunched up beneath her head, long legs tucked in, a bottle of water knocked over beside her.

The monitor in the room was paused mid-dance. It replayed the last segment they practiced together. Her figure in the center. Perfect form. But he knew she wouldn’t see it that way.

“Y/N…” he whispered, kneeling beside her.

Her eyes were shut tight. Sweat clung to her hairline. Her brows were slightly furrowed — even in sleep, she didn’t look at peace.

He pulled out his phone and called the only person who should be there right now.

“She’s here,” Hoshi said softly. “She fell asleep in the practice room.”

Silence on the other end.

“I’ll be right there,” came Seungcheol’s voice. He sounded breathless.

“I’ll wait.”

Seungcheol arrived within twenty minutes. When he opened the door, he found Hoshi sitting quietly near her, legs crossed, watching over her like an older brother.

“She hasn’t moved,” Hoshi whispered. “I think she passed out from exhaustion. She must’ve been here for hours.”

Seungcheol swallowed hard, guilt crawling through every inch of him.

“Thanks, Soonyoung.”

Hoshi nodded, then gave Seungcheol a small pat on the shoulder. “Talk to her. I’ll be right outside.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, the room was silent save for the soft hum of the AC and Y/N’s breathing.

Seungcheol crouched beside her. “Y/N…” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek.

She stirred, murmuring something unintelligible before her eyes blinked open.

“Cheol…?” she croaked, eyes adjusting to the low light.

“Hey.” He forced a soft smile. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Confusion flickered across her face, followed by recognition. Then guilt.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep…”

“I know,” he said softly. “You scared us.”

She sat up slowly, her joints cracking from the cold floor. “I just wanted to get the routine right. I messed up that one time and now I can’t stop seeing the flaws.”

“You didn’t mess up, Y/N.”

She laughed weakly, without humor. “You didn’t see the replay?”

“I saw it. And I saw you trying to perfect something that was already beautiful.”

She turned her face away, jaw clenched.

“I thought you were disappointed in me."

His chest ached.

“I was never disappointed in you,” he said firmly. “Frustrated? Yes. But only because I saw you pushing yourself too hard again. I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry that you wouldn’t let anyone in.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I didn’t want to seem weak.”

“You’re not weak. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“But I keep making mistakes—”

“You’re human,” he interrupted, voice breaking. “You’re allowed to make mistakes, Y/N. I’ve made more than I can count. But disappearing without a word? That scared the hell out of me.”

She looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“I’m sorry, too. For snapping. For not checking on you sooner. For not being the partner you needed today.”

She sniffled against his shoulder. “You’re always what I need, Cheol. I just forget how to say it when I’m overwhelmed.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth on the cold dance studio floor.

Back at the dorm, Y/N entered her room quietly, grateful for the silence. Her room was her sanctuary, a rare privilege in the chaos of idol life. She’d fought hard for it — not out of vanity, but for peace.

She sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the mirror across from her.

“How long were you practicing?” Seungcheol asked from her doorway.

“Since after the shoot.”

“Did you eat?”

She shook her head.

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a bowl of ramen.

“No excuses. Eat.”

They sat on her bed, sharing the meal in silence.

“I’m not good at resting,” she admitted.

“I know. That’s why I’m here. To remind you that you deserve it.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Promise me something,” he said, voice low.

“What?”

“No more running away.”

She nodded.

“And no more dancing alone until you collapse.”

She hesitated — then nodded again. “Deal. But only if you promise something too.”

“Name it.”

“Don’t ever stop fighting with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Because when we fight, it means we care. And I’d rather argue with you a hundred times than feel like we’re strangers again.”

He smiled softly. “Then I promise.”

A week later, during practice for their encore concert, Y/N danced the choreography perfectly. When the final beat hit, she turned toward the mirror and met her own gaze. No criticism. No anxiety.

Just pride.

From behind, Seungcheol’s voice rang out. “You did great.”

She turned. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes full of affection.

She smiled, breathless. “You saw?”

“I always see.”

[whirlybirbs]

— BRUISED EGO ; PART TWO ; TOSHINORI YAGI ; 俊典

summary: he should have waited for you. but no, toshinori felt like he had something to prove. now, roles are reversed and he needs your help. pairing: younger!toshinori yagi / f!reader ; hero name: derecho word count: 5k tags: afab!reader, fingering, oral (male receiving), piv, sex pollen trope but make it canon specific, dirty talk, praise kink, denied feelings, deeply needy fucking, size difference, toshinori being a good old fashioned lover-boy (again), enemies-to-coworkers-to-lovers hits hard a/n: oh wow a part two,,, i'm sick in the head ← previous | the tag

This ain't great.

This is, uh, bad actually.

Like, Toshinori has absolutely no idea what to do, bad. 

For Christ's sake, he's All Might. He should have known better. He should have known to wait for you — but no, he just had to calm his nerves by beginning your usual shared patrol an hour early. 

It's been one week, two days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes since he last saw you. Not that he's counting. It's not like he's suddenly acutely aware of the time he's spent apart from you, or anything. 

Japan is locked in a heatwave. 

(Or, maybe it's just the fever in his bones.)

Large, calloused palms dig into his eyes as he leans back against the rooftop's barrier and groans. Toshinori drops his head against the iron railing in defeat, sending a twang through the hot air. Sweat is running down his back beneath his suit, tracing the curve of his spine.

Oh, and he's hard.

Painfully hard.

Like he said, this ain't great.

The call went out that they spotted the same love quirk user from last week holding some sex workers at gunpoint. He should have waited. The two of you could have handled him easily. 

But, no. Toshi had to go and think he had something to prove. 

He groans again, pounding his knuckles to the gravel.

It's going to be all over the evening news. That clip of him, panicking, and absolutely decking the very-much-not-a-real-violent-threat-of-a-man in the face on reflex after being hit with his quirk. He couldn't help it. It was like... a knee-jerk. It's like suddenly you're being touched everywhere and nowhere. It's strange. Sort of violating. It... I-It was just all he could do, okay? 

And he apologized! Plenty! A-And Officer Tsukauchi said it was fine, that he had it handled, as a bunch of officers began to help the now-unconscious offender out of the storefront's debris.

...Toshinori's phone is ringing.

He has half the mind to ignore it.

But it's the guitar riff from 'Bad to the Bone'. 

It's you.

He barks out a huffed 'shit' before digging his phone from the pocket in his belt. Even your picture glowing alongside the phone call notification is enough to make his cock throb. 

It's not even racy. It's blurry. It's in the All Might Agency's lobby. You're smiling. It's such a rare sight. You're holding up your official hero license and a big thumbs up.

He took the picture a few years ago. It was a big deal, a huge win. Your hair was a little shorter, and your hands weren't as scarred from Pro-Hero work as they are now. And god, that smile. 

...Jesus, you're just happy and he's this horny? 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Toshinori picks up on the last ring.

"Where the hell are you?" comes your voice, cutting through the sound of wind — he can hear the thrum of your bike's engine in the background, "I've been looking all over for you, and I just got a call from Tsukauchi — are you alright?"

The sound of your voice is making his mouth dry.

"I'm fine."

He's not fine.

He's sitting here, aroused out of his mind and in pain, trying to battle through the mind-numbing, knuckle-breaking heat of desire. He can't even come close to the word 'fine'. He's a mess. All he can do is sit here and sweat because he knows no amount of trying to jerk off is going to solve this problem.

He's so not fine.

You can tell.

Tsukauchi gave few details — just that whatever the hell happened sent All Might hightailing it outta there. And, after getting a brief description of the prep, you had a pretty good idea why. 

Your fingers twitch against the throttle.

"Send me your location," you say sternly; the glint of your helmet's visor catches the passing lights of traffic as you talk into the built-in comms system, "I'm coming to get you."

"No," he grits out, tugging on a piece of his blonde fringe, "N-No. I'll be fine. I-I am fine. Just need some time—"

"Toshinori," you bark back as you check for an opening between cars; your whole body is hot and it's not just from the summer heat, "I'm not asking. Let me help." 

...Oh.

Help. Right.

It's ambiguous and sort of ominous but, if he squints, it's the first time either of you has even come close to talking about what happened last week. Y'know. When he kissed you in your entryway, the way he ate you out on your couch, or the way he absolutely fucked your brains out in your bed. All because you had been hit with the same quirk influence he's riding out now.

His location pings up on your visor's HUD. 

"Be there in five."

And you hang up.

Because — I mean, what else is there to say? You are going to do what you have to to help him. Just like he did for you. Then, maybe it will be even! And then, maybe, this feeling that has been eating your heart away for the last week will disappear. Right? And things will go back to normal!

...Right?

Ha! B-Because, yea, that feeling is definitely guilt, right? Like... You... uh. You feel bad. Because... he had to... help. And you haven't helped him. Right. Yes. 

Yep.

Not because you can't stop thinking about his hands on your face, cradling you tenderly as he drove himself deep into you. Not because you can't stop thinking about the way he looked up at you with his tongue flat on your clit. Not because you can't stop thinking about his voice, or his smile, or his laugh, or his—

The telltale roar of a motorcycle sets Toshinori Yagi's stomach ablaze. 

Immediately, the air gets thicker like the feeling before a summer thunderstorm. He knows you're here. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and before he can rub the feeling away, you're there. 

On the roof.

"You look..." you breathe out as your feet touch down with a crackle of lightning crescendoing around you, "Like shit." 

(Truly he looks divine. Rosey cheeks, his chest heaving. His eyes are half-lidded. There's a bead of sweat that runs down his jaw, down down down, down his neck, then disappears beneath the collar of his suit.)

Toshi sighs. It's a ragged sound. He pulls his knees up, trying his best to hide the apparent tenting across the front of his hero costume. He scrapes his rough palm down his face.

"Don't start—"

"Did I look this bad?" you ask, voice hiking an octave as you move towards him. You keep an even distance. Your face is morphed into a look of pity, but there's something in your voice that makes the knot in Toshinori's gut wind tighter, "He got you good, huh, Tosh'?"

He can't do nicknames right now.

"Ha, ha," he grits out, the trademarked All Might boisterousness dying in favor of the lackluster, dry humor he was born with, "You're real funny, zippy."

It's your favorite flavor of him. The man is out of the limelight. Though he may still be bigger than life biceps and thick steel-corded quads, the facade has fallen. 

"And you're a mess," you sigh as you squat down, rummaging in your pack for something. It's a water bottle. You offer it as you watch him. 

The condensation kisses his fingertips as he takes it and pops it open. 

He takes a long drink, caps it off, then presses the cold bottle to the back of his neck. It does little to dissipate the tension in his broad shoulders. The sensation arguably makes it worse. Another bead of sweat runs down his back.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

We're never gonna talk about this again echoes somewhere in the back of his mind. At this rate, they're gonna have to talk about this. Because once is just a fluke. Twice is a problem. A real problem. 

He places the bottle back on the ground after another long sip.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. Despite your desperate attempt to remain levelheaded, you know exactly how he's feeling at this moment. You gotta admit, his self-control dwarfs your own though. You could hardly keep your hands off him the second he walked in your door. 

You wrestle your bike helmet off, and Toshinori has to quell the wave of longing that rises in his chest. Your hair is sticking to your forehead and neck. He suddenly wishes he made you look this way — windswept and sweating. 

The jet-black helmet lands on the rooftop with a thwat. He can see his ragged, flushed reflection in the black visor. 

Your voice is soft. "Hey."

It brings his focus back to you. His mouth is dry. Big blue eyes swivel as they rake across your face — and he hates how his cock jumps at how softly you speak next.

"What do you need right now, Toshinori?"

His chest is rising and falling a little faster. The usual steadfast expression on his face has melted into something doe-eyed and boyish. It makes your heart clench. 

"Are you sure about this?" his voice cracks as he swallows roughly. It's a non-answer. It's a metaphorical boot-kicking-in-the-door, though. Toshinori rakes his hands through his hair, "I-I... I can wait it out—"

You exhale tightly; your rationale is clear. Totally unbiased and very much not rooted in an unabashed obsession with the way he touches you. 

"Tosh', you helped me. I won't sit around and let you suffer when the same hand is dealt your way."

He drops his head back again. Another twang echoes through the night air. 

"Plus," you offer with a slow, crooning smile, "I've always been a sucker for a damsel in distress."

It takes a second.

Then, one blue eye cracks open. Long, dark blonde lashes flutter a bit — and then, he's smirking. 

Ha. 

Right.

"You sure about this?" he asks, his head still dropped back and shoulders slumped. 

"Sure as I'll ever be, big man."

That's the only permission he needs.

Toshinori Yagi is fast. He has to be. He's the Number One Hero in all of Japan. Top of the popularity ranks, fan-favorite, best stats in history. Being fast is part of the gig. 

He's fast to sit up and catch you in a kiss that feels like a bruise — tender and aching and miscalculated. It's teeth and tongue and then a deliciously low noise that rumbles up from his chest and sets your whole body on fire. 

His grip is rough — his fingers fist your hair as he drags you closer, his mouth presses firmly to yours as you scramble against the rough rooftop. It's... 

Needy.

You're crawling towards him.

"That's my line," he breathes out, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth and pressing back in to steal your breath. His grip tightens in your hair. His voice is so low that it feels like someone lights a fire under your skin. It's rough and breathless and so not All Might.  

"It's a good line," you mutter back as your brain stutter-steps. You pull away to crawl closer and straddle his hips. Your knees pin his cape to the gravel. You're kissing him again, letting his feverish need set the pace, "Worked on me."

You can feel him through your hero suit. 

His suit's pants are thick, made of some patented material you can never remember the name of — but his arousal is more than apparent as you settle your weight down against him. The added pressure earns a throaty hum of approval. 

You always forget just how big he is in this form — his hands dwarf your hips as he drags his grip down, allowing himself a little bit of an edge when he unceremoniously bucks up against you. 

"Sorry," he slurs out, his boots scraping against the roof; it's utterly pathetic, "Sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," you breathe out as you follow his lead and continue the movement, grinding your hips down, "I asked what you needed—"

"Anything," Toshinori's words rush out with his blue eyes screwed closed tightly as he grips your hips and slots his mouth back against yours, "Anything you'll give me."

...How is he so romantic? Even in a moment like this? Even when he's blindly seeking friction through his pants, bucking his hips against your own, as he moans into your mouth. 

"Hands? Mouth?" you parrot his line of questioning from your previous encounter; it seems to knock some sense into him.

His breath catches. Blue eyes widen minutely. You feel him twitch beneath you.

"God, mouth, please—"

Who would have ever anticipated you'd be here? 

Who would have ever anticipated you'd be helping him work off his belt, work off his tactical pants? Who knew you'd be watching his taut stomach flex as you push his costume's top higher up his torso, who knew you'd be dragging his stupid All Might-themed boxers down his narrow hips to spring him free? 

Who thought you'd ever see him like this, so desperate and winded and needy? 

Not you, that's for sure. You never thought, in all those years you sat in prison, this would be your life shortly after: giving head — happily — to the man who put you there in the first place. 

And here you are, slipping him a tentative look as you wrap a gloved hand around his hardness and smirk. 

"Is this okay?" you murmur up at him, on your hands and knees. You're teasing him. He knows this. 

Toshinori laughs — an incredulous bark. It's all you need to hear as confirmation. 

The sound splinters into a choked moan when you bend down and take him into your mouth.

He sees stars.

This is going to be a problem.

All he can do is lean back and grip the guard rail over his head for dear life because ho-oly shit. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. His biceps go taut, his knuckles white, and he tries so hard to keep his hips still as you hum around him. His whole body shudders — his thighs tensing under your other hand as you balance above him. 

This is — son of a bitch. Your grip around the base of his cock tightens incrementally, and as you lap at the head of his cock, his thoughts die in a strangled burst of pleasure. 

Then, his hand lands on your cheek.

The touch is reverent. Holy. Tender and adoring.

"Jesus, Der'," he slurs out, his chest heaving up and down as he tries to keep his eyes on you; he can't stare too long. The sight is too much. Too pretty. Mouth full of him, "You're such a good girl." 

There it is. 

The little bit of praise he slipped you before. 

If the iron rail creeks beneath his tightening grip, neither of you pays it any mind. 

You're on your knees, gloved hand around his shaft, watching his face contort into something so wonderfully steeped in bliss. You've got more important things to mind rather than the structural integrity of some stupid rooftop rail. 

Like the way his stomach clenches — the way his abs tighten. Like the way he says your name or the way he chokes out a nervous laugh when you take him just a litttttle deeper. 

"Fucking shit," he hisses; you make a mental note to rib him for his language some other time. Hearing him curse like this is a hell of an indicator for your ego that you're doing a good job, "Der', if you keep that up—"

"What?" you rasp, spit connecting your mouth to his cock, "You'll cum?"

Something snaps. 

It's a flash of red and blue and silver and blonde, his cape tearing through the air. 

Suddenly, you're pinned to the rooftop — gravel scrapes as your boots kick and grapple for purchase. Your elbows scuff against the ground. The wind is swept out of your body and he's kissing you so roughly you swear you taste blood. One of his hands is locked around your jaw. You're effectively trapped. 

All you can do is let out a shaky, startled, yet painfully aroused laugh. 

His other hand isn't gentle — it's tearing at the bottom half of your suit, unceremoniously snapping the button of your tactical pants open and shoving his hand down the front of them. You can feel a slight shake in his fingers as they delve past your underwear and slip into your folds.

"I need you," he hisses; his eyes are dark, and you can see the edge of frustration building. You know the feeling. 

Another kiss.

Suddenly, there are two fingers in you. 

You whine against his mouth.

He doesn't waste any time. He can't. Not when all he can think about is splitting you open on his cock. You're right here and you're soft and beautiful and fuck, he can't even think straight when you clamp down on his middle and ring finger. 

"Be nice," you warn between pants and whines and whimpers. It's an empty threat.

"Or what?" he chirps back, working his fingers in and out; his voice hitches along the syllables, trying his best to sound unaffected by the little breathy sound you let out when he kisses your jaw, "You'll cum?"

It's your turn to laugh. Your hands grapple with his cape, trying to anchor yourself in any way possible. You fist it as his fingers continue the task at hand: opening you up enough to take him. His knees nudge your legs open a little bit farther. Toshinori's body feels like it's on fire. 

His heavy, hot cock drags up the inside of your thigh and he shudders. 

His face is pressed to your shoulder in a flash; it's good because he doesn't see the blissful smile working its way across your face as our own arousal builds. 

"You're soaking wet," he strangles out; his pride is overshadowed by the embarrassing need to have you. He feels like if he doesn't, this raging fever will just get worse and worse and worse. 

"Par for the course," your words hitch on a hot wave of arousal as his palm grinds down against your clit. You grip his wrist, trying to ignore the tell-tale shake in your legs. His hand is holding your face.

"At least I'm doin' something right," he whispers, his breath hot against your cheek as he relinquishes his fingers from your heat and drags your mouth across your jaw, "Y'think... Think you can...?"

Take him? Yea.

You're a brave girl. 

Yea, that shouldn't be a problem. 

What is a problem is your riding gear and hero suit — but Toshinori can't be bothered. He's grappling with them for you, hauling you into his arms as he drags them down enough. They get caught on the tops of your boots, but he doesn't give a shit. Not when you're here, spread, and glistening before him. Not when you're in his lap, half-dressed, and trying to maneuver yourself down onto him with some semblance of grace. 

Everything is bigger when it comes to Mr. Double Detriot Smash.

Again, you're a brave girl. You're not going to shy away from the upgraded dicking down you got last week. Hell, that was great. Filled you up perfectly, and hit all the right spots... and now, you're realizing that the already tight fit is going tobe a littttle tighter. 

