#flutter-fields asks

[mylittlejestershoes]

should be able to finish my flutter design today!! YAHOO!!!!!

[chuluoyi]

𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍'𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

- zayne x reader

as dawn breaks, a new chapter begins. now husband and wife in the truest sense, both of you embark on the path of happiness together. yet, bittersweet loose ends remain still. will they eventually stay in the past for good, or cast a permanent shadow over your lives?

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy & sex, mentions of complications related to pregnancy, brief description of childbirth (c-section), hunter!reader (not l&ds mc -> l&ds mc is zayne's late ex-girlfriend here)

note: part 2 to nocturne of twilight. my god, i honestly didn't expect it'd turn out into another 8k fic but here we go :')

Lately, Zayne has come to realize just how much joy you bring to home when you’re happy.

Your smile and giggles simply light up the place.

And moreover, you get happy at the simplest of things—head pats, his snowmen... Even when he responds with jabs just to get a rise out of you, there's always a part of his heart that softens.

Today began just like one of those joyful days. He dropped you off at the Hunter Association base before heading to the hospital, and later, he planned to pick you up and perhaps stop for macarons on the way home—

Or so he thought, until...

"Hello, Dr. Zayne! Sorry for startling you. Can you come to my office? Your wife just collapsed and she is brought here."

. . .

Zayne raced to Dr. Munson's office on the third floor, panic gradually overtook his every step. His mind whirled with all the possible reasons you might end up at—

Ob-gyn office. Wait, what?

The realization struck him just as he flung open the door to his colleague’s office.

"Ah, the man of the hour has arrived!" Dr. Munson greeted him with an ear-to-ear grin.

Zayne gave a quick nod but bypassed him to head straight to the bed where you were.

You looked pale and sluggish, your eyes squeezed shut. He immediately took your hand in his, interlacing your fingers, and you opened your eyes in surprise to see him there.

"Zayne..." you murmured, giving his hand a gentle squeeze and offering a faint smile.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice filled with concern as he gently touched your cool cheek.

"A bit dizzy..."

Seeing you so meek made something inside him lurch. Just this morning, you had been full of life, pouting and playfully teasing him, and now you looked so exhausted.

"Well, maybe you already know this, Dr. Zayne, but still, congratulations!" Dr. Munson clapped his hands merrily. "Your wife is pregnant!"

Pregnant. Zayne stood frozen for a moment. In truth, while the very thought flitted in his mind from the moment he walked in, it didn't make it less surprising all the same. "I see..."

Then he turned to look at you, and to his surprise, you looked away, a shy smile played at your lips, as if you were trying to make yourself as small as possible.

A child. You were with child. His child.

"How far along?"

"Almost ten weeks, give or take. Well, aren't you the one who knows the most?"

"Is she alright? Anything I need to watch out for?"

"Ooh! How sweet!" Dr. Munson laughed crisply. "The cool-headed Dr. Zayne is worrying about his wife! The nurses are going to have a field day when they know this~"

Zayne shot him a look, but didn’t miss a beat as he retorted, "Of course I am."

You looked up at him silently, your heart fluttering at his earnest response. Zayne had always been resilient, but now he seemed more dashing than usual as he fired questions after questions at Dr. Munson about you and the baby.

Baby... both of you were going to become parents. It still felt surreal, but with Zayne’s warm grip on your hand, it began to feel real. You were almost giddy.

But then, it struck you— the baby was around ten weeks.

Then it meant the day of the conception was that night.

. . .

“Here, hold onto me.”

Zayne opened the door to his car and supported you as you carefully stepped out. You were still unsteady on your feet, so he returned you back home to rest rather than heading back to the Hunter Association’s base.

“Have you been feeling unwell these past few days?” he wrapped an arm around your shoulder as you made your way inside. “Usually, the symptoms have been noticeable for a while.”

“Hmmm,” you pursed your lips, feigning coyness. “I... don’t think so?”

Zayne quirked an eyebrow, sending you a withering stare as he realized your ruse. “So you have.”

“Hehe...” you flashed him a sheepish grin, causing him to shake his head in exasperation and pinch your cheek. “Ow!” you squeaked, quickly bringing your hand to your face.

Zayne stifled a smile, then gently guided you to the sofa. He crouched down in front of you, meeting your gaze as he took both of your hands in his.

"You need to tell me these things from now on, alright?" he said, and his steadfast gaze made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

"We..." you started, steeling yourself, "are going to have a baby," you gulped, feeling heat spreading to your cheeks.

He was unfazed. "Mm, we are."

You shifted uneasily, avoiding his gaze. "Are you... happy?"

Your voice wavered at the end, and your hand felt clammy. Suddenly, your stomach too twisted with nausea. Who would've thought that you would conceive a baby from a night that he called a mistake?

However, Zayne tilted his head, seemingly taken aback. "I am."

"Huh?"

"I am happy," he repeated, blinking back at you. "Are you?"

You gaped, caught off guard by his candid response—but then again, when had your husband ever been anything but straightforward?

"But you don’t seem happy!" you accused, pursing your lips. "You’ve been frowning the whole way home."

He shot you a flat look, his expression unchanged. "This is just my face."

You continued to pout, and Zayne sighed. His frown softened as he gently cupped your face, making you look up at him.

"You silly girl, what husband won't be thrilled when they hear that his wife is expecting?" he caressed your face, before poking it. "I'm just worried about you, you still look pale."

"You..." your eyes found his uneasily, at a loss of words. "But this baby is…" Your gaze dropped, anxiety swelling. "From… the night of—"

Your response stunned him, and you didn't dare to look him in the eye. It was still something that gnawed at you inside, because what if—

What if he thought this baby is a mistake?

In that moment, understanding dawned on him. His ashen eyes widened in surprise. You braced yourself for his reaction, but then—

His hand rested on your head, patting you gently. "You carrying our baby..." he faltered, gazed fixed on your averted eyes and then lips. His voice came almost in a whisper:

"This... is the best thing that has happened to me."

Thump! Your heart soared, warmth flooding through you in that very instant as you met his gaze. On the contrary, Zayne felt a crushing weight seeing the tears shining in your eyes. How deeply had he hurt you before that you’d doubt his feelings?

"I promised you that I’ll treasure you better," he said, pulling strands of your hair behind your ears. "This time, let me prove it to you."

Somehow you felt like crying at the sheer sincerity in his words. "You... like the baby?"

A gentle smile touched his lips as he took your hand and pressed a kiss to it. "I do. Truly."

"I... am so happy too," you finally choked up, the first tear slipping down your cheek. You quickly brushed it away, feeling a bit silly for tearing up. "I... have always wanted us to be a family..."

Zayne pulled you into his arms, letting out an exasperated but fond sigh. "A certain someone really does like to cry... And now with a baby on the way, am I going to lose my mind worrying about both of you?"

"Hmph," you wrinkled your nose. "A certain dad-to-be better work on his skills to express himself better, then."

"I'm going to focus my energy on more important things, such as thinking of all ways I should do to keep you from getting into trouble."

"...? I don't get into trouble!"

"You stumble even on empty air, I've seen it myself."

Two years ago, you had envisioned your happily ever after with him, and then you weren't sure if you would get it at all. And now, as you walked towards a new beginning together, you were wholly certain.

At least, that was what you thought.

The days following the reveal of your pregnancy were filled with bliss.

Only that, sometimes... you ask for tall order—

"Zayne... I want that plushie..."

"We have tried it three times already. That machine is rigged."

"B-but! Look, that couple won some!"

Some weeks later, the two of you were at an arcade, and your eyes were literally shining as soon as you saw the Happy Snowman plushie in the claw machine.

And ever since, you had been tugging at his sleeve and dragging him to catch it for you... only to no avail so far.

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose. "With the way you’re acting, no one would believe you’re about to become a mom."

"Isn't that the whole point?" you fired back, puckering your lips, before mustering your best puppy eyes and bringing your hands together. "Please? Baby wants it so much."

He knew you were using the baby card just to get your way, but you looked so adorable doing it that it often worked—evident from how he lined up once more for the long queue at the claw machine.

"This is the last time," he decided, giving you a flat stare when you two reached your turn. "If we lose, we're buying the one in the souvenir shop."

"Teehee~" you giggled in delight. You'd get your plushie either way. Zayne was always listening to you even with his grumbles, and it made you inwardly kick your feet in joy.

Despite being cross, Zayne was better at this than you. He almost snagged some plushies several times, and this time, he skillfully maneuvered the claw, pressing the button with precision—

“Oh!” Your eyes sparkled as the claw secured your prized Happy Snowman. “Zayne! Just a little more!”

"Yeah, yeah..."

Just like that, the claw released the snowman into the hole. As soon Zayne handed it to you, you practically squealed. "Ahh! Finally I got you!"

You were so full of childlike excitement, even though you were just months away from bringing a child into the world yourself. Zayne watched you silently, and despite himself, a soft smile tugged at his lips.

"Do you want more?" he asked. "We still have three chances left."

"Yes!" You beamed at him. "I want the penguin and crow!"

Apparently, he was weak to your wishes. He then took the machine again, and maybe luck blessed him this time because soon enough, he got you two of them right after the chances ran out.

“Hehe! We’re bringing them home!” You patted each plushie with delight, your giggles drawing the attention of nearby kids.

"Mom, look! That uncle gets many plushies!"

Zayne felt his eyes twitch. Uncle...?

You tried and utterly failed to hold back your laugh.

And you heard another couple bickering nearby as they threw glances at you and your husband—

"I want that crow plushie..." the woman lamented, despondently eyeing the claw machine and the three plushies Zayne had managed to win for you.

Her boyfriend, a scary-looking tall man with red eyes and rider garbs, turned to her with a snort. "Why would you even need that ugly crow for? We have crow at home."

"...Mephisto doesn't count! You're just saying that because your luck and skill are trash!"

"Tch. I can open a whole arcade just so you can tear those plushies into shreds, sweetie... just so you know, there’s a price when dealing with a devil, hmm?"

Opening an arcade only to satisfy his girlfriend's wants? You thought in a passing. Crazy.

. . .

And then your emotions are practically a whirlwind of roller coaster...

“You’re mean!” you sniffled, pointing a righteous finger at your husband and the kitty cards on the table. “You always reduce my kitties whenever you get the chance!”