Your knees are like jello as your fingertips dig into his shoulders. Your hair is wild — and you're sweating. He's no better off; there's a crease of worry in his brow, even amidst the blinding heat of desire that's eating him up inside. 

He knows he's big. He's huge. He's... 

This is the first time he's ever had sex in this empowered form. 

Not like he advertises this as a service.

He'd be lying through his trademarked smile if he said he wasn't nervous — but there you go, giving him just another reason why he should buy a ring tomorrow and give you everything you've ever wanted because fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, you're so tight and hot and wet and the sound you make the second you sink down on him—

"God, yes, Tosh'."

The gasp that wrings itself from his mouth is utterly pathetic. He doesn't care. He truly can't even think straight — all he can do is dig his fingertips into your hips and slam his mouth against yours to muffle the whines crawling up his throat. 

"Stay right there," you whisper; there's an edge to your voice of warning. He's trying to listen. He's trying to be a—

"Good boy."

You're holding his face and he can't seem to catch his breath. His boots scuff in the dirt, his brows knit, and he inhales sharply when you clamp down on him for good measure. Fuck. Shit. God, nonono. He needs to move. He needs — c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, please.

"Der'—"

You're kissing him again — and then you move. Slow at first, a little hiccup of your hips. Then, more assured, more confident. An easy up, then down. Then again, and again, and again. And again. 

"God, yes," he nearly cries; he smothers his desperate moan into a kiss that melts away time. Toshinori's hands are trying to find purchase, trying to help guide you up and down his cock as best he can. He doesn't want you to do all the work — he wants to help, "You're so fucking good, Der'."

"Y-Yea?" you breathe out, your entire body shuddering at the praise. Your hip tightens, and you don't even have the wherewithal to consider the cramp. You're not stopping for anything.

Not when this is, like, the hottest thing you've ever done. 

"You have no idea," he melts into another kiss that's all tongue and adoration, his bare thread composure snapping up like his hips in a testing manner, "Lemme fuck you, please, Der', please, please, I promise I'll be good—"

It certainly felt good.

All you can do is hold onto his shoulders. 

If you've learned one thing in the time you've known Toshinori Yagi, it's that he's a man of his word. He holds promises in the deepest homes of his heart, ensuring that nothing prevents him from honoring them. He's dedicated entirely to those around him and to seeing them prevail. Toshinori, even on his worst days, never makes a promise he can't keep. 

So, promising he'll be good?

I mean — it depends on the definition, doesn't it?

If 'good' is desperate, pathetic, fast drillings of his hips as you cling to him and gasp? If 'good' is filthy, muttered praise into your collarbone as he slams into you again, and again, and again?

If 'good' is scrambling in the gravel, being pressed flat as he takes you from behind?

Then, yea.

He's really good.

He's incredibly good — especially as he presses his chest to your back, and wraps his arm around your front. His fingers are greedily pushing through your folds as he keeps up his thoroughly rough pace. The thick, calloused pads of his ring and middle finger grace your clit and you nearly scream. 

The gravel is biting into your knees and palms but you don't care. Not when his mouth is on your neck and he keeps saying your name over and over and over and over again as he drives you into the ground. Not Derecho. Not some tender version of a nickname.

Your name. 

The hot fire of your arousal is building steadily — the wet, explicit sounds of him pushing his cock into you over and over again as he pins you are doing plenty, but it's the way he says your name that really seals your fate. 

Toshinori isn't here right now. Come back in two business days. He's lost in the bone-deep influence of this quirk, hellbent on filling you up and proving he's a good boy. He can give you everything. A ring, a house, a life — three more motorbikes and whatever you want on top of that. 

Fuck, he loves you.

Your fingers dig into the rooftop. 

"Oh, fuck, Toshi — yes," you cry; there's a crack in your voice, "Right there. K-Keep... Keep doing that—"

"C'mon, I wanna f-feel you cum," he babbles as you bury your face into his elbow bracing his weight, "Come on, Der', you're such a good girl, you're taking me so well, I know you c-can—"

Everything is Toshinori. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, and his voice — so low and honeyed — is right in your ear as he moans.

Even now, he's ever so selfless.

"I need you to cum first," he grits as his fingers work your clit just a little faster, "C'mon, Der', you're doing so good — you deserve it, you deserve to cum so hard—"

Your knees jerk — and the world's best orgasm rushes up to meet you headfirst. A snap of lightning ignites your skin as you lose all control, and so suddenly Toshinori is right behind you, tumbling down the white-hot bliss of the best sex he's ever had in his life. 

He made you snap, he made you lose control, h-he made you cum—

His composure shatters. There's a guttural sound wrenched from deep in his chest and it's delicious. He finishes with a series of frantic thrusts that make you whine. His mouth is on your neck, your cheek, then your mouth. 

You crane yourself back, humming delightfully into the kiss that quells the rolling tide of desire into something softer. 

His whole body shudders as the after-quakes of your orgasm ripple along him. All Toshi can do is smother his sounds into another kiss. This one is slower. It's needy in a different way. 

When the kiss finally slows, it takes a second for him to peel his eyes open.

You look thoroughly wrecked. 

Your expression is that of a woman exhausted. 

Toshinori is suddenly aware of his own bulk, his own weight. Gently, he presses a hand to your cheek as he pushes himself up and off of you. His muscles burn — and pulling out of you makes his entire chest ache. 

The feeling wrings a gasp out of you. 

You exhale slowly, through pursed lips. Then, you brace yourself up on your elbows and hang your head. Toshinori flops gracelessly onto his back, his arms and legs spread with his half-hard cock sloped against his stomach. Your slick is coating him. His pants are half down around his ankles, and his usual up-right bangs have sagged. From heat or exhaustion, you're not sure. 

It sure as hell is cute. 

"You okay?" you ask after a second, taking him in as he begins to catch his breath. 

"Oh, yea, just peachy," he rumbles. The thousand-yard stare into the evening air is a hell of a thing on him. 

It makes you bark out a laugh.

Toshinori lolls his head to the side lazily, taking you in.

Your knees and elbows are bleeding. You're picking out the gravel stuck to your palms. You're in no better of a state — your pants are half on, wrenched down over your riding boots, and your uniform's top is pushed up over your breasts. His orgasm is leaking out of you, and the insides of your thighs are coated with your own arousal. Your hair is a mess. 

You're both messes.

You laugh again — and his own laugh starts shortly thereafter. Before you two know it, you're both locked in a laughing match that only ends when you try to reach to shove his shoulder. Your abs burn. Toshinori tries to muscle the grin off his face but fails.

Fuck. 

Fuck, that feeling hasn't gone away. 

It wasn't guilt.

Mayday, mayday, abort, abort, it wasn't guilt. He's smiling at you in the moonlight, looking so utterly wrecked and handsome and gentle—

His hand moves, a single crux finger gracing the curve of your arm soothingly. It's slow. Tentative. Hesitant. Not too much, not too little. 

Toshinori's voice is rough with sheepishness.

"Are we, uh, are we never gonna talk about this, too?" he asks. 

The touch and the question make your heart kick into a stutter. 

You swallow roughly.

"I..." you drop your head, as you wet your lips; play it cool, "Is it something you... want to talk about?"

"...Do you?"

A non-answer.

Your lashes flutter as your stare widens. You open your mouth, about to say something, but suddenly both of your phones are blaring with a city-wide alert. 

It takes a second for it to register — and as suddenly as the moment came, it went. 

ALERT, ALERT, ALL PROS REPORT TO CITY HALL, MULTIPLE HOSTAGES, ARMED GUNMAN, ALL PROS REPORT TO CITY HALL, ALERT, ALERT!  

You're struggling to haul your pants up as All Might fumbles with his belt. You hop on one foot, cursing as he scrambles for his phone in the gravel.

"You gotta be kidding me," he grits quietly, thumbing through the notification as you struggle in the middle distance behind him, tripping into your pack as you try and button your pants. 

"Time to go?" you ask pathetically as you try to ignore the feel of after-sex between your legs. 

"I guess that conversation is going to have to wait until later," he says apologetically, bending to grab your helmet. He offers it as you shrug on your pack; there's a sudden cocky confidence seeping back into his posture, "So let's make this quick, shall we?"

You swallow down a rush of worship. 

"I guess so," you remark easily, again trying your best to seem cool. That's your whole persona after all. Little miss spiteful, cold, rough-around-the-edges...

Beautiful, perfect, lovely, Toshi muses as you shove your helmet on and jut your chin his way. You flick your eyes toward the edge of the building.

He's already got a running start. 

"After you, All Might."

"Race you there, Derecho." 

[to-the-stars8]

A Table for Two

Jason Todd x Reader Chapters Ao3

Chapter 6

“Maybe if you knew how to cook we wouldn’t be in this fuckin’ mess!” she shouted over her shoulder, voice cutting through the clatter of pans and the hiss of the flat-top grill.

“Run the fuckin’ food, Amira!” Lamar bellowed from behind the line, his face flushed with heat—whether that was from the grill or pure rage, you couldn’t tell.

Amira scoffed dramatically, flipping her braids over her shoulder. “Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath, snatching the plate from under the heat lamp and marching through the swinging doors.

You had been cutting lemons when Jason came up behind you, whispering into your ear, “They hate each other, huh?”

You jumped slightly, the whisper catching you off guard—warm breath against your skin, close enough to short-circuit your brain. For a full fifteen seconds, words completely abandoned you. Just vanished.

When you finally turned to face him, Jason leaned casually against the counter beside you, just a little too close, like he hadn't quite figured out how personal space worked in a professional kitchen. His eyes flicked from your face to your hands, then back up again, curious but unreadable.

“Nah,” you said, shaking the fog from your thoughts. “They don’t hate each other. They just get way too into the job sometimes.” You laughed softly, sliding the last few lemon wedges into the plastic white tub. “I gotta get back to my tables before Nicky accuses me of hiding.”

He nodded, watching you with that faint smile that seemed like he was trying to figure you out.

You pushed through the swinging doors but paused halfway. Glancing back, you caught Jason turning toward the back shelves to grab another tub.

“Hey, Jason,” you called.

He turned, one brow raised.

“A bunch of us are going to Murphy’s after shift. You should come.”

He looked down, wiping his hands on an old, grease-stained rag. For a second, he didn’t answer. Then he glanced up, the corners of his mouth turned upwards. There was a faint pink flush creeping up his neck, so subtle you could’ve chalked it up to the kitchen heat. But your gut told you it wasn’t.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, voice softer than usual.

You nodded once, then pushed through the door, letting it swing closed behind you.

The rest of the shift passed in a blur. Orders came and went, drinks were poured, tables were wiped down with the usual half-assed effort. It was one of the rare times where everything in the restaurant ran smoothly. You could see the light at the end of the tunnel. It wasn’t much longer until you were two beers deep at Murphy’s, forgetting the entirety of your shift. 

Yet, if you had learned anything being in the service industry, someone always came along to ruin the moment for everyone. 

You were seconds away from untying your apron when the front door chimed. Lamar had stepped out of the kitchen, muttering something under his breath as he scanned the dining room. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hissed when he heard Elena greet another guest. 

The rest of the kitchen had gone home, and now it was only you, Jason, Elena, and Lamar holding down the fort. Nicky was there, too, but, being holed up in the office, he practically wasn’t. 

You couldn’t see who had walked in, but then came Elena’s bright, polished greeting: “Good evening, Mr. Dent! How’re you tonight?”

You froze and glanced over to Jason who was emerging from the kitchen. Oh, he wasn’t going to like this at all. 

He watched from the door of the kitchen as Harvey Dent–Two-Face as he was more commonly known as now–was sat at the far end of the restaurant. He was dressed in a black suit, and the brown half of his hair was smoothed back. Around him were about three tall, large ment all adorned in black and one skinny guy with glasses and a brown sweater. Probably some bodyguards and an accountant. 

Jason sidled up behind you again, like he had some sixth sense for showing up right when you were about to emotionally unravel. He let out a low chuckle. “You’re stuck here now, huh?”

You sighed, head dropping back just slightly. “Just as I was about to leave.”

He laughed again, before disappearing into the back again. Truthfully, you didn’t mind that much since Mr. Dent wasn’t too bad of a customer. It really depended on the day, though. Sometimes he could be as bad as Cobblepot, and others he was really sweet. Getting out your notepad you started over to his table, forcing a grin on your face. 

“Hi, Mr. Dent, how’re you?”

He nodded at you with a tight, polite smile. “Hopefully you have a good dinner tonight.”

“I say we do, but I’m a little partial,” You said with a forced laugh. That had been the third time you had said that line today. 

Harvey grumbled something under his breath, eyes scanning the menu with the disinterest of someone who already knew exactly what he wanted and was just humoring you. After a second, he held it out towards you. “The lasagna bolognese, please. And a glass of Barolo.”

You nodded, taking the menu from his outstretched hand and jotting the order quickly into your server’s notebook. “And for your friends?”

That earned you a low snicker. Harvey leaned back, lips tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. For a fleeting second, he looked human. Maybe even handsome, in that tragic, weary way. You were too young to remember District Attorney Harvey Dent, but in that moment, you could see the faintest echo of the man he used to be.

“Gentlemen?” Mr. Dent cocked an eyebrow at his men. 

They exchanged a quick glance before answering in unison, deadpan: “We’re good, boss.”

With that, you went to the kitchen to give Lamar the order and pour the glass of wine. Once the ticket was on the rack for Lamar and the wine had been carefully poured, you emerged from the kitchen only to find Jason standing at the server station, his gaze locked on Harvey’s table.

“What are you doing?” you asked in a low voice, sliding the glass onto your tray.

Jason didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was tight, his brows drawn into a furrow, and his hands were clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust them not to do something stupid. When you lightly touched his arm, it was enough to pull him back to the room. He snapped his head toward you like he’d forgotten you were even there.

“You can go, Jason,” you said gently. “We’ll be fine.”

Jason shook his head, mumbling something you couldn't quite hear. 

Moment's later, one of the bodyguard's stomped toward the two of you. He was taller than the rest, with the kind of stillness that made your skin crawl. His eyes barely flicked to you before locking on the wineglass in your hand.

“That for Mr. Dent?” he asked, voice low and flat. You nodded once, resisting the urge to take a step back. In one quick motion, the guy's large, calloused hand snatched the glass from your tray. “We’ll let you know if you’re needed.”

 Jason stiffened beside you, and you felt it—the barely restrained instinct to step between you and the huge bodyguard. You saw the way his jaw tensed, how his mouth opened just slightly, like he was about to say something that would definitely get him killed. You didn’t give him the chance. Your fingers tightened around his wrist as you turned, guiding him toward the kitchen.

For a guy who supposedly hated mob bosses, he sure looked ready to mouth off to one. 

Through the small round window in the door, the two of you peeked out. Harvey sipped his wine slowly, chatting with his men like they were at a book club and not, you know, allegedly involved in organized crime.

Behind you, Lamar was cursing up a storm from behind the line.

“Don’t tell me that asshole ordered something else,” he grumbled as he slapped a portion of pasta onto a plate. 

“No. No,” Jason said, padding around his pockets. “The fuck are my cigs?”

You watched him for a second, vaguely amused as he checked every inch of his apron and jeans like he expected a secret pocket to reveal itself. When he gave up and looked genuinely irritated, you turned toward your locker and popped it open. Most of the kitchen staff smoked to survive the job, and you'd learned early on that carrying an extra pack kept you in their good graces

You pulled out a half-full pack of cigarettes, turning back toward Jason just as he looked up expectantly. But instead of handing them over, you clutched the pack to your chest, smiling wickedly.

“You really need one right now?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Jason nodded, hand out and his face trying so hard to stay serious. “Yes.”

You held firm, lifting your chin. “Come out with us after work, and I’ll give you the smokes.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes, though there was a flicker of amusement behind the exasperation. “Fine,” he said, dragging out the word like it cost him something. “Just give ’em.”

“If you kids are done flirting,” Lamar barked without turning around, “one of you wanna run this fuckin’ food?”

You muttered something under your breath about not flirting as you grabbed the plate from the window and handed the pack to Jason. 

Pushing through the swinging doors, you tried to ignore the flush in your cheeks. Behind you, Jason plucked a cigarette from the pack and tucked it between his lips. Then he stepped out into the alley with that quiet, cocky little smile that suggested he’d gotten something he wanted—cigarette and your attention.

[fatuismooches]

cor meum, manus tuas.

synopsis: After your illness strikes again, Dottore decides to gift you a failed experi-, a new companion in order to soothe your injured heart.

includes: dottore w/ gn! reader

notes: A cute fluff fic where Dottie gives you Foxttore and the pufflings as a pet (the blue monster creature from Nahida's fairy tale.) He loves you a lot. Really just pure fluff and Foxttore getting on Dottore's nerves. Enjoy!

For as long as Il Dottore had known you, you had always been one to suggest things that he had no interest in. It was a habit of yours, and sometimes he’s not sure if you’re being genuine about it or if you simply want to rile him up, as you usually do.

One such example was back in the Akademiya when the two of you finally successfully reversed-engineered one of those machines after a painstaking amount of work. It was arduous and tiring, but immensely rewarding. Oh, he had so many ideas and things to do now, but you- you had other plans.

“So, now that we’ve got it under our control, I think we should program it to have some new tricks.” Zandik had paused at your words, as for once that was a good idea. He wondered what the limit of such a killing machine could possibly be.

“Go on.”

“Alright, imagine this, it’s about to swoop in and land the finishing blow, but instead, a whole bunch of confetti pops out and-”

“No.”

“You can’t even pick up a sword properly. You know nothing about fighting like I do! Just hear me out, it’ll be a great distraction because they’d never be expecting that, and boom, that’s where the real attack comes in.”

“No.” (Later on, he found out that you’d programmed the thing to have a single flower shoot out, just for him. He swiftly removed it after you were done laughing.) 

Or when you had begged and pleaded with him to let you teach him how to cook, just once. It was no secret you were always the one on cooking duty during the Akademiya, for he had a severe lack of skill for it. Furthermore, Zandik had no interest in it, not having the time or patience for something just meant as sustenance. You, however, were insistent on at least teaching him the basics, for it was no way for a student to live (according to you.)

The slicing and dicing went well enough, but the moment you turned your back for a few moments, he had somehow set the smoke detector off, and the Akademiya’s dorm director gave you two a good scolding. You learned your lesson after this particular incident, but from your giggles, he knew you didn’t feel an ounce of regret.

Your antics were truly something he wouldn’t get used to. And now, over four hundred years later, your teasing nature had remained the same, only that it became more verbal as you didn’t have the strength to pull off your elaborate plans anymore.

Which is why lately you had been clinging to him with pleading eyes and a jutted lip, vehemently asking for a pet despite his numerous rejections, going so far as to try and recruit other segments (who, unfortunately for you, did not join your cause.)

“Please honey, my darling, my beloved, my-”

“My answer is not going to change, [Name]. I will not tolerate anything running around and causing a mess.”

“Aww, but come on. I know you love cats. I know you secretly pet them when no one’s looking. I know that-”

“That’s enough from you. Now, will you sit or should I strap you down instead?”

That line of conversation persisted for a while until you mostly gave up, only throwing the idea in from time to time with a hmph. But now, he was uncharacteristically wondering if there could be a solution to this problem. 

Lately, you had been confined to your bed and room, too physically weak to move around much. He and the segments had done their best, as they always do, to take care of you, but one did not need to be a genius to know that you were feeling down. Not only because of the aches your body gave you, but also because you were lonely for most of the day, seeing as his other selves were usually too busy to spend an adequate amount of time with you. Once again, despite his lack of care for the emotions and feelings of others, he could see straight through your feigned expressions of nonchalance.