Zayne exhaled, trying to explain himself. “I just make do with the cards I’m dealt with.”

“But you’re trying to take out my cats all the time!”

“That’s the gameplay. If I let you win, you’d say I’m underestimating you.”

“So, are you saying I’m bad at this?” You looked at the cards with heartbreak etched on your face, your lips quivering. “Am I?”

Uh-oh, he knew what it was. You were a stone throw away from bursting into tears and one wrong word could set you off altogether.

“No, you’re not bad...” he began, carefully choosing his words. “The kitties... they’re just not cooperating with you, that’s all.”

“So, they’re cooperating with you,” you pouted, cross. “Is that what you’re trying to say?!”

Sigh... this is going to take a while...

But ultimately... you’re also incredibly precious.

“I’m going to make an amigurumi for our baby,” you announced, smiling brightly as you settled between his legs with a crochet kit and a snowman pattern in hand. “I just know they’ll like it.”

“You know how to crochet?” Zayne asked, resting his chin on your shoulder and slipping an arm around your waist, gently touching your growing bump.

“Hmph!” You tilted your chin up with a smirk, turning to face him. “Of course, I can!”

“Oh…?”

“It’s a little side hobby,” you explained with a giggle. “I can’t resist having and making cute things~”

Zayne thought he’d laugh, but instead, it was a wave of bittersweetness that washed over him. Because apparently, even after being married to you for two years, there were some things about you he didn’t know.

He was fond of you. He knew you liked a fair amount of sweets, what your favorite food and color were, and that you couldn't sleep without turning off the lights. But then he realized...

"Does it have to be a snowman?" he asked, his eyes fixed on how skillfully you handled the hooks.

"Mm-hmm! It does."

"Why do you like it so much anyway?"

"Ah..." Your movements paused slightly, and you suddenly looked down, a hint of sheepishness in your expression. "Well..."

This way, you looked adorable somehow. Zayne squeezed you gently. "Hmm?"

"You might not remember it... but the first time we met..." you felt heat creeping up to your face but pressed on nonetheless. "I asked you to demonstrate your Evol and you showed me by creating a snowman out of thin air."

Right at that moment, Zayne could've sworn that his heart skipped a beat. That meeting... how many years ago was it? Five? Six?

He could barely remember it until you mentioned it, and yet you held that memory dear.

"Maybe it sounds stupid to you," you puffed out your cheeks. "But I think you’re similar to a snowman. You look cold on the outside, but you bring happiness to so many people. You save lives…"

The way you described him so highly made him flutter inside. Suddenly he felt soft. Soft for you. You were utterly precious, genuine and all this time, he hadn't even truly realized it.

"And to me, you..." you gulped, suddenly self-conscious. "You are... warm, just like the sun..."

The sincerity in your words touched him so deeply that it left him speechless. You had loved him and it was evident in all your actions.

Now the question is, has he done the same for you?

You brightened his life just by being yourself. Most of the time cheery, sometimes snarky, and often times decidedly spoiled... all those sides of you—

He adores them all. And he knows he'll treasure you until the end of time. And now, he's going to show you that.

Before he realized it, he had planted a kiss on the nape of your neck, and you sucked in a breath as you dropped the crochet hooks. "Zayne...?"

And then his lips pressed harder, trailing kisses along your neck, while his hands slipped inside your pajama top, caressing your skin ever so gently. The unexpected touch made you unwittingly moan.

"Can you... finish crocheting another day?" he breathed in your ear, cupping your breasts tenderly, and you almost jolted. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

It felt as if your face had caught fire, your whole body flushing with sudden excitement. Your heart raced wildly at his husky voice, and the very thought that your husband desired you was deeply thrilling.

"But you..." your voice hitched, trying not focus on his fingers. "...are never gentle."

Zayne blinked at you in surprise. "Am... I? That's not true."

"Should I jog your memory?" You pursed your lips. "One time, you threw me on the bed—"

"Well—"

"And that time you had me on all fours—"

"That's—"

"And the night we conceived this baby too—"

"Right. Alright." Zayne’s cheeks flushed with warmth as he released his grip on your mounds. "You might have a point, but this time, I assure you…"

He turned you to face him, and before you could even react, he leaned in close, his breath tickling your collarbone as he whispered:

"I will take good care of you tonight."

He made good on his promise.

This time, his hands moved with a gentleness that took your breath away. Zayne started with peppering your skin in soft, lingering kisses—starting at your jaw, then trailing down your neck, collarbone, and chest.

And when his lips finally reached the slightly visible but firm swell of your belly, he paused, pressing a kiss there that seemed to hold all the love he had for your baby.

The sight pulled at your heartstrings. The very fact that Zayne cherished this little life growing inside you filled you with a happiness so profound, it nearly overwhelmed you.

And soon...

"Ahh... aah!" you writhed, arching your back, your lower body laid bare as his tongue lapped eagerly at your folds. It was, by far, the most erotic thing your husband had done to you— he usually didn’t spend this much time for your pleasure.

But as always, he was not much of a talker during sex. Only dangerous gleam in his eyes as he glanced up from between your trembling thighs that let you know he had no plans of stopping anytime soon.