Dottore hated it when you pretended around him.

He could raise the topic but it would probably make matters worse. Instead, it was much more logical to work toward a solution for the issue - the solution being a companion to keep a smile on your face, and your mind at ease. Now, an actual pet probably would be a hassle to maintain in the lab, knowing the kind of activities that were… well, unsafe to say the least, so he put that possible solution to the side for now.

Initially, he sought to create something mechanical, having seen the mechanical animals from Fontaine. Of course, his creation would be far superior, and it would be quite helpful with your condition and all. But upon further thinking, knowing your tastes… you’d probably prefer something softer, considering how much you liked to cuddle him and your plushies. 

It was a conundrum the scholar found himself in, making his darling lover happy was not something that could be so easily scientifically concocted like the rest of the conclusions he reached. It required much more than simply following the lines of reason. Perhaps that’s why Dottore often struggled with it. 

Yet he did not have the luxury of time to continue pondering, for he did not want to leave you by yourself for much longer. And so he continued to sit at his desk, his hands automatically filling out paperwork while his mind was focused elsewhere, still thinking about what he could possibly gift you. Something warm and cuddly with the ability to communicate with you to some extent…

That was when he remembered something he created long, long ago.

The memories of that creation came back to him rather quickly once he remembered. Dottore remembered every experiment he’d done, but some were just not very special or successful and lingered very little in his mind. This was one of those unnoteworthy results. It was no secret that he was known to… play around with the concept of life, ignoring the rules that guarded it so strictly… and it was this idea that led to the birth of a creature, one that certainly did not belong to this world.

It was a monstrous, furry black thing that hid its true self with some kind of suit, its lone eye bright and red. It hadn’t been the first time his experiments led him to the unknown, but this… was just something he didn’t care about at all. After a few tests on the creature, he lost interest rather quickly. It was the farthest thing away from the life Dottore wanted to toy with. In fact, he had planned to dispose of the thing, but the creature seemed to understand his words more than he anticipated. It quickly scurried away, creating chaos and knocking down almost everything it could, skillfully making its escape.

Dottore had contemplated searching for his odd creation but decided that it wasn’t worth the time or energy. Judging from the distaste it held for him, it probably wouldn’t come around anyway. So, it could exist in the far depths of the lab for all he cared. It wasn’t like this was the first time he threw things into the back and forgot about them. Now, he was rather pleased that he didn’t get rid of his experiment. He had known you for long enough that he was sure you’d find such a thing cute, for some reason. It checked the fluffy and easily holdable boxes too. His only question was whether it could be alive after all these years… well, it was certainly worth a shot, seeing as his solutions were limited.

The answer to Dottore’s question was a yes. It had unfortunately taken much longer than he’d liked to search the dusty rooms (although admittedly, he had gotten a bit distracted with reviewing the old things he dumped) but at long last, he had found the round creature peacefully dozing without a care in… some kind of bed it had crafted with a bunch of papers and black fur. It looked perfectly content… in all honesty, Dottore was a bit interested in what it had been up to all this time. Maybe it held more scientific value than he thought… 

Regardless, in one swift motion, Dottore grabbed the creature by the scruff of its neck and it immediately awoke, attempting to scramble away. Once its single eye laid on the man who so rudely interrupted its sleep, it blinked, before multiplying its strength to escape, even trying to scratch him, but to no avail. The Harbinger’s grip was far too strong, of course. Meanwhile, Dottore had already lost a bit of patience from the creature’s incessant movements.

“Stop that,” he demanded sharply, and the critter instantly went still as its eye continued to stare at him completely widened. Dottore smiled, which felt rather eerie and frightening to the oversized creature.

“What, did you think I came all the way here to finish the job? Oh no, if I wanted to, I would have done so already a long time ago. Instead, I have another use for you. Something that will benefit both of us. I’m sure you’ll agree,” he hummed as he turned to leave the room. But as he took a single step, he found himself stepping on something soft. Curiously lifting his foot, he looked down to see a small, black, round ball of fluff staring at him with a red eye identical to the creature he held in his hand. And then another came into view.

… And another. Soon at least over a dozen had popped out of the shadows, all watching at him with anticipating eyes. He had forgotten these balls of black fur were also a byproduct of creating the creature. Now quite a few had surrounded his feet and were hopping up and down, attempting to climb his pants, which he quickly shook off with a scowl. Well, it looked like these things were going to follow him regardless of what he said…

“If you all are going to follow me, be prepared to make yourself useful,” he sighed in exasperation before finally leaving, stepping on a few more in the process. (The usefulness in question, was making sure you’d be left with a smile.) Based on the odd squeaking noises the smaller creatures made, they seemed to be on board with the idea. 

—

When your husband suddenly presented you with a gift contained in a rather large box, you were a bit surprised. Not because you were receiving a gift, but because of the size of it. Normally, he would give you small trinkets and such, things he’d thought you’d like (that had no real purpose to him, retrieved solely for you. Yes, he was very cute unintentionally. You had a little shelf for his stuff.) But you had no clue what he could have possibly gotten for you that warranted the need for such a big container…

You had long discarded your book in favor of new entertainment (you were reading the same sentences over and over anyway), your hands gliding over the rough material. Dottore was looking at you expectantly, having barely said anything besides shoving the thing on your bed, with a simple “for you.” You couldn’t help but chuckle, your chest getting a bit lighter from the previously stuffy atmosphere dissipating.

“Are you going to explain yourself or leave me guessing as to what I’ve done to receive such a thing?”

“You have been lonely and tired, and I seek to alleviate your pain. Yet there are certain things I cannot always do, which is why I found a solution,” he stated simply, pushing the box closer to you as if it was no big deal. Your eyes widened as your jaw hung, speechless, before you sent a small, teasing smile to your husband.

“I… well, who knew you could be such a considerate man? Keep that up and you’ll make me blush.” You couldn’t help but heat up a bit from his concern, although he didn’t say it outright. And you didn’t really have it in you to deny his words too, he was right after all, you have been lonely and tired from being cooped up in your room all day.

“Still, I want a hint! Ah, it’s too heavy for me to even lift up…” You couldn’t guess what could be in here. “Could it be the latest new novels from Inazuma?”

“No, but those are on the way. It’s something more-” At that moment, the box slightly shifted and you blinked in surprise.

“Oh, oh! Are these new models of Beta’s miniature Ruin Machines? Did he finally make the Ruin Sentinels series?” In truth, initially, the segment wasn’t interested in creating such pointless machines, but after you oh so innocently challenged him to make them movable and fit in the palm of your hand, he took the bait and presented them to you smugly. Needless to say, you very much liked your little collection of action figures, and you were hoping he had finally made ones that could fly.

“No, it’s-” Once again, he was interrupted by even more dramatic shuffling, thumping echoing loudly from inside the box which made you scoot back a bit.

“Dottore, you sure whatever’s in here isn’t going to attack me…?” Your voice was more lighthearted than worried, but now you were squinting at him a bit suspiciously. Dottore’s expression remained unaffected, but inside he was the slightest bit annoyed. He had told those damn things not to move around. Thankfully, a sharp slap to the cover of the box caused the movements to cease, and he only smiled at you once again.

“As I was saying, it’s something you have been asking about for a long time.” He watched as your face turned thoughtful, fingers drumming when suddenly it became very obvious as to what it was. 

“Is it… is it what I think it is?” He found your expression rather amusing as he witnessed your eyes becoming sparkly with joy.

“Go ahead,” Dottore motioned and you wasted no time pulling the cover off the box, your eyes meeting a furry, blue creature whose lone eye gazed up at you curiously. You blinked at it, and it blinked back at you, but you had no time to say anything before some other unknown creatures began pouring out the box and spilling onto your bed, some crawling on your lap. This was certainly not the average pet you had expected… but you were not complaining. These things were the cutest - not to mention the little strand of hair on the top.

“Dottore,” you giggled at the fluff tickling your skin, “what exactly are these- oh!” Your words were interrupted when the larger creature suddenly jumped out of the box and launched itself into you, pawing your chest. You reciprocated the attention in delight, giving it numerous head pats and taking a closer look at it. Most of its soft fur seemed to be blue, although its head was black, and its beak was harder than the rest of its body. Regardless, it was completely adorable, and it seemed to like you very much.

“It is something I created in my lab during one of my experiments. I figured it would be something you’d enjoy.” You lit up, and the scholar couldn’t help but appreciate how you seemed to glow.

“You made these little guys for me? Oh, I always knew you could be such a romantic! I have my husband, my son, and now a cute pet. Isn’t it nice to see our family grow, Zandik?” He remained silent at your hastily made conclusion, deciding that the little white lie wouldn’t hurt, especially not when you looked this happy. After all, he imagined your response to him keeping this creature in the backrooms of his laboratory for ages wouldn’t be very well received, considering how attached you were to it already. Thankfully, you didn’t notice the glare the creature sent him either.

“Do they have names yet?” Dottore thought back to the string of numbers and letters attached to this experiment and opted not to disclose that, shaking his head. You hummed, trying to think of what name to bestow upon your new pets until you quickly came up with something good.

“Foxttore,” you stated firmly.

“Foxttore?” He repeated a few seconds after you, rather unimpressed.

“Yes! Because he looks like a fox, and he also kind of looks like you!” You playfully squished the creature’s cheeks.

“I bear no resemblance to that creature,” he frowned, immediately refuting your statement.

“Don’t look like that,” you teased. “It’s a compliment. You’re both cuties that are the same shade of blue,” you leaned in to kiss him gently, a simple way to silence him despite his vexation. “Now as for these little ones…” you thought once more as the black puff balls clung to your arm, Dottorelings… no, that’s too long… how about pufflings? Yes, that will do nicely!” Seemingly understanding your words, the pufflings began jumping up and down in glee. You then moved closer to the man and enveloped him in a hug.

“Thank you for this, Zandik. I am very happy,” you whispered quietly as you snuggled into his neck. It was the truth - you really were happy to have some company constantly around. Your husband returned the hug and you loved how his strong arms felt around you.

“Of course. But if they happen to cause you any… trouble,” he sent a look to the thing now called “Foxttore”, “be sure to tell me.”

“Aww, don’t say that. Foxttore is a good boy! Right?” You smiled brightly at your new pet, who was kneading the blanket, watching the two of you. The contrast between its creator’s less-than-pleasant face and your wide grin was stark and rather easy to choose from. It then hopped up and practically wedged itself in between the two of you, looking up to you with a pleading eye, desperate for attention. You squealed with delight and pressed the creature to your cheek, nuzzling against it.

When Dottore noticed the cheeky look his creation sent him, he wondered if this was actually a good idea.

—

Foxttore and the pufflings were the best and cutest companions you could ever ask for.

The pufflings were always scattered about your room, resting in different locations. You honestly had no clue how many there were, nor could you tell them apart, but you swore they squeezed through the bottom of your door somehow because sometimes they’d return with random items. They seemed pretty starved for attention… they even liked it when you squished them like a stress ball.

Foxttore was equally as cuddly, but also rather intelligent. He would fetch you items so you didn’t need to get up, and he could even turn a doorknob… you were fascinated. One of your favorite things to do was give him a note for him to deliver to a segment, and he would actually deliver it. (Said note usually contained you begging a segment to visit you, otherwise you’d die without their attention.)

After a lot of cuddling and rubbing, you found out that Foxttore was just a severely oversized puffling with four legs instead. That blue fur of his wasn’t even his, just a suit he wore. It was quite funny to see him without it on. It seemed rather shy without its fox fur, but with enough kisses, hugs, and reassurance, it had no problem lounging around without it.

You read them stories, showed them everything your room had to offer, placed some of Beta’s cute pink bows on them, bathed with them - you were starting to look forward to the day much more now that you could wake up to them.

—

While Dottore knew that you would get attached to the little monstrosities he gifted you, perhaps he didn’t anticipate it to reach this degree. Even after you had gotten well enough to stroll around the lab again, the blasted things were attached to your hip the whole time.

Visiting the segments? They would come up to you, caressing and teasing you with their deliciously infuriating small touches and kisses, and then all of a sudden a small crash would sound throughout the room, the culprit being Foxttore.

Visiting him? He’d have you on his lap, about to pin you to his desk, when he noticed the pufflings watching him from all corners of the room. It was maddening trying to chase them away, but then you’d get pouty about how the creatures didn’t like to be alone. (The only segment that the creature seemed to like was Zandy, although it had taken a while - a bit of scolding from you, and many offerings of food from the child to Foxttore had done the trick.)

As much as Dottore was glad your mood had improved greatly, admittedly, it would please him if he could just chuck his creations out into the Snezhnayan snow, just to finally get some alone time with you. But you loved them too much, so he resolved to resort to other means… eventually.

Over time, your pets gradually began to not hog your attention the whole time, but you were very insistent on helping Dottore and them become friends. It wasn’t very easy, however, they seemed to have some tension between them. You weren’t really sure why, but you still loved having them together.

—

“Dottore! Oh Dottore, you have to watch this,” you puffed out your chest proudly as Foxttore trotted behind you. Your husband looked at you questioningly before you spread your arms out, directing them toward the creature.

“I taught Foxttore tricks! Watch this! Foxttore, sit!” Your pet obediently sat down, his tail wagging (although you had no clue how that worked since it was just a suit…)

“Foxttore, spin around!”

“Foxttore, roll over!”

“Now high-five me!” Dottore watched in amusement as the blue creature followed your commands with ease. Perhaps it really was smarter than he thought. Regardless, all he cared about was that you were occupied with something, rather than being by yourself.

“Okay, now fetch Dottore’s secret stash of sweets!” At that, Foxttore began making its way over to one of the numerous bookshelves in Dottore’s office before the Harbinger quickly realized what you said, and stopped the creature in its tracks.

“I knew there were too many pieces missing,” he stared at you humorlessly, while you sweated nervously.

“W-What? You said I was allowed to take some!”

“I said you, not this… thing,” the man then picked up Foxttore by its strands of blue hair, which the creature fought at, and dropped it in your arms like it was some pest. “I’m moving it.” 

“Please don’t! I won’t do it again!”

—

The continued pampering of Foxttore had, unfortunately for your lovers, become a norm to see around the lab. He was a spoiled lil shit, in other words, who could do no wrong in your eyes… which is why every new thing you did had little to no effect on them anymore besides an eye twitch of annoyance and a promise to bully the creature later. The current situation was one such time. Dottore had come into your room only to see many abnormally small clothes scattered on your bed, with you in the center of it all.

“Oh Dottie, you’re just in time! Look at what I got!” You then held up Foxttore in all his glory, his new hoodie substantially thinner with different patterns, a great big smile on your face.

… It was only you who had the privilege of using his time like this.

“Now before you ask how I got these, I had them custom-made! See, I wanted to sew the clothes myself, but my hands have been too shaky lately and then you’d get all grumpy if I hurt myself with the needle, so I just asked Columbina to find someone for me and she did! She’s a great friend!” You continued to ramble on. 

“See, the poor thing gets too hot sometimes, especially when he starts running on our walks,” you said sadly, while he wondered how exactly you walked this monstrosity, “that’s why I got him different clothes! And they’re stylish too! Look, he’s even got pajamas! Don’t you think it’s cute?” You looked at him, your eyes sparkling and glittering with light that dazzled him.

In all honesty, Dottore didn’t really care about the little abomination of a creature. In fact, he probably leaned more into disdain for it. But what he did care about was you, and what made you happy, what put a smile on your face since he hated for it to be missing.

“I believe your definition of cute is rather unusual.”

“Huh? How could you not think Foxttore is the cutest thing ever? Oh… I see your game. You think I’m the cutest thing ever, don’t you?” You boldly teased him which didn’t phase him, only making a confident smirk grow on his face.

“I suppose that would be accurate, yes. Nothing else comes to mind that could be compared to your beauty,” he said smoothly, plucking the creature from your hands and dropping it elsewhere, which it clearly disliked, but he was more interested in your reaction. Your mouth slightly ajar, heat creeping up your face with a flustered expression, breathing speeding up a bit.

“A-As long as you’re aware,” you mumbled shyly, turning your face away, although your slight smile was apparent.

Needless to say, Zandik was always aware of his beloved.

—

You always loved it when you were able to leave the lab. Sometimes they were frequent outings, sometimes they were very rare. It all depended on how well you had been feeling lately. Today, you had finally been able to go out for a short walk with Dottore after so long. The cold air and snow had you shivering, but feeling the wind hit your cheeks was worth it. (And being able to cling to your husband was a definite plus in your books.) But you were still happy to come back home.

… Especially when you were greeted by your little friend.

As soon as you walked through the door, you noticed that Foxttore was impatiently waiting by the entrance. The moment he saw you, he sped toward you at light speed and pawed at your legs for pets, hopping up and down. You couldn’t help but laugh as you bent down to give him some attention which he happily reciprocated, but then he pulled away and started wildly running around the two of you.

“Aww, Foxttore is having zoomies!”

“… Pardon?”

“He’s having zoomies!” You smiled at your husband before crouching down, and your pet immediately ran into your arms and settled himself there as you picked him up. “Aww, you must have missed us so much, didn’t you?” You cooed as you rubbed his tummy, while Dottore merely stared at you blankly. The man then noticed the creature’s eye had narrowed into a half circle directed toward him as if to mock him. 

If there was a point system between the two of them as to who was able to steal your attention more, Dottore would sorely be losing.

—

It was one of the few nights where you were able to spend a night like most couples do at the end of the day - resting in the same bed with your lover. You weren’t even sure how you managed to do it this time. You thought it was probably due to your persistence but also that he was genuinely tired. (Well, he had been genuinely tired for ages now, but you were able to get him on a weak day, perhaps.)

You had always loved it when Dottore held you, even if it was slack or just one arm, you always felt safe. Protected. Warm. Happy. The feelings only amplified when both his arms caged you into his chest, which was the perfect place for you to snuggle. (Still, he’d never admit to being the little spoon from when he was a student.)

“Hey, Zandik?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for everything you’ve done lately, by the way.”

“Of course,” his answer was as simple as could be. He stroked your hair languidly, always one to brush off your thank yous.

“I mean it,” you wiggled out of his grip to look him in the eye, lip jutting out slightly.

“I already know you do. You do not need to keep saying it every time.” You pouted at his response. How else were you supposed to show your appreciation? You then grabbed his arm, which was surprisingly pliable, and placed his hand over your heart.

“Then let me know if you need anything from me. Anything at all. I have to pay you back eventually, you know.” Dottore looked as if he was enjoying himself.

“What do you propose? I’ll listen to your suggestions.”

“Well… I have kisses and cuddles as my expertise. I can cook and bake for you sometimes too… oh, but I can also try doing some of your paperwork! …What? You’re not impressed? I guess I can try to do some more… unsavory tasks as well. The Fatui agents listen to what I have to say quite easily,” you continued to chatter as Dottore’s fingers made their way from your cheek to your neck and then your collarbone, making you stammer at the sensation. “Hey, you’re not even taking me seriously, are you?” Your husband only chuckled at your furrowed eyebrows and grumbling.

If anything, he would want you to repay him by letting him see the faces you’ll make once you’re finally free of your illness.

“Anyway…” you squeezed his hand with yours that still rested on your chest, “You probably know this already, with that ever-calculating mind of yours, but you hold my heart in your hands. I’ll always be here with you.” It was a funny thing to think about, giving your heart to someone like him, in both a physical and intangible sense. Trusting him with your frail body, trusting him with your love, knowing he could squeeze it to a pulp if he wanted to. But he wouldn’t.