"Ngh!" You gasped when the tight ball of nerves inside you finally burst, mewling helplessly as you yanked on his hair, and he ate you out even more greedily in response. You had always known it, but moments like this made it undeniable—

Zayne turns completely into a different man while bedding you. Who would have guessed that the stoic, straight-laced head of cardiac surgery could be reduced to a man consumed by lust at the sight of his wife's body?

. . .

He had always liked having you on top. This time, Zayne made sure to prepare you exceptionally well before easing himself inside you, yet, just like every other time, you still felt impossibly tight around him.

“Ah, ah... I-I’m—!” you whimpered tearfully, your walls clenching around his girth, face overtaken by sheer pleasure. “’s full...”

It didn't take him long to bust, really. With a beautiful wife sitting on top of him, eliciting sounds like that... how could he resist?

But maybe he pushed you too hard. Lust won against all his senses as he relentlessly slammed his hips against yours, and he distinctly felt the moment you stifled a scream and came hard around him.

"Are you... alright?" Zayne asked in a groan as he reached his orgasm, his release flooding inside your womb in a rush as you clung into him tightly, shuddering and spasming.

You nodded and collapsed against him, savoring the feeling of how filled up you were. In return, he cradled you close as he slowly pulled out of you. "I-I... am..."

You curled into him, and he pressed a tender kiss on your head. In that moment, you truly felt that there were only two of you in this vast world.

Gently, he lifted you—one arm supporting your legs, the other around your back—and carried you to the bathroom to clean you up.

. . .

“Drink.” Zayne held the cool glass of water to your lips, and you obediently took a sip, your gaze lingering on the gap in his bathrobe where his chest peeked out.

He was so, so considerate. He carefully handled you as he washed your body and wrapped you in the bathrobe earlier, soothing you each time you let out a whine.

It was the most comforting aftercare you had experienced. After making sure you weren’t parched, he tucked you under the comforters, joining you soon after and pulling you close.

“Are you comfortable now?” he asked quietly, straightening your hair.

“Mm-hmm.” You snuggled closer with a smile, tracing a finger along his chest.

Somehow the way he cared for you now made you remember how your relationship was back then. He didn’t dote on you this much, he was good to you but you knew deep in your hearts that he wasn’t really there. But now…

He is yours. In every sense.

“You’re tickling me,” Zayne tutted gruffly, catching your hand and pressing it to his chest.

“So? What will you do?” you teased with a playful grin. “Will you eat me up again?”

“…” His narrowed eyes made you giggle, and you pressed yourself even closer, relishing the afterglow.

You had promised yourself not to bring it up again, but feeling vulnerable in this moment, you couldn’t help but whisper:

“You… have changed,” you muttered under your breath. “Thank you… for thinking of me.”

You couldn’t see his expression, but his arms tightened around you suddenly. Warmth spread through you, feeling as though he were shielding you from the world itself.

Weeks passed by, and soon enough, you reached the middle of your second trimester.

“We’re going to find out the gender today!” you excitedly noted in the passenger’s seat. Zayne glanced at you with a smile, silently looking forward to it too.

He was relieved that your first trimester had passed smoothly, with only a few bouts of sickness. Now, before he knew it, you were already halfway through the journey.

“If it’s a girl, I hope she won’t be a troublemaker like her mom,” he slyly retorted.

You shot him a glare. “And if it’s a boy, I’ll make sure he doesn’t spend all his time studying and turn into a robot like you.”

The journey to fatherhood still didn’t feel entirely real to him with your chirpy self, but as your belly swelled and rounded with each passing week, he began to realize that the day was quickly approaching.

It made him feel warm, and he wished he could show it to you better just how much happiness you brought to him now.

You rummaged through your bag and exclaimed, "Oh, I forgot the appointment card!"

Zayne sighed, turning the steering wheel with a small shake of his head. "See? The little mom can be so scatterbrained at times."

You slouched in your seat, crestfallen. "Sorry..."

"It’s alright," he gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he noticed your expression drop. "I’ll get it. Where did you leave it?"

"In the first drawer of my vanity desk, I think…"

After arriving back at home, Zayne headed straight to your shared bedroom and searched through your drawers. The first drawer only had your perfumes, so he moved on to the second drawer, which apparently only had more makeup supplies.

And so, he pulled the third drawer, and there were a stack of envelopes there. Curious, he pulled one out, thinking it was the card he was looking for—

—but then, suddenly, he was in a state of shock. Never would have he expected to find what he had on his hand then.

For a moment, everything around him seemed to blur, his entire world reduced to those three stark words on the page. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing, a heavy weight settling in his stomach as the realization hit him.

Petition of Divorce — and your signature... was there.

Something seemed a bit off about Zayne, you noticed later that day.

You were really looking forward to finding out the baby's gender, and you thought he was too. He stood by your side all the while, holding your hand as the ultrasound probe pressed against your skin and you waited with bated breath for Dr. Munson to announce—

“Well, it’s a girl!” he declared with a wide grin. “Whoa, Dr. Zayne is going to be a girl dad, huh?”

“Oh my…” Your eyes sparkled with joy at the news. You were fine with either, but you knew Zayne had secretly been hoping for a girl, and you turned to him with pure elation. However...