He would treat your heart with the utmost care and precaution, not daring to risk even the slightest harm to it.

Dottore stared at you for a few moments while you held his gaze, resolute on making your point known. Wordlessly, he began to move closer to your soft lips, intent on making his response to your statement physical. He was so close, his nose brushing against yours, and your warm breath on his. He was about to finally satiate his desire when-

Something was scratching at the door. Loudly, too. The sudden noise made you jump back and turn your gaze to the door. The Harbinger had a bad feeling about this.

“Did you hear that?”

“No.”

“You’re just lying now!” With a huff, you pushed the blankets off, much to his displeasure, and made your way to the door, opening it. There was Foxttore, making strange noises that he tried his best to mask as cries.

The bliss Dottore felt a few moments ago had turned to immense annoyance immediately.

“Oh, you poor baby! Did you have a nightmare or something?” You exclaimed before quickly scooping Foxttore into your arms and bringing him onto the bed. “It’s okay, you’re with us now…” You softly murmured, stroking it gently as you let it settle on your chest. Where Dottore’s hands should be right now, cupping your soft skin instead of that damned creature.

Dottore swore he was going to throw that thing out once you were asleep.

[emiqip]

apocalyptic ponyo au!! ft. shockweaves little menaces. @keferon

One week had passed since Skids saw the ocean swallow their city whole. 

It happened during one of those lazy days in the Dead End: with the cold season drawing near, few people roamed the dirty narrow alleys, more preoccupied scavenging for a place to settle down and spend the winter. He and his sort-of-not-really-adopted bunch of siblings had the luck to find an old gazebo made of sheets of rusted metal, basically a five star abode especially when your main concerns where a) not getting pissed on by the sky and b) find an actual place able to hold ten scruffy kids.

And even with nothing, life was good- or as good as it can get. Not having to fend and fight on the streets for yourself, having someone to bicker and argue with for the stupidest little things but still knowing everyone will have your back until the very end. The nights spent huddled together for warmth while Thundercracker, being the only one who knew how to read, dramatically re-enacting the scenes from a fairy-tale book and when storms so loud the walls of their shelter shook hit the city, you could pick out the soft humming of Damus, lulling the younger kids back to sleep. 

Yeah, life wasn't anywhere near perfect but it was enough.

But now...

The partially sunken landscape could suck all hope from one's soul. The once lively and bustling city was now a wet husk of rubble and toppled buildings. Abandoned vehicles and all sorts of trash floated on the surface, littering the water for miles. He was honestly impressed at how fast it all went down- them barely making it out only thanks to their shitty shelter, that served as a make-shift raft until they eventually reached a patch of dry concrete.

They've been walking for a few hours now, trudging between shallow water and debris, never daring to test their luck and trying to swim- they all got a taste of what lurked in the deepest parts during their little trip on their rackety raft and came to a general consensus to give those areas a very wide berth and not risk their lives more than they were already.

With a last distrustful look aimed at the water, he re-adjusted the heavy weight of the shotgun strapped on his right shoulder and walked away from shore, joining the others at their new alcove. 

 \\\

Finding a place to truly call their main base of operation was surprisingly easy- the mess of destroyed and eroded buildings that titanic wave left behind made for a pretty cushy place if you ignored the smell of seaweed and moist drywall. 

They were separated from the main patch of dry land and the chance of encountering any survivors was nearly slim to none- not that he was complaining or anything, less the possibility of meeting any hostile adults and being stripped of what little resources they had. From the wrecked remains of the city they managed to find quite a few useful things, but sadly not enough for ten kids. The food was especially low, the only way was fishing and catching it themselves but they had already established it as a big fat No. 

As the evening was slowly closing in, everyone was working to start their nightly routine. The oldest kids were in charge of the fire, which usually entailed watching TC read the partially wet copy of "Little Survivalist" to a very much not interested Trailbreaker and Windcharger. At the mouth of their shelter Soundwave was meticulously arranging their sleeping mats, while Skywarp sorted their blankets. Skids was chosen to stand guard today and soon after Damus would join him to keep watch on the others while they slept. 

Main while Bluestreak and the twins where- uhm. Where were they actually?

"Yo, 'Warp! Have you seen the little goblins?" Skids approached the teen, still intent in choosing the softest blanket for himself- aft. 

"Ah-what? Uhh, i think they wanted to explore the area but it wasn't my turn babysitting them so..." The other shrugged, returning to his task. 

"I swear if they come back with another mutated crab I'm going to lose it." 

"Naaw, everyone loved Bob, why do you have to be such a grump?"

"Well, if 'Bob' had the courtesy to try and not pinch me while I was slee-" 

A shrill scream broke their conversation. 

In a second all of them were at their feet or reaching for their nearest weapon as they watched the small shapes of the twins quickly getting closer. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were sprinting towards them at full speed, and when they arrived they almost toppled Skids over, while still screaming and shouting frenetically. 

Witnessing this, Damus came swiftly forward to try and assess the situation. 

"C'mon guys, deep breaths- what's going on?" The oldest tried to sooth. 

"BLUE IS DEAD! THAT THING GOT HIM AND IT'S MY FAULT" Sideswipe screeched snatching both of Damus sleeves like a lifeline. 

"Whoa- hey 'Sides-" 

"IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! But me and Sunny wanted to take a closer look- But turns out it was napping! And we tried to run but Blue fell and he hurt himself and that thing sNATCH HIM UP!! HE'S DEAD AND- AND IT'S MY FAULT!!"

After that the thirteen year old broke into a storm of unconsolable blubbering sobs- they all looked at each other in the eyes: 'Sides and Sunny were known for two things, being unsufferable little shits and that they never cried. Even when sad or scared they were used to put on their brave faces and endure like how they were taught. 

So a crying or upset twin meant trouble. 

Damus, understanding this quickly shifted his behavior and started barking orders to the others: he, Trailbreaker and Skids would go and find Blue the rest were to remain at the shelter and prepare in case they needed to flee as fast as possible. 

With that they braced their weapons and ran into the direction the twins came. 

\\\

He felt his heart beating in his throat as they ran towards whatever had attacked the youngest children. He couldn't help but picture small innocent Blue, laying on the shore motionless, a pool of blood beneath him- NO! Blue was okay! He had to be! And they were going to make sure of that. No one was keeping him from getting his littlest brother to safety. 

When they reached the shore, the smell of blood didn't greet them like they were all secretly dreading- but something else did. 

Something much, much worse. 

Bluestreak had always been a talkative little bugger- one of his siblings would sometimes even catch him talking to himself or inanimate objects when none of them were around. He always held conversations all by himself, jumping from topic to topic without catching a breath. 

However Blue wasn't really the type of kid to talk to strangers without getting shy and ducking behind one of the others for safety. 

Apparently, following little Blue logic- GIANT FISHMEN don't count as strangers.

"...and so I thought it would be cool, you know? but then 'Sides told me that I would get worms but I don't mind worms! They can be cute if you aren't a little baby who gets scared of everything and TC reads to me a lot so I know I won't get worms but I'm still very careful you never know..." The young boy happily ranted away as he sat snugly under the fish- man? argh! The mermaids giant flippers. 

The huge being wasn't bother at all by the little morsel chatting away at him- on the contrary, it looked fond of Blue as he let the kid talk. Skids almost pulled the trigger as he looked as the fishman slightly moved his massive head to nuzzle Blue in a show of complete affection. (if Skids strained his ears he could almost hear the soft vibrations the giant fish was producing) 

Only then, as he was giggling like mad, did Bluestreak notice them as he lifted his left hand and waved frantically at them. 

"HI GUYS!! LOOK WHO I FOUND!! SAY HI TO SIR. PANCAKE!!" 

He felt Trailbraker sagging beside him as his weapon almost slipped from his grip. 

"...what the actual fuck."

///

pt.2 :P

[joi-me-hoi-me-noi]

MHA trying to ask you out (Gone Wrong)

A/n: I decided to try an idea that just popped into my big bulky brain because yes! This features: Mirio, Tamaki, Shigaraki, Midoriya & Bakugo

Extra A/n: Requests are open, feel free to request anything!

TOGATA Mirio -

He first met you after the fight with Overhaul. You and a bunch of students with healing quirks rushed into the room. Right before he fainted from blood loss, he saw your face. You were beautiful even with the serious expression on your face. You watched in amazement as he rushed out of his hospital room to go see Sir Nighteye.

When he got back to UA, he was helping students train by using him as a civilian in need. While coming back into the school, he saw you at the window. You looked up, saw him and waved. He waved back while Nejire watched with a smirk.

"You like her, don't you?"

"I do."

"Wow! So forward Mirio! Are you gonna ask her out?"

He nods. The thing is you are the second person to ever make him nervous. Like extremely nervous. You had a somewhat serious personality. He's rarely seen you smile. That's his main goal!

"I'm going to ask her out tomorrow!"

When tomorrow came, Mirio was sweating so bad. Even Tamaki was frightened.

"Mirio, you could always wait another day."

"No, I'm gonna do it today!"

You were usually in the medical office alone since Recovery Girl said you were fully capable of doing so. You see his tall frame in the middle of the doorway and peer over. A single pink tulip in his shaking hand.

"Did your stitches open again?" You question, quickly standing from your chair.

"N-No. I'm fine Y/n."

You raise an eyebrow at him and then eye the tulip.

"I-I wanted to ask you something Y/n."

"Go on."

"Would you like to go on a date-"

All of a sudden, he goes through the floor and his clothing. When he reappears, he's bare, booty, butt naked! Now you're both flustered and in complete shock. You turn your back to him and let out a breath. He can see your shoulders moving slightly. Were you laughing? He couldn't help but smile when he heard your snort.

"I - I haven't laughed like that in a long time! But yes, I will go out with you Togata."

He hands you the tulip and smiles at you.

"I'm glad!"

"You're still naked Togata."

"Oh right..."

---

AMAJIKI Tamaki -

He always thought you were pretty; he's seen you around school sometimes. He was walking with Mirio and Neijire to go to Class 1-A when he saw you rushing to class. You gave him a small wave before continuing to your class. His face went red from the interaction.

"Someone caught your eye, Amajiki?" Neijire said, elbowing him softly in the arm.

He simply let out a groan and kept walking. During the representation of the Big 3, all he could think about was you. Even at lunch, he was just thinking of you and sighing. A confident person like yourself wouldn't want to be with him anyway.

"How about you just ask them Tamaki. It wouldn't hurt."

"It could."

"How about we all come with you to talk to her. We'll keep our distance."

He couldn't believe he agreed to those terms. He was extremely nervous already. Neijire found out your favorite flower and where you eat the most. He saw you talking to your friend outside, the sun making your skin and eyes glow like stars.

"Let's hurry Amajiki." She shoves a bouquet of [F/f]s into his hand and opens the door for him.

Soon your friend walks away and leaves you at the fountain. You mess with the water with your quirk. Amajiki approaches you nervously.

"Hey there, Amajiki! What's u-"

You catch sight of your favorite flowers and then Neijire in the background who was looking but quickly directed her attention back to Mirio.

"Are - Are those-" You couldn't help but let out a chuckle at the flowers. That's why Neijire was asking you those questions.

You take the flowers from Tamaki, accidentally brushing hands. Tamaki starts to fall backward into the fountain, but you use your quirk to gently cradle him with the water. You see Neijire and Mirio rush over to see what happened to Tamaki.

"He - He fainted. I can assume what he wanted to ask."

"And?" Neijire inquires, staring between you and Tamaki.

"I'll let him know whenever he wakes up. Will me answering directly make him faint again?"

"Probably..."

---

SHIGARAKI Tomura -

(Takes place right before the battle in season 7 :) )

You were the one that gave him a lot of things. Dare I say a purpose. You were All for One's right hand and helped Shigaraki get started. AFO ordered you to stay with him for the first couple of years and then come back to him to work. Shigaraki's feelings grew for you after he saw what you could do and offer. He invited you into the League of Villains, but you declined and explained why you couldn't join.

He blamed his 'father' for being such a pain in the ass. You'd came back once and only once talking about a certain kid that AFO wanted for his quirk. But he can finally see you, without his father taking you away from him. He could almost cry when he saw you.

"Y/n..."

You turn around and face your boss. The city was in ruins all around.

"Shigaraki."

He walks over to you and leans against a big piece of rubble.

"I wanted to ask you something, if we're both alive after this."

A loud blast of wind shoots through the sky and you both direct your attention there. It's the kid that he was after. He brings you in for a hug, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Get as far away from the city as possible."

He shoots into the air and leaves you amongst the rubble.

"WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WANTED TO ASK ME!?"

---

MIDORIYA Izuku -

As soon as Izuku saw you walking down the hallway to your next class, he gathered his courage to speak to you. He simply waves and you wave back as you walk over to him.

“Hey Izuku! What’s up?”

“Y/n, what class are you coming from?”

He looks you up and down, noticing the stains on your face and clothes.

“Oh, Hatsume blew something up again and I was trying to help her fix it. We’re both fine, thank goodness.”

He nods along and adds onto the conversation before asking you a question. At least trying to…

“Y/n…”

“Izuku…”

“Would - would you like to go-“

All of a sudden, he is gone in a flash. You frantically look around trying to find where he went. Iida snatched him up by his hero costume and bought him right in front of their classroom. He runs back up to you and looks at you while adjusting his glasses.

“We were talking Iida…”

“It’ll have to wait, you should get to class L/n.”

Iida runs back to class 1-A and drags Izuku inside. His face was very red. Even from far away you could see it.

———

BAKUGO Katsuki -

He really loved your quirk and you of course. He just didn’t know how to say it. He would stare at you a lot but turned and pretended to do something when you looked his way. To his friends, it was absolutely adorable how he was treating you.

He helped you during training and always shared some of his snacks with you. His friend group would watch in amazement, he was very territorial with his spicy chips and noodles. And they finally decided to confront him about it.

“Do you like L/n?”

“What are you trying to say?!”

“Why are you dodging my question?” Mina raised an eyebrow and smirked.

He simply scoffed and munched on his chips.

You entered the common area with a blanket wrapped around your shoulder. You said hello to everyone before sitting down next to Bakugo.

“I thought you were going to bed L/n.”

“I was but it’s so fucking cold in my room. I came out here to sit next to my personal heater.” You lean on Bakugo’s shoulder.

His friends whisper to each other before fake yawning and saying they were heading to their rooms. You say bye to them and huddle close to Bakugo.

Katsuki could feel his face heating up. He was unusually sweaty. He’s never sweated this bad before, only when in combat for his quirk.

“Y/n. Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm…” Your tired eyes looked into his red ones.

“I…I.” He looks at your lips and then back at your eyes. You’re smiling.

You’re both leaning in closer to each other and slowly closing your eyes. Then the door opens wide to reveal Deku. He came back from his run and his eyes widen when he sees the both of you.

“Uh… I’m gonna go.” He quickly speed walks to the hallway as Katsuki glares at him.

“Damned Deku…”

His eyes meet yours again and you both lean in again. You hear someone’s throat clear but ignore it and try to continue. Your eyes shoot open when you see Aizawa standing there, using his scarf to pull you both away from each other.

“It’s past curfew. Go to bed.”

———

A/n: Again… requests are open and check my pinned post to see who I write for.

Check out the master list here —> link

[fashion-runways]

hi!! new pinned post, because the last one had gotten long again-- if you want to read previous posts, here's the first one, here's the second one. the tl;dr from those is that my dad got wrongfully imprisoned abruptly, our place was raided, the cops broke a bunch of shit and took a bunch of our things and still haven't returned them, they left all the broken things for us to spend money in repairing, we had to spend money on a lawyer, trips to visit him, new clothes, medicine and food for him in jail, etc. it was a mess, way more details in both posts. he's back home now, with an ankle monitor because technically his case isn't being investigated yet, they haven't done anything about it at all, the case hasn't moved one ounce lmao it's great, always trust the judicial system and cops!! ugh, anyway!

we found a therapist for my dad who can help her deal with all the stuff he had to deal with while in prison, all the bullying, the depression, the starving, the separation, etc. he needs to get a bunch of other medical appointments, has to get surgery, among other things, but for now things are much better on that front. that being said, he did lose his job and my old redbubble account got suspended without a warning months ago, plus argentina's economy is... really bad right now. food prices rise every day, public transportation prices went up like a 200% in a couple of weeks, salaries are low and stuck there, subsidies are gone, the local peso keeps falling, we have an absolute psychopath as a president who spends more time insulting or threatening anyone who oppose him than caring about people. it's a disaster. for updates on argentina in english, this person on twitter makes very good informative threads if you're interested.

anyway, i used to make around 30/40 dollars a month in redbubble, and that used to help adding up to the donations i got here, and it got suspended, so now i make like 1/2 dollars on teepublic monthly. so... it's a huge loss. there's a lot of things me and my mom are in charge of paying-- groceries, power and water and gas, medicine (she's diabetic, i have some sort of chronic sinusitis), our dog and cat's food and medicines, wifi, phone bills, public transportation, healthcare, my dad's new therapist... so, you know, i really need anything people can donate. even if it's just a single dollar, literally any amount helps. i love fashion so much and i love this blog, i work really hard on it even when my brain says no, and i really appreciate how much you guys love it too. i love seeing people discover new styles, new designers, new things to be inspired by. so, yeah... i'm never going anywhere, but i do need help to basically stay afloat.

as usual, my kofi link is this one: https://ko-fi.com/fashionrunways and my teepublic link is this one: https://www.teepublic.com/user/dinah-lance. thanks for being around and sharing and reblogging my posts, thanks for asking questions about fashion, and of course thanks for helping to the ones who can, and thanks to the ones who can't too, i know how that feels like, don't worry about it. love you 💖

[locomoqo]

just one night

— samuel seo x reader

details: NSFW under the cut, fem bodied reader, p in v (samuel puts you in full nelson), cunnilingus, nipple play, possessive sex, he slaps your kitty, mirror sex, slight exhibitionism, public sex (?), unprotected, toxic rs

A/N: this is for all my ppl who rq'd samuel smut and also i kindaaa went overboard (2.4k wc) with this bc i was listening to house of cards and a bunch of the weeknd songs🥸

You and Samuel's relationship, to put it lightly, had always been a roller coaster. Sure, you had your happy moments, but they never lasted long before you were fighting over something. And when you weren't fighting, you both became ghosts to each other—minimal interactions, going to bed with your backs turned. You tried to end things multiple times, and Samuel let it happen. Because one thing Samuel knew for certain was that you'd always come back.

The first time you broke up with him, he was desperate—begging you to come back, and you did. After that, though, it became a routine. He no longer took the breakups seriously, knowing that with enough sweet words and pleading, you'd always return.

But this time was different.

This time, he miscalculated. He didn't take the breakup seriously, and that was his mistake, because this time you stood firm. No amount of texts, missed calls, or even the bouquets he sent to your door swayed you. You stayed gone. And it took him a while to realize you meant it this time.

So he tried to move on. He cut contact, tried to distract himself. But the truth was, he hadn't moved on at all.

Curiosity got the better of him after a few months, and he found out you were seeing someone else. What's that saying again? Oh, right—curiosity killed the cat.

That was what brought him here, to this crowded club. Samuel wasn’t here to meet new people—well, maybe that was part of it—but the real reason was to drown his sorrows. He knew he looked pathetic, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like he could just start beating some random person to release all his pent-up frustration.

Fuck. He shouldn’t be so affected by this. He should have moved on by now, yet just seeing your face in his mind was enough to send him right back to square one.

From the corner of his eye, he saw someone sit down beside him, but he didn’t pay it any mind.