“That’s… good.” His response was brief, and although he was smiling, something felt off. You had been observing him for too long not to notice—you knew when your husband was distracted.

What is he thinking? Despite yourself, you began to worry.

“Zayne?” you asked later, holding his arm as you both exited Dr. Munson’s office. “Are you thinking about work?”

He turned to you almost immediately. “No.”

“Then why are you frowning?” you asked innocently, trying to lighten the mood by touching his face. He swiftly caught your hand.

“This is a public place,” he said in a strained voice, causing you to stiffen at his tone. “I’ll take you home first.”

Something was not right. Now you were convinced and it started to bother you.

“Actually… I need to go to the Hunter Association's base first to finish my deskwork,” you said.

His brows furrowed even deeper. “Can’t you just submit your leave?”

“Ah... I’m on half-day leave today. I need to wrap up as much as I can before I go on maternity leave later.”

“Next time,” he snapped, his gray eyes locked on you, “Whenever you have appointments, take a full-day leave. You’re in no condition to be working, especially as you get further along.”

"Zayne, are you... upset with me?" you fired the question then, because it seemed like he really did, and suddenly you felt a bit sick at the very thought.

He was certainly not expecting you to ask that, and for a moment, Zayne froze, before he exhaled and his frown softened a bit.

“…no,” he finally said, his tone gentler. “I just don’t want you to push yourself too hard.”

But ever since that day, you knew something had happened to him that he suddenly he became a little distant towards you.

. . .

Zayne hadn’t meant to snap at you. If anything, knowing you were carrying a baby girl filled him with unbridled happiness.

But still, there was still a part of him that wanted to demand answers from you—that part of him that was deeply hurt by what he discovered.

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t take it too hard. No matter how much he reflected on it, he knew he hadn’t been the husband you deserved. He knew his faults and understood how much he had hurt you. From the very beginning, you deserved someone who would see only you and no one else—and he hadn't been that person before.

Even with that understanding, he was left with an unresolved hollowness. You had doubted him enough that you were ready to file for a divorce once. It didn't mean that the same thing wouldn't happen in the future.

Does he have it in him to make you happy? He had promised you he would. While he wasn't the most affectionate, he tried his best, and he intended to keep trying.

But now, after learning this, he found that not only you, but even he too was able to doubt himself.

"Zayne...?"

You peeked your head inside his study one night, several weeks later, a hand resting on your bump. You really didn't want to bother him when he just arrived, but you figured you had to tell him.

For the past week, you’d been throwing up, and it didn’t feel right. He had been at a symposium in another city since the start of the week, and you tried to wait it out. But today, you almost blacked out, and now you were genuinely afraid.

"Y/N?" he turned to you just as he laid his briefcase and the moment he saw you, he frowned at how pale you looked.

Zayne immediately stalked towards you and pulled you closer, feeling your neck to check your body temperature. His eyes widened in realization. "You have a fever."

"I-I... feel lightheaded today," you sputtered, clutching his arm. "And... I’ve been vomiting too..."

"I'll get you checked in at Akso," he decided, grabbing the car keys and led you out of the room by the shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me in your calls?"

Very lame excuse, but you tried to defend yourself nonetheless. "It wasn't this severe before—"

"You should have told me." His response was curt, but his fury was evident. You almost shrank at his tone, but Zayne didn't reprimand you further as he helped you into the passenger seat.

The drive was tense and uncomfortable, making you feel even worse. The silence only amplified your anxiety, and it didn't help that you had noticed how distant he was lately.

"I'm sorry—" you blurted but then suddenly, you sucked in a breath, wincing and fisting your dress when you felt the start of a cramp just below your ribs. "Ahh..."

Zayne’s panic surged at your pained gasp. He gripped your hand reassuringly, all trace of anger vanishing instantly. "We’ll arrive soon. I promise you’ll be alright."

At that moment, despite all fears you had—for your baby, of his sudden shift of behavior—you held back your sob and squeezed his hand in return.

. . .

You would be staying at the hospital until all the test results came in.

Zayne sat on the chair beside you, gaze fixed on you as you lay connected to an IV drip in the private room. Though he tried to mask it, he was still shaken. He knew better than anyone that fever and cramps at more than 20 weeks often signaled something was wrong with either the mother or the baby.

The thought of ailments beyond his control affecting either of you made his chest tighten. He loosened his tie and let out a sigh, trying to ease the constriction. "How do you feel now?"

You looked at him, managing a smile as you replied, "I’m fine now."

Seeing you bedridden like this was something he hadn’t realized he dreaded until that moment, and yet, there you were, smiling. You... smiled.

He couldn’t understand why the sight he usually adored suddenly stirred this swirling anger in him.

Your answer seemed to hit a nerve in him as his expression darkened, and anxiety struck you again, twisting something in your gut. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before..."

His lack of response only deepened your unease. "Before today, I didn’t feel faint at all, so I think it’s just something I ate."

He still didn't deign you with any answer. Zayne’s apparent disregard for your words frustrated you, bringing you close to tears. "Say something..." you urged, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. "I know you're upset, but now I'm scared too."

You really wanted him to comfort you. You knew the Zayne from several weeks ago would do just that, but now you had a feeling that the man before you now wasn't that same man any longer.