"Hi there," a voice said, and it was a voice he knew all too well. His eyes slowly shifted from the bottle of soju in front of him to you, sitting right next to him. He was speechless. Maybe he’d already had too much to drink.

"Don’t look at me like that. Is there something wrong with my face?" you said with a friendly smile. Too friendly.

“You…” Samuel breathed out.

“Me?” you asked casually, glancing down at the menu in your hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice gruff. “I’m with my friends,” you replied. With your friends, Samuel repeated silently in his head. Was the guy you were seeing here too? Is that why you were acting so composed while he sat there looking like a washed-up loser?

Samuel ran a hand through his messy hair, then reached for another bottle. “I’ll pay,” he suddenly said when he saw you about to order a drink. You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If you say so,” you hummed, not passing up the opportunity.

Samuel’s thoughts were a mess. He couldn’t quite settle on what he wanted to say to you. It was like there were too many emotions swirling in his head, all fighting for dominance.

“…And what are you doing here?” you asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Just wanted to relax,” he replied. A half-truth.

“Didn’t know clubs were your thing,” you said, watching him down the rest of his drink.

“They’re not,” he responded bluntly. You noticed the sharpness in his tone and decided to drop it.

A few moments of silence passed before he finally asked, “So… what have you been up to?”

“You know, the usual,” you said as your drink arrived.

Samuel couldn’t help but look at you. His heart felt heavier with each glance. You both talked for a bit, exchanging stories about what had been going on in your lives. It was almost surreal, sitting here, talking like this after everything. "And what about that guy you're seeing? Is he with you tonight?" Samuel asked, trying to sound indifferent but not quite succeeding. You froze for a moment, awkwardly tracing the rim of your glass. "Oh… uh, no. He’s, um, busy," you mumbled.

Samuel stared ahead, but a smirk tugged at his lips. He knew that look, that tone—a sign of trouble. "Too busy for you?" he asked, tilting his head, testing the waters. You nodded, still focused on your glass, completely missing the way Samuel was watching you now, like a predator who had just spotted an opening.

"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with faux surprise. "That’s a shame. I thought you two were doing well."

You could hear the mockery in his voice. “Samuel—” you started.

"I had a feeling he wasn’t good enough for you," he interrupted, his eyes really meeting yours for the first time that night. "Don’t," you said, your voice carrying a warning that wasn’t as firm as you intended it to be.

Samuel leaned in, his hand lightly brushing against your arm before he gripped your wrist, pulling you closer. "Tell me I’m wrong," he challenged, his voice low. "Tell me you don’t miss me. Tell me you don’t miss us."

Your eyes flicked between his hand on your wrist and his face. You bit your lip, glancing elsewhere, unable to meet his intense gaze. "We broke up for a reason," you muttered, more as a reminder to yourself than to him. He grinned, leaning even closer until his lips were just inches from yours. "People make mistakes. Doesn’t mean we can’t fix them."

Your breath hitched as you looked up at him. There was hesitation in your eyes, but there was something else there too. Something dangerous. That same fire that once burned between you two was beginning to ignite again.

Samuel could see it in the way your eyes trailed over his features.

He leaned in even further, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can make you forget about him," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Just give me one night."

Your breath was shaky as you exhaled, and in that moment, he knew he had you. You didn’t say a word, but the way your fingers curled into his shirt and pulled him closer was all the confirmation he needed.

Just like that, you were lured in, caught in the hunter’s trap once again. 

But you could hardly care about that now, could you? Not when his tongue is tangled with yours in a passionate kiss. The bathroom is dark and, surprisingly, fragrant.

Samuel hoists you onto the counter, his hands sliding up your thighs, bunching your dress around your hips as he positions himself between your legs. His hands roam your body, alternating between groping and kneading, desperate to feel as much of you as he can. He breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down your neck, sucking and leaving marks on your collarbone.

It’s as if he’s been starved of touch, and you’re the first to offer it to him. In a way, that’s exactly how it feels, considering how much he’s buried himself in work just to try and forget. “Missed you so much, princess,” he murmurs against your skin, continuing his descent.

He pulls down the front of your dress—along with your bra—to take one of your breasts into his mouth. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you sigh in pleasure, his mouth on one breast while he kneads the other. His hand slides down to your waist, tugging your underwear off in one swift motion.

Samuel pulls back for a moment, your hardened nipple glistening with saliva in the dim light. He drags you closer to the edge of the counter before dropping to his knees, pressing his face between your thighs. Your legs instinctively close around his head at the sudden rush of contact, and he pinches your thigh lightly in response. A gasp escapes your lips as he begins devouring you like a man starved. His thoughts are singular: He’s missed you, your taste, the way you feel, and the sound of your moans, even if they’re muffled by your hand.

“No one’s going to hear. Put your hand down,” he orders, his voice rough. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a command. But since when have you ever listened to him? You shake your head, and he rolls his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters before diving back in, tongue plunging into you. Flicking, sliding, and pressing that soft muscle against your core until your mind starts to blur. The room seems to fade into nothingness.

The only thing you’re aware of is the soft, warm slide of his tongue, the pressure he applies in just the right spots, and the ragged sound of his breathing as he loses himself in the moment. His hands grip your thighs firmly, grounding you, yet the way his mouth works against you sends your mind spinning, your heart pounding in your ears.

“Sammy—! Sammy, ’m gonna—” You choke out, teetering on the edge of release, your body trembling under the intensity. Your body arches involuntarily, your breath catching in your throat. A warmth floods through your veins, a mix of anticipation and inevitability as you teeter on the brink. Your hands grasp for anything—his hair, the countertop—desperately seeking an anchor as your mind goes blank, overwhelmed by sensation.

He doesn’t let up, continuing his relentless attack on your body. No, he plans to make you cum twice—maybe even three times—on his tongue before he even considers fucking you. And when he does, it won’t be in this tasteless club bathroom. Oh no. He’s going to take you home, or maybe to a nearby hotel, where he can have you all to himself.

This place isn’t worthy of what he has in mind.

The thing is, you’re still hesitant. Samuel would’ve let it slide—he would’ve—if he hadn’t caught the way you kept glancing at your boyfriend’s messages. Something in him snapped.

You were worried about that guy when Samuel was right there? Yeah, forget the nice guy act. He’s going to make sure you forget all about that boy tonight. He’ll make sure you’re so utterly consumed by him that you won’t even remember anyone else’s name but his.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he growls, his voice thick with authority as he grips your jaw, forcing your gaze forward. His fingers press against your cheek, making sure you watch—making sure you see. You can see yourself, spread so sinfully wide as he thrusts his cock into you.

Your knees are pulled back towards your chest, his strong arms wrapped securely around your thighs, his feet planted firmly on the bed. Your hands cling weakly to his strong arms as he pounds into you, every brutal thrust making your body tremble, tears forming in your eyes, and drool pooling at the corner of your lips.

“You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he rasps, fingers pressing harder into your cheeks. “The nerve you’ve got—” Plap! “to still be texting—” Plap! “that guy, after what we did in that bathroom?” The wet slap of skin meeting skin punctuates each word, echoing through the room. “Didn’t mean to—jus’—ah! I wanted t’check my—” you sob, unable to finish your sentence. “Your notifications?” he spits out, finishing for you. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know you’re still thinking about him.” His voice is venomous, and you can only shake your head in a weak attempt to deny it.

Irritation flares in him, and he goes harder, his pace relentless. You can’t do anything but moan and whimper, your nails digging into the inked skin of his forearms. The bed creaks beneath you as he takes you harder, faster, as if punishing you for daring to think of anyone but him. Each punishing thrust sends him deep, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over again, the hard press of his hips making your whole body rock. 

“I’m gonna ruin this pussy for him,” he growls into your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as if to mark you, to brand you as his. “Fucking ruin it f’anyone. You’ll be mine. You hear me? All. Fucking. Mine.” His fingers release your face to give your clit a sharp slap, the line between pleasure and pain dissolves completely.

The sting sparks through you, making you whimper, but you can’t even register the pain anymore—not when the pleasure has you teetering on the edge of something overwhelming. The sound of your voice, broken and breathless as you cry out his name, drives him to push you closer to your breaking point

You can barely think, let alone speak. Only nodding in compliance, your body wracked with orgasm after orgasm, your walls spasming around him as you come undone again and again. 

Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing cuts through the haze. Was it yours or Samuel’s? A quick glance tells you everything—it’s yours. Samuel’s eyes follow yours to see your boyfriend’s name flashing across the screen. His expression shifts from displeasure to something far more wicked, a twisted smirk spreading across his lips.

“Go on, answer it,” he whispers in your ear.

“But—” you try to protest, but one sharp look from him silences you. That look, the one that always makes heat pool between your legs. Reluctantly, you reach for your phone.

“Hello?” you manage to say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. Samuel watches you, his possessive gaze locked on your face, savoring every second of your struggle. For a moment, he slows his thrusts, allowing you to speak—just long enough to give you a false sense of control. Then, with one brutal motion, he drives himself deeper into you, hitting that spot inside you that makes your mind go blank. 

You nearly choke on a gasp, but you stifle it with your hand. You glance at Samuel, only to be met with his smug, shit-eating grin. Another brutal thrust, and suddenly, he’s back to his relentless pace, dragging his cock in and out of you with such savage intensity that you can’t hold back anymore.

You bite down on your lip, eyes squeezed shut as tears of pleasure stream down your cheeks, your phone slipping from your grasp.

Samuel catches it effortlessly, pressing it to his ear. “Too bad you’re not here to see her like this. But don’t worry—I’m taking good care of her,” he taunts, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction. The panicked voice on the other end makes him chuckle before he ends the call, setting your phone to ‘do not disturb' and tossing it aside.

The night isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

[tellingtell5]

Home: 《James Cook, skins x reader 》

James Cook x femreader

Summary: Coming back to the city that watched you grow up? Yeah, that’s never easy — especially when you left things unfinished. And looking him in the eyes again? That hits different. Brings back stuff you tried to bury way deep down.

wc (I never usually mention this, but I think it’s necessary this time): 15k

A/N: Well... here it is. Can’t say I didn’t pour my heart into this story. Honestly, I had no idea it’d turn out like this when I started — but Skins hits close to home, and sadly, some things hit way too deep. I wanted to make it less painful, I swear... but yeah, a few tears might’ve slipped out. I don’t even know what this is — it’s a mess, for sure. Still, I needed to tell this story to ease something in my poor soul. I think this is the idea that’s taken me the longest — the one I’ve written, rewritten, deleted whole chunks of, and left a bunch of stuff on the cutting room floor (let me know if you'd wanna read those bits sometime).

Thanks for reading, for the support, and I hope you enjoy it 💛

You knew. You fucking knew the moment you stepped into your son's room and saw the little plastic bag lying there on the floor like it belonged. That flimsy wrap lit a fire in your chest, rage crawling up your throat like ivy, wrapping 'round your skull 'til it took root in your head.

If you'd been less angry, maybe you'd've sat him down, had the chat, told him again what it does to people. But all you could think of was your dad, shouting in your face, and how that only made you go harder. Made you do it just to spite him.

You thought about waiting, kitchen table drama, the bag in your fingers, trying to make a point with silence. Thought about telling your kid he could've told you, that he should've. That you would've sorted him better than whatever scumbag was dealing to him. But the thought of him not trusting you—of him looking at you like you'd looked at your own dad at that age—that cracked something inside.

So you took it. Stormed out. All logic drowned under the bile rising in your throat, and what bloomed in its place was cold certainty.

You could’ve bet your fucking arm you were right. That if you went to wherever the fuck he was pushing now, he’d be the one holding the bags. He always found a way to come out on top, didn’t he? You’d lost track of him ages ago. Didn’t know if he was locked up, dead, clean—nothing. But somehow, that one thing stayed the same. Cook and trouble—two sides of the same fucked-up coin.

You could've messaged. Maybe said, "I’m back. For me da, not for you. I had no choice but to crawl back to this shithole we used to call home." Could've told him to stay away. Not to drag your kid down the same pit you'd both rolled around in all those years ago.

Still, you knew there’d be no calm conversation. No sit-down chat. That wasn’t who you were. Not with him. Not ever. The rational, grown-up bit of you—the part that worked, paid bills, packed lunches—started to fade, dissolving like ink in water. The bile crawled higher in your throat and wiped all that sensible shit clean.

There was only one feeling left. Raw, rotting pain. The kind you’d stuffed down for years. The kind that never really healed, just got quiet until it exploded.

You knew exactly where to find him. And when you grabbed your keys and stormed out, there was no hesitation. You didn’t care how far you had to walk, or that it’d been over a decade since you'd wandered those streets. Your legs knew the way. The city hadn’t changed. Not really. Still the same miserable pit you'd clawed your way out of.

The air smelled the same. Damp brick, warm beer, stale piss. And just like that, you weren’t in the present anymore. It hit your spine like a ghost. You could hear your own laugh echo off the walls—too loud, too bright. The joke hadn’t been that funny, but you were happy. So happy, you wanted the whole fuckin’ world to know.

If you closed your eyes, you could feel the gravel crunchin' under your trainers as you ran through those streets. Young, breathless, and high on somethin’ better than drugs—freedom. Escape. The sheer joy of not givin’ a fuck.

You weren’t that girl anymore.

But you were about to see the boy who helped break her.

You saw him from down the road. Laughing, chatting with some teen in a hoodie, handing over something small. And that kid? Gone in a second. Cook’s hand in his back pocket, stuffing away the notes like nothing.

You didn't stop. Didn't even think. You didn’t hesitate. Shoved him hard from behind, caught him off balance so he stumbled forward, proper shocked. Your hands stung — muscle memory from a softer time, from when they used to hold him, trace his jaw like he meant something. You shook that off. Hit him again. Let his curses fly past you.

“Oi! The fuck?”

He turned, spitting fury, mouth curled like he was ready to rip into whoever dared touch him.

“Who the fuck d'you think you are, you stupid bitch?”

Your breath caught when you looked into those blue eyes again—the same ones that once held your whole fuckin' world together. For a moment, you forgot why you'd even come to this shithole. But then it hit you, sharp and cruel: his eyes were the same as your boy's. And he was the reason your kid was off his head on weed, sneakin' around behind your back.

"You fuckin' bastard."

You lunged. Fists clenched, ready to swing until he blacked out. He grabbed your wrists, tried to hold you back, jaw clenching with the effort. But it wasn't just 'cause you were flailin'. No—he was searchin', diggin' through his memory to figure out where the hell he knew this girl from, this girl who was throwin' punches like she wanted to break somethin' permanent.

His first thought was some bird he'd been with lately. Some one-night stand back to start shit. But then your eyes — filled with that same old fury, the same tears — gave you away. That flicker of recognition? It gutted him. He stopped fightin' back. Let your fists land. Took every hit like he deserved 'em.

He was too stunned to move. How long had it been? Fifteen years? Yeah. Quick maths. Fifteen years of missin' you. Of pretendin' he hadn’t been left with a heart cracked open and still bleedin'.

“You’re a proper wanker.”

Your hand had cracked across his face with all the fury you’d pent up for half your bloody life. He staggered a bit, jaw clenched, eyes wide, not from the hit—he could take a hit—but from the sight of you. Standing there like a storm that never passed, breathing like each inhale might rip you apart.

You weren’t hitting him anymore. Just staring. Shaking all over from rage, or something deeper. Trying to find your breath, trying to remember the woman you’d become, the one that had her shit together. But all you could feel was seventeen again. Seventeen, raw and bleeding, back in the streets that never let you heal. The city that had made you.

You looked away. Ran a hand down your face like you could wipe yourself clean of it all. What the fuck were you doing? This wasn’t you. Not anymore. But that version of you, the one this place had carved out with broken glass and sleepless nights, she clawed her way back.

He reached for you, hand brushing your hair like he used to — like he still had the right. You slapped him away.

“Not got nothin’ to say, have you?” You were baring teeth now, a wild thing uncaged. “’Course not. 'Cause you’re a fuckin’ twat, James.”

His eyes widened. James. His name. You said his real name. That hit harder than your fists. Nobody called him that anymore. Not like that. Not with meaning.

“What the fuck am I meant to say?” Now it was him unraveling. Shock turning to fury. The kind born in sleepless nights and stitched-up scars. “What the fuck do I say to the girl who vanishes for fifteen fuckin’ years and shows up swingin’ like some mad bitch, yeah?”

His voice cracked, rough with hurt.

Another slap. And this time, you were crying.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out one of those little plastic baggies—the kind he used to deal in. You hurled it at his face, daring him to say something.

“You high? That what this is?” he mocked, chucking it back. “You want somethin’ stronger? That why you dragged your sorry arse back here?”

He threw it back at you.

“You’re fuckin’ scum. Peddlin’ shite to kids without losin’ a wink of sleep. You’re filth, Cook.”

The name didn’t sit right in your mouth. You’d said it like everyone else did. Not like back then.

“Always been, though, ent I?”

And your heart cracked. Because through all the bravado, all the posturing, you saw it. That pain. Buried deep, still festering. He looked older. Sharper round the edges. But beneath it all, the same lost boy who once made you feel like the world could be more than just surviving.

“That why you did it, yeah? Fucked off like a slag an’ left me to rot?”

His voice was steel now, colder than you remembered. Void of anything soft. He spat the words like poison.

“Fuckin’ jog back in like nothin’s changed and act like you’re better than me? like we ain’t got history, and try to lecture me? Who the fuck d’you think you are?”

You had no answer. Because deep down, you knew he had every right to be furious. You left. You didn’t look back. You never told him about the baby, about how scared you were. You never gave him the chance. You never planned on seeing any of them again. But the city had a way of dragging you back into its rot.

“Yeah, thought so. Nothin’ to say. You’re mental. Proper fuckin’ mental.”

He flinched, like he might say something else. Like maybe he wanted to tell you he’d missed you every damn day. That you’d wrecked him. That your ghost had never stopped haunting him. Instead, he turned his head, spat blood on the pavement, wiped his lip. Walked past you like a stranger. Your shoulders brushed. For a second, you both stopped.

His warmth stunned you. Like a memory refusing to die.

Then your voice stopped him.

“Stay the fuck away from him.”

He stopped dead, turned slightly, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“What?”

Now he turned fully, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind.

“What the fuck you on about?”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh and ran a hand through your hair, trying not to scream. The disbelief hit you harder than expected. He hadn’t even looked the kid in the eye when he sold him that shit. If he had, if he’d just looked, he might’ve seen it — those same bloody eyes. His eyes. A mirror he didn’t even recognise

“Unbelievable. You didn’t even look at him when you sold him that crap, did you?”

Something inside you cracked open, a bubble of rage and irony all twisted together, and you laughed — loud, manic. You’d come here full of fire, ready to unload years of anger onto him, but now it just felt… empty. He hadn’t even seen the boy. His own fucking son. You could’ve killed him. “Of course not, 'cause you're a proper fuckin' idiot. Leavin' was the smartest thing I ever did”.

Your words cut through him like glass. You saw it. The way his face twitched, jaw tightened. Like you’d pulled the stitches off wounds he’d buried deep under pints and pills. They’d never healed proper—just got rotten beneath all the filth he’d poured over them.

"Tell your dealer to stop givin' you whatever the fuck you’re on. You’re mad. Proper gone.

"Say what you want," you added, voice low and lethal, "but don’t come near him again. You hear me? Stay the fuck away from my son."

That shut him up. Stone-silent. The bloke who always had some clever line, some cocky deflection—now he was just standin’ there, mouth half-open, tryin’ to make sense of the words you’d just thrown at him like bricks. He just stared at you, stunned, trying to make sense of it. Like he was watching someone he used to know twist into something unrecognisable.

"Your son? You got a kid?"

His mind got flooded with old memories. Playin’ footie in the park, skivin’ off school, sittin’ on rooftops with that loudmouth girl with freckles on her cheeks and too much fire in her gut. He remembered the day she just walked up to him, JJ and Freddie on the school yard like she owned the fuckin’ place and went, “You lot are my mates now. That’s just how it is.”

The other kids didn’t take her in. She didn’t give a toss. She’d just said, “I didn’t wanna be their mate anyway. Got you lot now.” And somehow, that was it. You’d decided, and they didn’t argue. None of ‘em knew where the hell you’d come from, but they’d shrugged and let you stay. Like you were always meant to be there. Part of their broken little trio.

He tried to see that same boldness in the kids he’d sold to lately. Searched their faces for wide eyes and that look—like they’d punch the world in the teeth before lettin’ it touch them. For freckles spattered across skin like someone flung paint at ‘em.

But there was nothin’. Not one face that matched.

"How old is he?"

You saw what he was doing. The mental maths. The way his voice shifted, softer now. But fear gripped you too fast to answer.

"What, you givin' a shit now 'bout how old your customers are, Cook?"

Your name slipped out from those lips that once made you sigh. You own lips trembled, because you’d missed the way he said it, like it tangled up with his very soul.

"Fifteen."

His eyebrows shot up. And you saw it—the maths landin’. Fifteen years. The same amount of time since you’d vanished. Since you’d been... you and him. But he didn’t speak straight away, because things were never that easy. Not with you two.

“Don’t sell to him again, Cook. I fuckin’ mean it. Or you’ll regret it.

He snorted, tried to twist it into a joke, something he could use to deflect. "Yeah? What, his dad gonna come smash me up or somethin’?"

You didn’t flinch. Still knew him too well. Knew he was digging for answers. Knew exactly how his brain worked — like it hadn’t been fifteen years at all.

"No dad, Cook."

He blinked. Again. And then, one by one:

"Prison?"

You shook your head.

"Dead?"

Another no.

"Did a runner?"

You hesitated. Because yeah, there had been a runner. But not your son’s father.

"Freddie’s?"

That caught you off guard. Sharp like a punch to the chest. Your lungs forgot how to work. The ache behind your ribs, the way your heart flipped — fuck, you’d thought all that was buried. You crossed your arms, guarding yourself from the memories. From him. But he saw it. Of course he fucking did.

You remembered being ten, fallin’ in the park, scrapin’ your knees. You tried to hide it, didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to look weak. But Cook had known. He always knew. Told you, “Our bond’s forever, innit? I know when you’re hurt, stupid. Can’t hide nothin’ from me.”

And now, that same look was in his eyes. Like he still saw right through you. All the time and space in the world hadn’t changed that.

You shook your head again.

His voice came quieter now. Less of the bravado.

"...Mine?"

You lifted your face. Eyes red, cheeks wet. And you didn’t have to say a word.

Your name spilled again from his lips like a memory half-sung, cracked at the edges. Like he'd been carryin' it round in his chest all these years, not sayin' it out loud 'cause it hurt too much. It trembled on his tongue, that name, yours, the one he used to whisper when the lights were out and the world had gone quiet. It came out raw. Frayed. Familiar.

Fifteen years. And suddenly it all meant something. Every missed call, every time he’d cursed your name. Every fucked-up thing he’d done since. You’d left, But not just him.

You’d taken him with you.

He saw you again, and for a moment, everything else vanished. All the years, all the scars, all the pretending. Just your eyes. The ones that used to fill his dreams and keep him awake in equal measure. And the pain? The pain came back all at once, rushing through him like a freight train.

His mind, always loud, always chaotic, went still — just a dull roar of memory crashing in waves. Of laughter under streetlights, bruised knees, whispered dares, nights spent hiding from the world in each other’s presence.

"Our bond is forever."

You’d said it when you were six. Like it was gospel. Like it meant something unbreakable. And maybe it had, back then. Back when the world was smaller, and the monsters only lived under the bed. He’d believed you — with the kind of blind, feral devotion only a child can manage. And those words etched themselves deep, carved into bone, into blood.

With time, words started to weigh heavier on your chest. That crew – that mad, messy, beautiful crew – had once seemed unbreakable. Like kids made of velcro, always sticking back together no matter the mess. Their laughs used to warm the whole bloody street. It felt like family. The kind you picked, not the one you were born with. And even though most of them always had a home to crawl back to, arms half open no matter how twisted they came back, for Cook nor you – it had always been different.

He didn’t need to shout to be seen. People noticed him anyway. Especially you. The girl who'd pull him up with one hand, then trip him with the other, only to fall beside him laughing her head off. Always beside him.

But time twisted you. Pain does that. Made you careful, made you distant. Still, you leaned on them – the ones who held you up when you couldn’t float. Everyone carried their own kind of ache. You all tried, in your fucked up little ways, to meet somewhere in the middle – past the shouting and the silences, past the scars that never properly healed. You'd built a bubble. Inside it, you could forget who the world wanted you to be. You could just... be.

But who were you now?

He looked different. Older, sure. Harder around the edges. But when you met his eyes, something clicked. That thread, the one you’d both tied knot after knot in, hadn’t snapped. Not really. You wondered if he felt it too. If that old shed of Freddie’s still stood, would it feel the same? Could you tuck yourself between him and JJ again, let the noise in your head drift off while Freddie went on about his latest trick, JJ pulled coins out your ears, and Cook traced lazy shapes on your legs, spread across his lap?

Now... you weren’t sure where to place it all. You’d unplugged from them so violently. From the only people who’d really seen you at your worst. But in Cook’s eyes – fuck – it was like he remembered too. Like he was back there, where you’d built each other up with the bits that no one else wanted.

"You left."

It wasn’t sharp. Just a fact. A truth too big to hold in.

You nodded. Tears stinging. Heart crumpling in your chest.

"We were a mess, yeah?"

You shook your head, firm.

"Not always," you whispered, your voice barely air. "Not all the time. There were good bits, Cook."

And you both remembered.

°°°

You’d barely turned ten. Still had milk teeth hanging by threads. Just the two of you outside school, sat on the curb. Freddie and JJ had already legged it home – warm dinners waiting, family fussing.

Not you two.

Your legs were scraped from a fall you pretended didn’t hurt, backpack half-open, books spilling like you couldn't be bothered anymore. He sat next to you, legs crossed like a question mark, fiddling with a busted shoelace. Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the kind you only get when someone knows your kind of quiet.

"My dad’s a mess too," you muttered, eyes fixed on a chip in the pavement like it held answers. Voice small, but steady. Not crying. Not asking for pity.

Cook didn’t flinch. Just looked over, his face unreadable. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he saw it in your hunched shoulders or the way you kicked at pebbles like they owed you something.

"He’s working," you said, like you were trying to make it sound okay. "Says we need the money. Said he’d be back in a few days. There’s beans in the cupboard and my uncle’s number stuck on the fridge. But not to call unless I’m really dying or summat."

You laughed then. But it was dry. Hollow. The kind of laugh that tries to keep your throat from closing up. Cook didn’t laugh. Just nodded. Like yeah, that made sense. Like it wasn’t the worst thing he’d heard that week.

You stood up, dusted your trousers, slung that old worn backpack over your shoulder. Reached a hand down.

"Come on. I learned how to work the hob. Not eating tinned crap again. You can stay at mine."

It wasn’t said like an invitation. It was a fact. Like the sky being grey, or Mondays being shite. He took your hand without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. With him, it always was.

That night you cooked something that vaguely resembled food, even if the noodles were half-crunchy and the sauce came from three different expired packets. You laughed when he made a face. He ate it anyway.

You gave him that hideous purple pyjama set you’d grown out of. He swam in it, looked absolutely ridiculous, and wore it like it was made of gold. Called it his superhero suit. You mocked him mercilessly, but secretly kept the matching top buried under your pillow. Just in case.

It became a thing. Not just staying over, but staying close. He’d swing by with half a sandwich, you’d share a single glove when one of you lost theirs. He’d show up on bad days without asking what was wrong. You’d walk beside him when he needed someone to pretend nothing was.

He remembered the first time his chest did something stupid around you. That weird pirouette inside, then you handed him instant soup like it was gourmet.

"This bond, it’s forever, James. So eat this and say it’s the best shit you’ve ever had, yeah?"

Something cracked in him then. Not like with Freddie and JJ – he loved them, no doubt. But this? This was different. Warmer. Deeper. Scary, if he was honest.

You weren’t just surviving anymore. You were building something. A quiet, scrappy little life made of instant soup and mismatched pyjamas and the kind of loyalty that doesn’t need words.

°°°°

You were thirteen when all your mates had buggered off for the summer. Off to some beach town or cosy village with ice cream and swimming pools. But not you. Not him either. The two of you were stuck. Stuck on the estate, where heat curled up off the pavement and the air sat thick and lazy, unmoved by even a whisper of breeze.

You were sprawled out on the grass in that sad little park, the one near the shops with the broken swing and the bin that always stank. Silent—not because there was nothing to say, but because everything felt too heavy to speak aloud. Maybe, deep down, you just didn’t want to be left alone with your thoughts. Not that day. Not any day, really. You were just kids then, but you both knew loneliness like an old song. Familiar. Mean.

Across the field, some couple were snogging like their lives depended on it. Arms tangled, lips smacking, all dramatic and disgusting. You rolled your eyes, but it was Cook who cracked first. Started taking the piss—moaning, miming, flailing like an idiot. A proper knobhead. But it worked. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, folding in on yourself as the air left your lungs in gasps. He was holding his sides too, wheezing, grinning, eyes bright with mischief. You wiped a tear from your cheek, the laughter still fizzing.

“That was vile,” you gasped, catching your breath.

He nodded, that daft grin still plastered on his face. But then he went quiet. His mouth was still curved up like he might keep laughing, but his eyes drifted—miles away. You knew that look. You knew him too well not to.

“Spit it out, before your brain explodes.”

He bit his cheek, weighing something up. But of course, he said it.

“We should try it.”

“What?”

“Snogging. We should give it a go. Everyone’s doing it. Might as well get some practice in, yeah? Don’t wanna be shit when it matters.”

You looked away. Something twisted in your chest. You didn’t know what it was—not exactly—but it stung. That last bit. When it matters. Like this wouldn’t. Like you didn’t. And that hurt in a way you hadn’t planned for.

So you did what you always did when things hurt: something stupid.

“Alright then. Let’s do it.”

He froze. Didn’t expect that—not really. He always talked big, but deep down he must’ve known you’d do anything he asked. You always had.

You leaned in, hands on his shoulders, a little rougher than you meant. Trying to seem cool, to ignore the way your fingers trembled. Your head felt full of static. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel funny. It felt like falling.

He licked his lips—nervous, clueless, drowning.

“Ew. Why’d you do that?”

“Dunno. That’s what they do in films.”

“Yeah, well, this ain’t some bloody film, James.”

And before you could think it to death, you kissed him. Slammed your mouth against his like it was a dare. Clumsy. Fast. A bit gross. You stayed there for a second, lips mashed together, not moving. Just existing in that weird, hot space between what you were and what you might’ve been.

Somewhere in that messy, awkward press of lips, something shifted—not outside you, but inside. A slow, startling warmth unfurled in your chest. Not like fire. More like the sun, rising somewhere deep in your ribs. It made it hard to breathe. Hard to move.

You always liked being near Cook. His warmth was different. Like home. He smelled like sun and grass and cheap soap, and somehow that had started to mean something.

His nearness made your heart twist.

It scared you.

You pulled back. His eyes were still shut, lips puckered like he was waiting for more. You gave his shoulder a little shove.

He coughed, awkward. Didn’t have the words. Probably never would. He looked lost—too many feelings with no names yet. Just two kids, barely keeping their own heads above water, trying to figure it out one clumsy kiss at a time.

“Dunno what the fuss is. Wasn’t even that good.”

He winced. You saw it. But he swallowed it down, did what he always did.

Turned pain into jokes.

“You taste like crisps.”

“You’re a dickhead, Cook.”

You flopped back on the grass beside him, squinting up at the sky. He laid down too, close enough your elbows touched.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Because yeah—maybe that was easier than admitting your heart had just cracked open a little.

°°°

You'd been waiting outside for over ten minutes. Maybe that wouldn’t’ve felt like much to another kid who’d just turned fourteen, but for you it was turning into bloody eternity. Time felt warped, stretched thin and cruel, the kind of waiting that made your hands itch for something to do—like pressing the buzzer and messing about with the loose bits on the porch, or digging through that box of shite Cook kept outside, pretending you weren’t just standing there feeling small. But you knew how it made him feel—coming down and finding you alone with his mum.

You’d known Ruth longer than you’d known your own way home. Spent more afternoons in that house than you cared to count—killing time, mucking about, waiting for your dad to remember he had a daughter. Back then, you didn’t think too much of it. It was an escape, sort of. Your house had no rules, sure—but Cook’s was real anarchy.

You’d sit on the floor drawing for hours, paper smudged with colour, making worlds out of felt-tip pens. Ruth’d snatch your sketches up and slap 'em on the fridge like they meant something. "This one’s got it," she’d say, holding your paper like a fucking relic. "Don’t lose her, James. She’s got light."

You don’t even realise your finger’s pressed the buzzer until it’s done. Regret floods you fast, heavy and choking. You can already picture his face—Cook’s—tight with hurt, confused why you didn’t wait like you promised. The door creaks open and there she is. Ruth. Wine glass in one hand, makeup smeared like war paint. She smiles like a knife.

"Well well. If it ain’t the little threat herself."

You force a grin. Polite. Hollow. Just long enough to slip past her and into the house. But once you're in, it’s like the walls start watching you. Her eyes rake over you—up and down, inside out. You feel flayed.

"All grown up now, eh? No wonder my Jamie can’t shut up about you. Always on about his special little mate."

The air snags in your chest. Something twists deep down, hot and weird and aching. You’d started feeling things lately. Not just for anyone—for him. Feelings none of your mates had names for. A tug in your chest when he looked at you too long. That burn in your cheeks when he touched your wrist by accident and didn’t let go.

You keep your mouth shut, lips tight. Just nod, just smile. But your eyes are locked on Ruth, taking her in, trying to memorise every bit of damage. Every sharp edge that made you learn how to fix him.

She leans in too close, breath warm and sickly with booze and smoke, and plants her hand heavy on your shoulder.

"Let me give you a bit of advice, sweetheart. Since your mum ain’t here to do it, yeah? Don’t let yourself get dragged down. You’ve got future in you—I can see it. That fire in your eyes, it’s real. You’ve got ambition."

You blink. Once. Then twice.

"Sorry, I don’t quite—"

"Don’t let that little monster ruin you. He don’t mean to, but he will. It’s in his blood. Everything he touches, he rots. Just like his dad."

That’s the first time you taste rage. Real rage. Not kid anger. Not sulking or stomping or shouting. Real, white-hot, burning fury. She’d just called him a monster. Him. The boy you stayed up late worrying about. The one who called you when his nightmares got bad and who never told you what they were.

Your mouth twists. You feel your shoulders square without thinking.

"Take care, darling. Best stay away fro—"

"Told you to wait outside."

Your head snaps toward the stairs. There he is. Cook. Slouched and tired and barefoot, shirt unbuttoned like he couldn’t be arsed to finish dressing. His face says everything—he heard enough.

You break from her touch like it burned. Move toward him. Raise your hand, slow but sure. It’s not just a gesture. It’s a message. Come with me. Let’s go.

He hesitates. Always does, like he’s checking to see if he’s allowed to want something. But then he moves, steps down, takes your hand in his. Warm and rough and real. You squeeze. Too hard, maybe. But you don’t care. You’re telling him everything in that grip. I’m here. I’m not leaving.

You pass Ruth together, hand in hand, her perfume still clinging to your lungs. But you don’t look back—until the very last moment. You hold her gaze like a dare.

She snorts. Disbelief, not laughter.

"What did I tell ya? Eyes like fire. Gonna burn the whole bloody world."

"Goodbye, Ruth," you spit, her name bitter on your tongue.

Outside, you don’t let go. You rub your thumb over the back of his hand. Small circles. Like you can undo what she said. Like you can stitch up all the places she left him bleeding.

"Our bond’s forever, yeah?"

Your voice is too soft. Too vulnerable. And he doesn’t answer with words. He lets go only to pull you into him, arms tight around your shoulders like he’s building a shelter out of himself.

You bury your face in his chest and grip the back of his shirt. Because this is how you’ve always talked. Not with words. With skin. With the way he holds you like you're the only thing that feels right in the world.

°°°

At fifteen, it was all just too much. Emotions that once felt simple started twisting, folding in on themselves, turning into something you didn’t have the words for. Your body spoke a language you couldn’t bloody translate, and it was driving you mad. You wanted to scream half the time. The other half, you were just tired. Tired of feeling too much and not enough all at once.

Cook? Cook decided the best way to cope was to be louder. To let the world know he was a mess inside by being even messier on the outside. He didn’t give a shit who he pissed off or what got broken along the way. If it hurt, he made it louder. Like pain meant less when it echoed.

You took the opposite route. You locked it all down. Ignored the noise in your own head, pushed the thoughts back so deep they started to rot. You didn’t let yourself think about what it meant to sit alone in a house that never felt like home. You tried not to notice the twist in your gut when Panda's mum made her cake and warm milk, or when Katie and Emily argued over nothing but still sat down to eat together. And JJ's mum? Bloody hell, she made your skin itch with all that love. Asking him how his day went, reminding him to take his pills, cheering like a loon when he did some daft magic trick.

You knew none of their lives were perfect. Hell, you knew too well. But that didn’t stop you wanting a piece of it. Just a bit of the warmth. Just something.

So that one night, when you waited for Cook with that sad little dish you’d spent hours learning to make, something cracked. Just the two of you, like always. You told yourself it’d be okay once he got there. That he'd laugh at the burnt bits, eat it all anyway, and then the two of you would take the piss out of that show with Freddie’s sister dancing like she’d been electrocuted. That you’d feel less alone, just for a bit.

But he was late. Real late. And that cold plate on the table started looking like a fucking eulogy.

You called. Once, twice. No answer. By the third, you were angry. Angry and scared. Told yourself you wouldn't ring again. That if he was lying in a ditch, it served him right.

Then he picked up.

His breath came heavy, like he'd legged it down the whole of Bristol. His voice was rough, but it wasn’t the good kind. And then you heard it – laughter. A girl, muffled but clear. Something clicked in your stomach. Jealousy. Ugly, sharp.

“Cook?”

A shushing noise, then that daft voice of his. “Yeah. Shit. Sorry. I lost track.”

“You forgot experimental dinner night.”

“Fuck. Was that tonight?”

“Yeah. It was.”

More noise. A girl again, asking him to come back to bed.

You felt it then. That bite. The heat rising in your cheeks. But not the good kind. This wasn’t blushing. This was burning.

“Give me a bit, yeah? I can—”

“No, Cook. You can’t. Don’t you dare come over.”

“Oi, don’t be like that, sweetheart—”

But you were already gone. Phone across the room. Dinner in the fridge. And just like that, it was empty again. You were empty.

At night, curled up in a bed that suddenly felt twice as big, you heard the knocking at your window. You didn’t move. Just buried your head deeper under the pillow, tightening it around your ears until his voice was nothing but a muffled hum in the storm of your own thoughts.

You knew it was him. Of course it was him. Who else would be daft enough to throw stones at your window past midnight in the rain? Who else would show up after fucking everything up like it meant nothing, like it was just another night?