"We’ll see when the results are ready," he said then, facing you with a stoic, matter-of-fact tone, as if he were delivering a diagnosis to a patient rather than speaking to his wife. "Don’t fret too much. Have some rest."

Is that... all he has to say to you? A part of your heart withered at his detached response, the tears frozen in your eyes. What happened to him?

You were about to confront him for an answer when his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered.

"Hello? Yes, it's Zayne. Who is this?" he questioned flatly, eyes narrowed into a dissatisfied frown, before suddenly his expression lit up with understanding when the person on the other line introduced themselves.

You could hear the faint sound of a man's voice from his phone. And when Zayne addressed him, a sudden chill spread throughout your body.

"Caleb? It's... been a while."

You felt cold. Caleb. You never really knew him but you had certainly seen him. Once at a funeral, and once at your wedding. He too is Zayne's childhood friend, and more than that, he is the brother of—

Why? Why did all emotional suffering you had to go through, somehow or another, always come down to a dead woman who was once your husband's lover?

When he ended this call, you didn't even pretend to be considerate anymore. "What does he want from you?"

Zayne looked taken aback by your sudden hostility but answered calmly, "He’s in Linkon now and asked if we could meet."

"Must you really see him?"

"What are you getting at?"

"I don’t like it," you spat, venom clear in your voice, turning to him. "I don’t like it at all when you have to be involved with people related to her!"

Finally, you said it. You had never made it clear before, but this time, you felt like you were entitled enough to. You were having his daughter, and if he was still entangled in an illusion of his past girlfriend with you, then—

Zayne responded to your outburst with a suppressed sigh, visibly keeping his frustration in check. "He is an old friend, Y/N. You're too emotional right now that you jump into conclusions and stress yourself out."

He was right, your emotions were spiraling, but right now you were too heartbroken to care for it.

"Do you know what I fear the most?" you asked, tears shining in your eyes. At last, you voiced the dark, unspoken curse that had haunted you since the very beginning of it all:

"I’m afraid that one day, you’ll wake up and realize that either me or our baby is a mistake."

Zayne barely got any rest that night.

In the end, faced with your tears, he didn't respond because he didn't want to prolong the argument. More strain for you could put both you and the baby at risk.

Later, he told himself. No matter how much he berated himself for not noticing the signs of your illness sooner, or wanted show you that you and his unborn child meant everything to him now— later. He wouldn't risk you, and it would be better if you talk later with cooler heads.

Little did he know, that "later" would never come.

Numerous missed phone calls from the nurses station after he stepped out of the operating room sealed your fate. And when Greyson burst into his office, out of breath and panic-stricken, it was like being doused in scalding water.

"Dr. Zayne! Miss Y/N! Sh-she has just been rushed to ER for severe bleeding!"

Just like that, his world crashed and shattered beyond return.

. . .

"Dr. Zayne, I'm not sure how I should break this news to you... As a medical professional, you already know how serious this condition is..."

Everything was his greatest nightmare realized. Dr. Munson’s diagnosis struck him with a searing force, paralyzing him on the spot.

"Your wife has preeclampsia."

The nurses said you had been screaming and bleeding heavily. He too had seen it himself—the blood splattered across the pristine floor when he arrived, just moments after you were rushed to the emergency room—and the sight made a chill run through his spine in horror.

"She just experienced a partial placental abruption because of it. This causes bleeding in the mother, and also increases the risk of premature labor."

Dr. Munson’s explanation was crystal clear, yet it sent Zayne into a daze. It felt as if his chest had been ripped open, leaving him hollow as he stared numbly at your figure, peacefully asleep after the emergency treatment you had been put through.

Zayne clasped your hand in his, feeling the invincible knife lodged in his heart twist painfully.

You aren't supposed to be this cold. He gently griped your hand, his face contorted with agony. How terrified must you have been? How much did it hurt? Despite trying to push the memories away, seeing you like this brought back the nightmare from three years ago.

Only that this time, it was you. And not just you, but his unborn child as well. Both of you... there was a chance that both of you wouldn't survive.

The sheer thought made him stagger, because no, if it was the devil’s way to punish him, then it was beyond cruel. He had failed you once already, and he knew what happiness was by being with you, and to lose all of that in one blow—

"Zayne! Can you make me one more snowman?" you pleaded, your eyes sparkling as you pointed to the little gap between snowmen already perched on the window. "Just one more! It’ll make the line perfect!"

"I’m afraid that one day, you’ll wake up and realize that either me or our baby is a mistake."

It was so, so painful. His chest constricted at the contrasting memories and it took everything he had not to give in to his spiraling fears.

With everything I have, I love you. None of it mattered anymore. The divorce papers, whether he could make you happy— what was important was that It was unthinkable to lose you now. He would trade his life if it meant sparing you, because the pain of losing you would destroy him.

You had always loved that little thing he made on a whim. He opened your palm and shaped the ice through his manipulation, placing the palm-sized snowman in your grasp, hoping it would protect you throughout the night.

You remembered the excruciating pain, the primal dread of losing your baby, and the horrifying sight of crimson streaming endlessly between your legs, also how you screamed for anyone for help.

When you regained consciousness, the scent of fresh linen and alcohol was the first thing that greeted you. Dawn had already arrived, but the sky outside remained dark.

Your right palm felt cold, and that’s when you realized you were holding something. At the same time, you noticed the weight in your other hand—

Zayne. Your husband slept on the edge of your bed in such an uncomfortable position while holding your hand, his brows taut into a frown, only with a coat to cover himself.

He is here. You quietly watched him, and despite everything, you realized once again how much you loved him—even more that he was here for you.

Snowman… you stared at the little toy in your other hand, and overwhelming warmth washed over you at the thought of him creating it for you just before he slept.

The baby… what did you go through? Is she fine? You really couldn’t shake the feeling that something grave had happened to you.

You had to know. You pulled your left hand out of his grasp and caressed his face. He has to shave soon, you noted, feeling the stubble that had started to grow there. Still, you couldn't help but marvel at how handsome he was.

Your gentle touch soon caused his eyes to flutter open, and Zayne jerked awake, instinctively catching your hand. "You're awake..." he rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion.

He looked at you as if he was in disbelief, and immediately rose and squeezed your hand. You looked up to him, feebly asking, "What... happened to me?"

His face fell right that moment but you pressed on, "Tell me. I have to know..."

Zayne's reluctance was obvious, but the plea in your voice made him waver. Finally, he sighed and sat down on the edge of your bed.

"The test results have come back," he began, his voice adopting the clinical tone you recognized from when he spoke to his patients. "Your blood pressure is abnormally high, and there was protein found in your urine sample... These are signs of a condition called preeclampsia."

Shock marred your features in that moment, because you had heard what it was and what it meant for your baby.

"The only cure for preeclampsia is delivery. And at the same time the placenta has detached from the wall of your womb. This way, our baby—"

You had watched Zayne deliver devastating diagnoses to his patients before, and he was always steadfast. But this time, even his voice wavered.

His gray eyes seemed to glisten under the light as they held your gaze. "She's being deprived of oxygen and nutrients because the placenta can no longer supply them. You may also experience heavier bleeding, more cramps, and fetal distress. The best course of action now is to deliver the baby as soon as possible."

It felt like receiving death sentence. No matter how you looked at it, the conclusion was the same. "B-but..." you stammered, your whole body trembling, shaken by the enormity of it all. "S-she's just... barely twenty-six weeks..."

The way devastation bled in your voice pierced him. Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his arms, letting out a long, drawn-out breath as he held you close.

"I'm here," he assured, trying to console you. "You don't have to be scared. We'll monitor you closely until it's possible for you to give birth to the baby in around thirty weeks. I'll make sure of that."

The first of your sobs began. "...i-is it me?" you clutched at his coat mournfully. "Did I… p-put the baby into distress somehow— that it causes the placenta to fall away?"

"No," he firmly shushed you. "It's a condition that can flare up anytime. Don't blame yourself for it."

Still, how could you not? More than yourself, you feared for your unborn child. You sobbed harder, and Zayne held you even as his coat had started to dampen from your tears.

Your predicament broke his heart too, but at the same time, he found the perfect moment to finally show you the entirety of his heart.

"You told me you were afraid I'd come to see both of you as a mistake," he murmured, gently running his hand through your hair in an attempt to soothe you. "But how can our daughter be a mistake when—" his voice caught, choking on the words, "—when I've loved her so much already?"

The strain in his voice made you look up, and you were taken aback by the intensity of his gray eyes that bored into you.

“Both of you... are so precious to me.” Zayne locked his eyes with yours, sincerely meaning everything he said as he cradled the side of your face. “The thought that anything might happen to either of you... is unbearable.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice hoarse, “What if… you continue to bleed and it leads to seizures? What if— you and the baby won’t make it? These are so unbearable for me.”

His words went straight into you, and for a moment, your tears receded as they sank in.

"I can’t give you my past." His voice tinged with melancholy, the expression on his face was torn. "But I promise you, at least in this lifetime..."

He gazed at you with the unwavering look you had fallen in love with, the same gaze you once admired from afar, long ago.

And then, his next declaration took your breath away and made your heart soar like never before. A wave of love surged within you, almost overwhelming you—

"Right this moment and my future—it's for you. For both of you, always."

From that moment on, you knew you would trust him completely. From that moment on, you finally let go of your doubts, knowing that you had nothing to fear with him by your side.

Zayne was by your side whenever he was able to.

You were on bedrest at the hospital ever since, but he always stayed the night here to accompany you, barely going back to home for a change of clothes.

"You’re really making a snowman..." he remarked, observing your fingers and the crochet hooks he’d brought from home so you could keep yourself entertained. "I think you need to add a bit more fluff there..."

Your face brightened with a grin as you cut the yarn. "Don’t worry, I’ll make it extra round."

The weeks in the hospital dragged on, but they also gave you more time to work on your amigurumi. When you finished putting the final touches on it, you proudly presented it to Zayne—the snowman with a blue shawl and black hat, two little round eyes, and a beaming line of smile. "Ta-da! Look, it’s even cuter than the ones you made!"

A happy you was always the sight he loved to see above all. "Yeah..."