But this wasn’t just another night. And it wasn’t just some dinner.

It was your thing. Thursdays. You’d started it as a joke. Experimental dinner night. You’d make something weird, he'd pretend to hate it, and you'd both end up on the floor laughing, talking about fuck all till it was late enough to forget the rest of the world.

You’d made something new that night. Put effort in. Set the table. Waited. And waited. You told yourself he was just late. That he'd show up with some stupid excuse and that you’d forgive him before you even got angry.

But he didn’t come. You felt something sharp twist inside you. Not just jealousy. It was betrayal. It was the cold realisation that he'd forgotten. Not flaked, not ditched. Forgotten.

Forgotten the one thing that was yours.

And not because he didn’t care. Because he did. That’s what made it worse. He cared, but he was still Cook. Still running from his own feelings like they were fire at his heels. Still diving headfirst into chaos instead of sitting still long enough to feel something real.

You’d seen it before. When things got too close, he’d blow it all up. Not on purpose—but not by accident either.

He couldn’t bear the quiet. Couldn’t bear how good it felt when you looked at him like you saw all the wreckage and still wanted him anyway. That kind of safety terrified him. So he ran. Straight into the arms of anyone who didn’t ask questions. Anyone who didn’t look at him like you did.

He showed up that night because a part of him knew what he’d done. Knew he’d fucked it. Knew that he’d broken something that wasn’t easy to glue back together.

You didn’t let him in.

And outside, under your window, Cook was falling apart.

Because you had been the only one who never asked him to be anything else. Who never expected perfection or promises. Just a seat at the table. A bit of warmth in the mess.

And he’d forgotten it. Like it was nothing. Because he'd been too busy trying not to feel jealous about you and Freddie. Too scared to ask what you felt, too hurt to admit what he felt himself. He'd bottled it all up like always, let it fester, and then found a body to disappear into instead of saying the one thing he couldn’t:

That he was scared of losing you.

°°°

There were no more Thursday experiments. That part of your life had vanished, like a dream fading in the morning light, and nothing came close to replacing it.

But still, you stayed. Maybe not in the same way, maybe not with sleepovers and secret smiles, but you never truly left him. You were still there—still laughing at his jokes, still showing up when he called, still walking into the chaos just to pull him out again. You kept orbiting each other like planets with wrecked gravity, doomed to circle forever without ever quite touching.

Things had changed between you. Not in loud, dramatic ways—but in the silences. In the pauses between jokes. In the way your eyes lingered too long and your hands pulled away too quickly. There was a weight between you that neither of you dared to name, the kind of tension that makes your chest ache because it’s too full of things left unsaid. Every time you looked at him, you felt it—that ache. And he felt it too, but neither of you was brave enough to step into it. So you let it grow, let it rot into something heavy and bitter, something that pressed against your ribs whenever he smiled at someone else.

You tried to kill it. You both did. You went looking for numbness, for distractions. For something to drown out that god-awful feeling of almost. Cook found it in strangers—flashes of skin and noise and temporary warmth. He was always good at pretending none of it mattered, that he didn’t feel anything. He’d wrap himself around anyone who’d have him, chasing that brief second of being wanted, of not being alone.

And you? You chose quiet. You chose Freddie. Gentle hands. Calm words. Someone who wouldn’t explode at the drop of a hat. He made your life feel less like a car crash and more like a walk through the rain. With him, it was softer. Safer. You knew he loved you in a way that hurt because you couldn’t love him back the same. He’d whisper it into your skin—"I love you, I love you"—like it could make you stay, like it could make you forget the way your heart still twisted at the sound of Cook’s laugh.

And all you could say was, “I know.”.

 He saw it in the way your eyes always drifted across the room. In how your voice changed when Cook was near. Freddie knew your heart belonged to someone who never quite knew what to do with it. And still, he stayed. Let you carve a home out of his chest and never asked for more than you could give.

You weren’t Cook’s girlfriend. Never were. You weren’t Freddie’s either, not really—just someone who drifted close enough to feel safe for a while. But Cook, he hated the idea of you choosing anyone else. Not because he’d claimed you, not because he’d ever said the words—but because deep down, he always believed you were his. His anchor. His person.

It twisted something in him, the thought of someone else holding you when your hands shook, of someone else knowing the sound of your breathing when you finally fell asleep. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone else got to see you soft, see you small. So his jokes turned sharper, crueler. His laugh louder, more manic. Every room you walked into, he made sure you saw him first—made sure you couldn’t look anywhere else.

He'd do anything to keep your eyes on him, even if it meant becoming a caricature of himself. Because being your nothing was still better than watching you belong to someone else.

And it worked. Somehow, it always worked. You’d end up beside him, always. Fingers tracing nothing on his arm while Freddie looked on from across the room, too kind to say anything, too in love to look away.

You were both broken. You and Cook. Too mangled by life to know how to say what needed saying. Too scared of ruining what little you had left. So instead of building something, you burned everything around you just to feel alive.

But no matter how far he spiralled, no matter how messy the night, Cook always found his way back to you. Battered and bleeding, eyes glazed over from whatever he’d taken, fists bruised from fights that didn’t mean anything. Somehow, his feet would always carry him to your door.

And you’d always open it. Even when you shouldn’t. Even when you were exhausted from carrying too much that was never yours to carry. You’d open that door and there he’d be—your wreck of a boy. All scraped knees and bleeding knuckles. Lost. And you���d take his hand, still the same hand you held when you were kids, and you’d guide him out of the dark again.

You’d clean him up. Sit him down, wipe the blood off his stupid face with that same gentleness he never felt he deserved. You’d dress his wounds like he hadn’t ripped your heart open a hundred times. Leave fresh clothes for him, not the old purple pyjamas anymore.

Then you’d pull him into your bed and wrap your arms around him like you could hold him together. Like if you held him tight enough, he wouldn’t fall apart again. Like maybe you could keep the pieces from slipping through your fingers this time.

And he’d let you. He always did. He’d let the warmth swallow him whole. Let you be the one place that didn’t hurt. And he’d think it—every time—that he loved you. That he needed you. That it killed him, not having the right to say any of it out loud. Because he didn’t know how to love things gently. He only knew how to want so much it broke him.

Instead of saying it, he’d make a joke. Always. “You really need to wash these sheets. They fucking stink.”

And you’d roll your eyes, your heart aching in your chest. “If you didn’t cover them in blood and sick every time, they wouldn’t, twat.”

And somehow, in all the mess and damage and wreckage—you’d fall asleep beside him. Pretending, just for a night, that love didn’t have to ruin everything.

°°°

You didn’t even remember gettin’ up to your room. Everything’d been so fucking loud, so overwhelming—all screaming and chaos, a storm in your head that felt like it’d drown you. You wanted to feel pain. Real pain. Something sharp enough to split you open, just so you’d know you were still alive. But there was nothing. Just that heavy, humming nothing sitting inside your chest like a weight.

You could see yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, dead still, staring at some random spot on the wall like your brain’d shorted out. It didn’t feel like it was happening to you, couldn’t be. You weren’t there, not properly. Like you’d split from your body and drifted off somewhere else.

You didn’t remember picking up your phone either. Didn’t clock the moment you called Freddie. He didn’t answer. Probably asleep. Maybe off with Effy. You weren’t even upset. No anger, no disappointment. Just more of that fucking void. Didn’t even know why you rang him first. Maybe deep down, you knew he wouldn’t pick up. That way, you wouldn’t have to say it out loud—wouldn’t have to make it real.

Your fingers moved on their own, calling another number. You didn’t even know what you were doing ‘til you heard his voice.

"What’s happened?"

He always knew. Didn’t matter if you hadn’t spoken in months, Cook just fuckin’ knew when summat was off. Like he had a radar for your pain or something. You just breathed, trying to find your voice beneath all the noise.

"You home? I’m comin’."

And suddenly, something. Your heart banged against your ribs and the heat came with it, warm and dizzying, like the blood was rushing back into dead limbs. You held onto it. Clung, like it might stop you from falling apart completely. Because that feeling, even buried as deep as it was, was better than that cold empty nothing.

When you stepped outside, you saw him. Loud as ever. Car that probably wasn’t his, windows down, music blaring through the estate like a fuck-you anthem. You knew he did it on purpose. For your dad. For anyone who thought you were alone.

He leaned out the window, waving a tub of ice cream.

"Weren’t no mint, babe. Got what I could."

Your chest twisted so tight it felt like it might snap. You smiled with your teeth clenched, trying not to fall apart.

"You gettin’ in or what? This shit’s already turnin’ to soup."

You got in without a word. Took the tub off him. It was a mess. Melting and sticking to your fingers. Just like you. Just like him. Perfectly fucked.

Back at his flat, you lay side by side on his bed, eyes stuck on the ceiling. The air was thick. Every breath a fucking effort. You reached out, slow, your thumb grazing his hand—a silent SOS. And he answered. That touch turned real. Present. Dangerous.

You started stroking his hand, like it meant nothing, like it was casual. But it weren’t. Not for either of you. You used to touch all the time. Back when you were just mates. Before it got complicated. Before it started hurting to be close.

He shifted closer. Your shoulders brushed. The weight of it pressed down on you like concrete. You couldn’t breathe properly—not through your nose, not through your fucking lungs. But you didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His fingers gripped yours. Tight. Not soft. He was saying something. That he was there. That you weren’t alone. His breath hitched. You turned your head to look at him. His eyes were moving, restless, chasing answers in the plaster above.

Then he said it.

"I fuckin’ love you."

Too fast. Too real. Too late.

“No, Cook, please. Don’t”

You tried to shut him up. Hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the words before they fucked it all up. But he pulled it away.

"I love you. Not like Freddie or JJ. Not like that. It’s fuckin’ awful. Makes me feel sick, how much I do."

Your mouth opened but nothing came. Just tears. Blurry, burning, useless.

"You don’t have to say owt. Just... I need you to know there’s people out there who love you. Who think you’re gold, yeah? Proper gold. And you need to hear that. You need to believe it."

The world tilted.

Not just around you—inside you. It cracked. Your bones felt hollow. Your skin too thin. Your chest too tight to hold the weight of what he’d said. You were glad you were lying down because if you’d been upright, you would’ve collapsed under the force of it. You felt like glass, straining under pressure, seconds from shattering. He’d made you glass, and he didn’t even know it.

He was still next to you, breathing, waiting. Waiting for something you didn’t know how to give.

You loved him too.

Of course you fucking did.

You felt it blooming in your chest like a bruise, dark and tender and obvious. But you didn’t say it. You couldn’t. Because saying it would make it real, and real things could be broken. Could rot. Could ruin the only constant you’d ever had in your life—him.

You didn’t know how to love without ruining it. Didn’t know how to hold something without crushing it in your fists, how to touch something good without setting it on fire. You didn’t have soft in you. Not the kind people deserved. Not the kind he deserved.

And you knew, with this cold, awful certainty, that he would take anything you gave him. He always had. That was the worst part. He’d let you have him in pieces. He’d swallow your confusion, your silence, your mess, just to stay close. That confession? That reckless, beautiful fucking confession? It only proved what you’d already known deep down: he’d let you hurt him if it meant you’d let him stay.

You hated yourself for it. For needing him this much. For not saying what he needed to hear. For letting him drown in your silence just so you wouldn’t have to face your own fear.

You were selfish. And you knew it.

But you couldn’t risk losing him. Not him. Not the only one who’d stayed. Because once you fucked it up—and you would, it was in your blood—there’d be no going back. No arms to run to. No place left in the world that felt like home.

So when you saw him take another breath, gearing up to speak again, you did the only thing you could.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t anything out of a film. It was sharp and clumsy and almost panicked, your lips crashing into his like you could knock the words back down his throat.

And just like that, everything else fell away.

The years of confusion. Of longing. Of pretending. That ache in your chest that never had a name. It all burned up in the heat of that kiss. Because the truth was, your body had always known what your mouth couldn’t say. His mouth on yours was gasoline on everything buried. Your whole soul lit up.

You kissed him like a secret, like a scream, like a fucking prayer. Letting him feel all the things you couldn’t give shape to. All the love you didn’t know how to carry. You poured it into his mouth, frantic, desperate, hoping it would be enough.

His breath caught. His hands didn’t move. For a moment, it was just you—wreckage and want and all the things you couldn’t speak, pressed against the one person who might still want you anyway.

It only lasted a second. Maybe two. Just a graze of fire and salt and skin. But when you pulled back, you couldn’t breathe.

And he understood. Of course he did. That was the thing about him. He always fucking did.

°°°°

You don’t talk about it. Not the kiss. Not the way his hand clung to yours like he couldn’t stand to let go. Not the I love you he dropped like it was nothin—like he wasn’t tearing the world in half with it. You just pretend it didn’t happen. Both of you. Like it got swallowed up in the dark. Like it never cracked you open.

But everything’s different now. Even the silence. It hums. Stretches. Pulls at the edges of every moment. He still shows up, still takes the piss, still crashes at yours like always. But now, there’s a weight to everything. Like the air’s thicker when he’s near. Like you’re both waiting for the next mistake.

You wake up with him behind you.

Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just… there. Warm. Familiar. The kind of weight you used to think would mean safety, before you learned better. His arm is around your middle, loose but certain. His chest presses into your back, breath soft against the nape of your neck. You can smell him. Sweat, cheap shampoo, something vaguely like the smoke from last night’s spliff still clinging to his skin.

You blink at the light slipping through the crack in the curtains. Too early. Too cold. You should get up. Instead, you lie there for a moment longer.

It’s not the first time he’s crawled into your bed after a night out or a fight or just because he had nowhere else to go. He never asks. Just slips in beside you like it’s natural. Like it’s always been this way.

You try not to read into it anymore. You’ve both gotten good at pretending this doesn’t mean anything.

When you shift, his grip tightens. A sleepy groan vibrates against your shoulder.

"Don’t,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and honey, barely awake. “Warm here. Stay."

You smile despite yourself. That stupid, lazy voice of his—so close it feels like it could climb under your skin.

"We’ve got class, idiot," you whisper, turning just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

His face is buried in your pillow, one eye cracked open, bleary and annoyed. He doesn’t move.

"Skip."

"You skip."

"I am."

You huff out a laugh. You should be annoyed, but he looks so fucking peaceful like that. Like some other version of himself. One that doesn’t burn everything down just by being near it. You push a bit of hair from his forehead, slow and careful. His eyes flutter closed again.

"Go back to sleep, Cook," you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

You stay there a second longer, watching him. Trying to fix this version of him in your mind—the one that sleeps, the one that clings, the one that doesn’t talk. Then you ease out of his grip and tuck the duvet back around him.

By the time you leave, your fingers are still tingling from touching his skin.

The day’s shit from the start. Cold wind. Missed bus. You nearly spill coffee on your jumper, and someone plays Mardy Bum too loud in the hallway and it hits too close. But then—silver lining: your third period’s cancelled.

It’s barely noon. You could go to the library. Get ahead. Be a normal person for once. Instead, your feet turn toward home like they’ve made the decision for you.

You’re already smiling when you climb the stairs. He’ll still be asleep, probably starfished across your sheets. Maybe snoring, definitely drooling. You’ll crawl back in beside him, just for a bit. Maybe steal his warmth before he wakes up and ruins it with his mouth.

You push open the bedroom door, ready to say, You’re not gonna believe this, they actually—

And then you stop.

Because he’s not asleep.

He’s on your bed, one hand wrapped tight around himself, the other holding—

Your knickers.

Pressed to his face.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

For a second, the world tilts.

Your voice gets caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between shock and—something else. Something hot. Something low and coiling.

You freeze, caught in the doorway like you’ve stepped into someone else’s dream—or maybe a nightmare you don't hate quite as much as you should.

He’s sprawled across your sheets like he owns them, like he belongs there, flushed and messy and loud, moaning your name like a curse. Your panties are bunched in his fist, pressed to his face like a drug he’s too far gone to quit.

And the worst part is: he doesn't even flinch. Doesn’t try to hide it. Just blinks through the haze, lips parted, hips twitching up into his fist like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like you walking in on this was just part of the plan.

Your heart stutters. Your skin prickles.

You should slam the door. Should scream at him. But instead—

You laugh. It bubbles up, breathless and sharp, just as your hand flies to your mouth.

“Are you actually jerking off in my bed?”

He grins, wild and unrepentant, eyes glittering with something feral. “Took you long enough, princess. Thought you’d never get home.”

“You absolute pig.”

He groans like that helps, head falling back into your pillow like he’s sinking into something holy. “Go on. Call me more names. Call me your filthy little secret.”

Heat coils in your stomach. This isn’t new. Cook and his disasters. Cook and his wreckage. But this—this thing he’s doing in your sheets with your scent on his skin and your name in his mouth—this is new. And it’s working.

“Is this what you do the second I leave?” Your voice barely works. You lean on the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to melt. Trying to look unbothered. "Raid my drawer, get off with your nose buried in my underwear?"

He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t even stop. He just groans loud, lets his head roll toward you with a grin that’s all teeth and trouble.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You arch a brow, your stomach tightening.

He laughs again—breathless and soaked in sweat. “Alright, maybe do. You smell like sin, babe. Like fuckin' heartbreak. How'm I supposed to behave when you leave me here like this?"

Your mouth goes dry. There's heat curling behind your ears, a deep throb low in your stomach. You shift without meaning to, thighs brushing, sensitive.

"You're a menace."

"And you fuckin' love it," he pants, voice getting louder now, filthier. He's putting on a show and he knows it. All messy rhythm and flushed skin, muscles twitching under the strain. "Bet you think about this too, yeah? Think about me when you touch yourself in that bed?"

Your breath hitches. Everything inside you pulses.

"Not Freddie," he growls, jaw tight, hand still moving. "Me. It’s me you think of with your fingers between your legs, innit?"

Your legs lock, throat too dry to speak. Every nerve ending is on fire. You can feel the ache building between your legs just watching him. That hot-cold shame that feels like lightning.

" Because it’s always been you for me. Always have," he spits, eyes wild. "But after that kiss? Fuck, princess. I can’t stop. Every fuckin' night. You think I’m loud now? You should hear what I sound like with your name in my mouth and your taste still stuck in my teeth."

You squeeze your thighs together so tight it hurts. Your skin feels too hot. Your breath too shallow. He catches the shift in your stance and moans, filthy and guttural.

"You like this. Bet you're soaked just watchin' me. Bet you can't even look away."

You can’t. You don’t want to. Your body’s humming, aching, practically begging for something you haven’t even admitted to yourself.

You knew it was a provocation—everything he was doing was meant to make you snap, to make you say what you couldn’t that night. But the words caught in your throat again, stuck fast with no way out. He clicked his tongue, saw it in your eyes—the denial of the obvious—and moaned a little louder, just to fuck with you, just to see if that would finally pull you out of your own head.

“You’re such a dick.”

"Big one too," he grits out, voice almost breaking, hips bucking like he’s chasing the edge.

Your heart stutters. Your pulse thrums between your legs.

And he falls apart with a shout, like he wants the whole damn street to know. Loud, messy, shaking, like he can’t take it anymore.

Your name breaks out of him like a plea. Like a prayer.

You watch.

Burning. Silent. Shaken to your core.

He lies there for a second, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead, your ruined knickers still clutched in his hand. Then he looks up at you and laughs, soft and breathless.

“What d’you say, princess? How ‘bout we don’t talk about this?” He wipes his stomach with the fabric, grinning. “Just like we don’t talk about that night, yeah?”

Your whole body pulses. And still, you don’t say a word.

You can’t.

°°°°

Everything had gotten stranger. Your door wasn’t always open like it used to be, like you’d built a wall of bricks and silence around you. And Cook—he’d started wondering if he’d pushed you too far, properly fucked it by trying to force all the shit inside you to come spilling out.

Thing is, he never knew how to love right. Never learned how to want something without breaking it. But that didn’t stop him saying it, that jumble of feeling that had been growing inside him for years. Stuff too big to bury, no matter how deep he shoved it down.

And yeah, maybe you'd thrown yourself into someone else’s arms—Freddie’s—but he could almost understand that. The dizzying fear of handing your heart to someone who might actually take care of it. Still, he hadn’t given up, even if he stopped showing up at your door at 3 a.m., even if he kept his distance now like it might spare you.

But it didn’t help. There was a storm inside you that even Freddie couldn’t quiet. No one knew, no one else had seen that side. You didn’t let them. Too ashamed, maybe, of the mess you’d made trying to pretend you didn’t need anyone.

So you said yes to every plan, every distraction. Anything loud enough to drown the chaos in your head. That’s how you’d ended up at that party, half-cut and ignoring JJ’s warnings about exams and hangovers. You bit your tongue before telling him that forgetting was the plan. Blanking it all out—especially the parts that still mattered.

And then, like always, there he was.

You two always ended up in the same place, like it was fate or some sick joke. That night, you were dancing with Freddie, the world spinning, his hands on your hips trying to keep you grounded. But it was Cook’s eyes that scorched you, following every movement like they had something to prove. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

And that made it worse. Because that kiss—it kept echoing in your head, louder than the bass pulsing through the floor. That brutal, honest confession you couldn’t shake: “I fucking love you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Pulled away from Freddie, gasping, some excuse about needing air. “Don’t worry, stay—I'll be back in a bit.”

The club door slammed behind you, and the stairwell felt thinner, heavier. You didn’t even know if you meant to go outside or just get away—away from those eyes.

Then the door creaked again.

You didn’t turn. You already knew it wasn’t Freddie.

You shut your eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Anything would’ve been easier than facing him.

“Always runnin’, innit?”

That’s what made you spin.

His breath was ragged, lips parted like there was still more to say.

“Fuck you, Cook.”

You turned to face him fully. A thousand things slammed into your chest. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to hit him. Scream until your voice broke. Tear something down just to match the ruin inside.

“What d’you want me to say, ah?”

You were close now. You could feel the tremble in his chest, his breath hitting your skin.

“That I’ve been a fucking mess ‘cause you made me listen to what you feel?” Your voice cracked, trembling. “That it’s fucked me up ‘cause I can’t say it back?” Your eyes were wet now. “And not ‘cause I don’t feel it. Christ, I think I’ve loved you since the day we met, Cook. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to hold it. It scares the shit out of me that it’s this strong.”

You were sobbing now, your voice barely a whisper.

“Everyone who’s meant to love me has smashed me to pieces. And if I tell you how much you mean, it’ll be in your hands. You could destroy me.”

He froze. Eyes locked on you, wide, taking in every inch of your face like he was memorising it. His hands cupped your cheeks, rough but careful. Fingers shaking a little.

And then he smiled. Soft. So bloody gentle it hurt.

“Yeah. S’pose it’s a bit like that.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t one of those reckless, angry kisses you’d shared before. Not a distraction. Not a dare. It was soft. True. Full of all the words you’d never said aloud.

And you let it happen.

But softness scared you too. It was too raw, too open. So you kissed him back with hunger, with fire, like asking him to take everything you couldn’t put into words.

The kiss turned messy, desperate. Your nose knocked his, your fingers found his shirt. Cook growled into your mouth, hands gripping your jaw, angling your face just so.

He was all teeth and tongue and breathless want, like he was trying to burn his name into your bones.

By the time you broke apart, you were both gasping. But he didn’t pull away—he chased your lips like they were the only thing keeping him alive. Tiny kisses, feather-light, tracing the corners of your mouth. Whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in. It smelled like memories. Like home. You nearly cried again.

“I was scared. I couldn’t—”

You didn’t finish. The stairwell wall slammed against your back. You had no idea when you’d started walking backwards, probably somewhere during that blazing kiss. Maybe when his tongue brushed yours and you stopped caring where you were.

He kissed you again, rougher this time. His hand slid under your top, warm on your spine, and the gentleness in his fingers didn’t match the urgency in his mouth. Your gasp gave him the chance to deepen the kiss, tasting you like he’d waited a lifetime.

Your hands flew to his neck, anchoring yourself. A low growl rumbled from his throat and tugged a whimper from yours.

He gripped your waist, dragging you closer, until there wasn’t a sliver of space between you. One hand dipped lower, bold now, until he cupped your arse firmly. You didn’t think—just wrapped your legs around his waist, letting him hold your weight. He hissed at the heat of you against him.

“Let me,” he murmured, scattering kisses along your cheek, your jaw, nipping lightly at your skin. One hand traced your thigh, skin to skin, making you shudder.

With Cook, words always failed you. But they weren’t needed.

So you nodded, lost in the spiral of everything you’d buried for years.

He tilted your chin with two fingers, gaze locked to yours. You braced for something cutting—but instead, he kissed you again. Gentle. Almost too tender for this hallway of secrets and mistakes.

“I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he whispered. His hand ghosted across your chest, not quite touching. Like he had all the time in the world.

“No rush.”

His mouth finds your neck, and you're powerless to stop the moan that tears from your lips. He starts grinding against your heat, lost in the promise of it. With every shift of your body, desperate for more friction, you brush against his erection, making him lose the rhythm of the kisses and bites he was scattering across the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Please…”

The plea tumbles from your lips in desperation, because you don’t even know what you need—just that you need him.

“James, I need you. Please…”

He chuckles low in his throat, swallowing a groan when your hips buck forward, chasing the heat of him.

“Now you say what you want, huh?”

You’d curse at him, but the words tangle uselessly in your throat as he finally starts to hike up your skirt. His hands drag achingly slow over your skin. You’re about to tell him you’re not in the mood for teasing when you feel his fingers slipping between your bodies, still separated by too much fabric. He runs one fingertip over the damp spot that’s already soaked through, clicking his tongue when he feels how wet you are.

He comes into view, and you can’t believe he’s got that smug grin on his lips—like the two of you aren’t about to go up in flames.

“All this just for Freddie?”

Then he pushes the fabric aside, and the lazy caress he trails over your burning flesh makes your eyes snap shut, head pressing back against the wall. His warmth had always felt comforting, always felt like home—but this closeness, this hunger, was overwhelming.

“Of course not. Because you’ve always thought about me, haven’t you?”

Your heart thunders so loudly you can barely hear him. You feel the firm pressure of his thumb parting you, gliding easily through the slick heat that welcomes him with no resistance. He touches you with maddening care, never quite where you need him, and just when you're about to whine, he sinks a finger inside you. You gasp, sharp and breathless, the sensation too intense to be real. His voice brushes your ear again, warm and wet:

“You’re soaked.”

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until his fingers curl inside you — slow, deep, deliberate. Like he’s carving a place there for himself. Like you’re not already full of him. Your breath catches and he grins against your neck, cocky and smug and so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of things he’ll never say out loud. His thumb finally finds your clit, circling with maddening pressure, and your back arches off the wall with a gasp that dies somewhere between your teeth and his.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. Maybe you are. In everything he is, everything he’s always been to you. In every bad decision you both swore you’d never make but are making anyway, right here, right now.

He bites down gently on your shoulder as he works you open, every stroke pushing you closer to something sharp and inevitable. You moan into his hair, tug at it with one hand while the other fists his shirt, needing him closer, deeper, anchored in the only way you’ve ever known how.

“You want me?” he mutters, almost like he’s teasing — but there’s something underneath, a raw edge, a crack he can’t quite cover. “Like this?

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just grind down against his hand like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth, because maybe it is.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Say you want me.”

Your voice is wrecked when it comes out. “I want you, James.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lets out a guttural noise and shifts, unfastening his jeans with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. You help him, fumbling, frantic, the two of you lost in your own chaos. The second he’s free, you feel the heat and hardness of him pressed against your thigh, and your mouth goes dry.

You wrap your legs tighter around his hips as he slides your underwear to the side, lining himself up with a grunt. One last look into your eyes — something unspoken flickering in his — and then he pushes into you in one long, aching thrust.

You choke on a gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

He groans like he’s finally home.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and right. He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling, breathing each other in like you’ll forget how if you stop.

Then he moves.

He thrusts into you slow and deep, the drag of him inside you maddening, hitting places no one else ever has — not like this, not with this knowing. It’s messy and raw and so damn intimate it makes your heart lurch. His lips find yours again, sloppy and bruising and full of every word neither of you have the guts to say.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, voice unraveling as he picks up pace. “So tight — fuck — always thought about you like this. Every goddamn time you smiled at him.”

You whimper, because it’s too much. The way he moves, the filthy things he says, the heat in your stomach building into something devastating. You press your face into his neck and he grinds deeper, fucking you like he’s trying to claim every part of you that’s ever belonged to someone else.

Each push forward is full of purpose, and with every thrust, it's like he's pressing a piece of himself into you, anchoring the years he never spoke into the softness of your body.

You're still clinging to him, arms looped tight around his neck like you’re afraid he'll disappear. But he’s here. All of him. And you feel it in the way his hand skims up your back, in the press of his forehead against yours, in the breath he lets out when he sinks all the way inside you again — a sound that cracks open your chest from the inside.

“Look at me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and breathless.

You do.

And it wrecks you.

His eyes are wild, glassy, filled with something so raw and full it almost hurts to meet them. He’s not just fucking you — he’s memorizing you. The way your breath catches. The way your legs tremble. The way your walls clench around him when he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.

“I didn’t know how much I needed it… you… until I couldn’t take pretending anymore.”

You don’t speak. Can’t. Your voice is buried beneath the waves of sensation building too fast, too sharp. But tears burn at the corners of your eyes,

Every roll of his hips is a confession. Every grind of his pelvis against your clit makes you cry out his name like it’s a lifeline. And he listens. God, does he listen — with his body, with his hands, with every whispered "I've got you," he leaves on your skin like a promise.

You feel yourself tightening around him, everything coiling and rising, your release hovering so close it makes your vision blur. And then—

“I’ve always been yours,” he pants against your mouth. “Even when you didn’t look at me. Even when it was him.”

That breaks you.

Not just physically.

Something inside you shatters in the most beautiful way. You come with a gasp so deep it feels like being reborn, and he holds you through it, kissing your face like you’re something holy.

He follows right after, hips stuttering, breath breaking apart as he spills into you with a moan that sounds like your name turned prayer.

°°°°

You walk into the party with Cook like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t have his hands all over you on the stairs. Like he didn’t look at you with something burning behind his eyes and say he’d been waiting for that moment for years.

Now it’s just music. Lights. Laughter. You two again, as always — shoulder to shoulder, knocking shots back like war buddies, bumping hips and stealing each other’s drinks.

You make him laugh. That loud, ridiculous Cook laugh. And you feel it twist something inside you, because it sounds like him. Like before.

He throws his arm around your shoulder at one point, and you lean into it automatically, like muscle memory. You know every version of this boy. You know how to pretend with him.

You’re both pretending now.

Pretending it didn’t mean anything. That the weight of him still isn’t echoing in your bone

But you’re both so drunk you’ve forgotten how to keep your distance.

Somewhere between the third shot and the stolen bottle of rum, you end up with your back against a wall, Cook’s mouth on yours again. It's messy and rough and soaked in everything you didn’t say earlier. Everything you won’t say now.

His hands are on your waist like he owns the moment — like this is something you've done a thousand times. And maybe, in his head, you have.

You laugh into his mouth, dizzy, half out of your mind, and he presses closer like he needs you to stay tethered. Like you’re the only solid thing left in the spinning room.

People are everywhere. Music’s pounding. Bodies are dancing. And you two? You’re falling. Fast.

“OH MY GOD,” someone yells.

You both flinch.

Panda’s standing there with her hands in her hair, looking like she’s about to cry from joy or scream.

“Fucking FINALLY. Finally, you two! You’ve had everyone going insane for months, man. Thought you were gonna combust or something.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Cook laughs. His forehead rests against yours for a second and you feel his breath on your lips. But then—

“No,” you mumble.

Panda blinks. “What?”

“We’re not… it’s not like that,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

Cook’s already back to kissing you — your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Sloppy, drunk kisses that make your knees weak, but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

“She’s right,” he mutters against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “Not like that at all.”

Panda looks confused. “Mate, you’re literally—what do you mean—?”

But you’re not listening.

Because Cook’s murmuring things in your ear now, nonsense and maybe truths, too far gone to care. Something like mine, something like fuck, I missed this even though you never had this.

You grab his shirt to steady yourself and smile at Panda like you’re not unraveling.

“It’s nothing,” you lie. “Just drunk.”

Panda stares like she knows exactly what kind of lie it is.

But she lets it go.

And Cook?

Cook just keeps kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

°°°°

You wake in his bed with the sunlight coming in sideways through a curtain that never quite closes. The room smells like him—sweat, smoke, the lingering sweetness of last night. It should feel gross, maybe. But it doesn’t. Not today. Today it feels like something new. Like you’re allowed to be here. Like it means something.

You lie still for a moment, head turned toward him. He’s facedown, limbs sprawled like he’s just been dropped from a great height. There’s a purple bruise blooming on his shoulder from your teeth. You smile.

Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could ache. You pull on his shirt—one he probably found on the floor and declared clean by smell alone—and tiptoe toward the bathroom. The mirror is cracked, the faucet leaks, the tiles haven’t been scrubbed since the last ice age, but it’s fine. You look at your reflection, hair tangled, eyes lit up. Wrecked and radiant. You press your fingers to the glass like you might fall into it.

This. This is yours. For a minute, at least.

You’re brushing your teeth when arms wrap around you from behind. He’s warm and heavier than you remember in the mornings, chin hooked over your shoulder, eyes barely open.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You smile around the toothbrush.

He kisses your neck. Then your jaw. Then your cheek. Then—

“Wait. Wait, is that my toothbrush?”

You pause mid-brush. Turn your head just enough to see him in the mirror.

“Seriously?” you say, mouth full of foam.

He’s frowning, nose scrunched. “That’s rank. Why would you use my toothbrush?”

You pull it out of your mouth with a snap. “You had your tongue in my arse like, eight hours ago.”

“Yeah, that’s completely different.”

“HOW?!”

He grabs the toothbrush from your hand like he’s rescuing a puppy from a burning building.

“Boundaries, babe.”

And then he kisses you. Not soft. Not sweet. It’s filthy. He tastes like sleep and last night’s whiskey and the toothpaste you just spit out. His hands are on your hips, dragging you back against him like he’s starving. You choke a little on your own laughter, try to push him off, but he doesn’t budge.

He’s all tongue and teeth, messy and hot, mouth greedy against yours.

“Jesus—Cook—” you mumble between kisses, still foamy at the corners.

He finally pulls back, eyes shining with something wicked. Picks up the toothbrush off the sink and just shoves it back in the cup like nothing happened.

“You’re fucking gross,” you laugh, wiping your mouth on his shirt.

He winks. “You like it nasty, innit?”

You’re both laughing now. He’s got toothpaste on his chin, and you’re gasping, breathless, heart beating too fast.

“I hate you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Liar,” he says, grinning.

°°°°

The reality of what you once were hits you like a lorry with no brakes.

Fifteen years. And still, it’s all right there. Still him. Still you. Still that version of love that didn’t make sense but somehow felt like the only thing that ever had.

You see it in his eyes first—same Cook, only older, worn in the ways no one should ever be. But there’s that glint of pain buried deep, like he never stopped waiting for you to come back through that door.

He stares at you like you’re still seventeen. Like you’re still that girl who used to press her fingers to his ribs and tell him he was more than what the world saw.

And he speaks—rough, guttural, voice splintered at the edges.

"You said our bond was forever. Said you wouldn’t fuckin’ leave."

It doesn’t even sound like him—not the version you built up in your head over the years. It’s not the brash, laughing boy who used to dive headfirst into every wrong decision and drag you along for the ride. This version? He sounds... small. Young. Like the scared kid life never gave a chance to grow slow.

And you... you almost break right there.

But you don’t.

You owe him the truth. And you owe yourself the choice you made, no matter how much it hurts now to stand by it.

"Nothing was ever enough, Cook."

You say it without flinching. Not cruel. Just honest. Raw. A blade wrapped in cloth.

"I tried. You know I did. But you—you wouldn’t let me stay."

He looks away, but you can feel the weight of his stare anyway. Feel it pressing into your skin like old ghosts.

"Maybe if you’d stayed... if—"

He stops, because the words die on his tongue. Because whatever he was going to say, it’s too late for it now.

You shake your head, voice steady, even as your chest cracks open under the weight of it all.

"You weren’t gonna drag just me to your heaven. You’d have burned it down before we ever got there. I couldn’t let you destroy everything."

He flinches. That gets him. That lands deeper than any hit he ever took in a fight.

And for a second, you’re both silent. Letting the years stretch between you like a trench too wide to cross.

He’s not that boy anymore. And you? You’re not that girl. You both had to learn how to survive without each other, and it left you stitched up in all the wrong ways.

You think about apologizing. For leaving. For running instead of holding his hand and fighting through the mess. But then you remember why you did it. Remember the child growing inside you and the life you refused to offer up to chaos.

You made a choice.

And now it’s time to deal with the fallout.

He breaks the silence.

"Who’s he like?"

You blink. The question doesn’t register at first.

"Who?"

"The lad. Our son."

It knocks the breath out of you like he’s punched you in the stomach.

You weren’t ready for that. For him to say "our son" like the words belonged to him, like he'd known all along. But he hadn’t. And somehow, hearing it now is worse than if he had.

You smile, but it’s the kind that’s wrapped in something heavier than joy.

"He’s... brilliant. A menace." You laugh a little through your tears. "He’s got that spark in his eyes, right before he does something mad. Laughs louder than everyone else. Can ruin a room or light it up, depends on the day. He’s a bloody bomb, James."

You say it like it’s a confession. Like loving someone that much should come with a warning.

And Cook—he just nods, sharp and sudden, turning his face away like maybe if he hides it, the pain will go somewhere else. But it doesn’t. It lands heavy, shattering whatever pieces of him were left intact. He rubs a hand down his mouth. Tries to swallow it. Tries not to fall apart.

And then, like a reflex, your hand reaches out. Shaky. Uncertain.

His eyes meet yours—bloodshot, worn down, but still the same underneath.

Everything in his grown-up self tells him not to take it. Not to fall for the same girl with the trembling fingers and the war in her eyes. But that younger version of him—the reckless boy who loved you with no armour at all—he grabs it.

And he holds on.

You close your fingers around his like it’s the only thing keeping either of you afloat.

"He loves hard, too," you whisper, your voice barely holding. "All-in. Like you. And sometimes that screws him over, because he doesn’t get why the world doesn’t love back the same way. But he’s learning."

Cook doesn’t speak. Just tightens his grip like if he lets go, you’ll disappear again.

"He’s got the best of both of us," you say, softer now. "And I won’t let you ruin him, Cook. Please."

His nod is almost invisible.

"I can do that," he says. Quiet. But firm.

You don’t wait. You pull him into a hug so hard your bones ache.

He smells different now. But he’s still warm. Still Cook. Still the boy who once built you a home out of broken glass and cigarette ash.

You cry into his shirt, no longer trying to stop it.

And when you finally let go, you kiss his cheek—gentle, trembling.

"Thank you."

And then you walk away.

He watches you go. And even though you’re not leaving town this time, it still tastes like goodbye.