"Do you think she'll love it?" you suddenly asked, poking the snowman doll you just made, feeling warm at the thought that your cherished baby will soon play with it too.

You looked so endearing that Zayne felt an overwhelming urge to pull you closer. “She will,” he chuckled, giving you a reassuring pat on the head. “Didn’t you say before she will?”

And soon, you reached the thirtieth-week mark. The time had come to finally deliver your baby.

. . .

"I can't feel anything..." Your voice came out as a soft whine while you lay on the operating table, your lower body numb and obscured by the surgical curtain shielding you from view.

Zayne, standing beside you in a mask and headcap, grasped your hand, his fingers intertwined with yours. "If you could feel it, you’d be screaming."

The C-section was the only way to ensure both you and your daughter would survive. It felt surreal to know they were basically cutting you open, yet you were unable to feel anything.

"Will... she come out healthy?" you asked your husband hesitantly, worried about your soon-to-be born baby. "I'm worried..."

Zayne glanced at you and gave your hand a light squeeze. "Don’t worry too much. You should be more concerned about yourself. Think of all the food you want to have when you get home, and I’ll get it for you."

You shot him a glare. "You make me sound like a foodie."

"You are a foodie."

Despite the ongoing surgery, Zayne’s lighthearted jabs were his way of easing your anxiety. Even though they irked you, you appreciated his attempts to lift your spirits.

And soon—

You heard a feeble cry, though quickly drowned out by the cheers of the surgical team beyond the curtain. You gasped and turned to Zayne, who was fixated on the tiny baby in Dr. Munson's hands.

He didn't even blink. It was almost as if he was spellbound by the sight. Nothing mattered because his daughter was here. Really here.

"Zayne…" your voice then broke the spell. He turned to you, who weakly smiled at him with tears in your eyes.

For the first time in your life, you saw tears of happiness glistening in his eyes as he stared at you— the woman who had just given him a daughter to love and dote on.

He immediately leaned in to press a kiss on your forehead. Your heart felt so full, even though he wasn’t able to fully express it in words. In that moment, you could feel his profound love for you and the new life you would embark on together.

"She is so small..."

You pressed yourself as close as you could to the see-through glass of the neonatal unit, straining to get a glimpse of your baby daughter. Though you weren't well enough to walk three days after the surgery, you insisted on Zayne wheeling you over in a wheelchair just so you could have a peek.

"She’ll grow big soon," Zayne said, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder when he noticed your sadness. "She’ll stay there for a few more weeks, and then we can bring her home."

However, your expression twisted into a worried frown as you watched the gentle rise and fall of your baby’s tiny chest inside the incubator. Even when he had reassured you that it was by all means just an unfortunate condition, you couldn't help feeling that it was your fault somehow that she ended up there.

She had his tufts of black hair, but you weren’t able to get close enough to remember her face clearly. The fact that you hadn’t held her in your arms yet made your heart ache.

"Mommy is sorry that she can't carry you to full-term..." you croaked out, lips wobbling, a hand tracing the glass separating you from your new baby, and Zayne inhaled sharply at the sight.

It hadn’t been easy, but you had made it through. Both of you had. And to him, that was more than enough. So, you needed to hear it too.

He crouched down in front of you, catching your attention instantly. You tilted your head as his hands rested gently on your shoulders.

“Thank you for delivering our daughter safely,” he said with the softest of smiles, ever so genuine just as you were in all times of the two of you together.

Your eyes widened a bit at his sudden gratitude, and when he took both of your hands together in his, gazed at you with such earnestness in his clear ash-grey eyes, and traced his thumbs over your knuckles, your heart skipped a beat.

“And most of all, thank you... for being safe too.”

Those words brought immense warmth to you, and the prettiest of smile lit up your face then at the way he looked at you as if you were his most prized treasure. Just like that, once again, he cast all your fears and doubts aside.

And deep down, you knew that with him by your side, everything was going to be alright.

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[chlorinecake]

— YOU'RE RIGHT, BABY | 𝐂.𝐁𝐂

▹ PAIRING: soft!dom fiancé bangchan x f. reader

▹ SYNOPSIS: Chan gets a little upset upon realizing that you weren’t wearing your engagement ring, but you make it up to him by letting him fuck you in his studio after a long day of work…

▹ WARNINGS: KINKTOBER SPECIAL, swearing, kissing, teasing, dry humping and heavy petting, mentions of food, breeding kink + cream pie (chan’s a possessive freak and in love with the idea of getting you preggers lol), dirty talk, light breath play (f. receiving), pet names (good girl, baby), that’s about it

▹ WORD COUNT: 1.8k — DAY 2

BEING THE AMAZING partner you are, you decided to stop by the studio where your fiancé was working and bring him some dinner, and by dinner, I mean a box full of his favorite takeout foods:

Grilled beef, steamed rice, broccoli teriyaki, and a chicken egg roll…

He was working a few hours overtime that day, and aside from the fact that you wanted him to have something good to eat after expending such efforts, you really just missed his presence…

You missed looking at his gorgeous face and hearing his adorable voice while he did absolutely nothing but vibe with you… you missed having his hands on you and your hands on him as you both got lost in the lusts of your own hearts—

“Chris,” your voice came out gently as you stood behind him, caressing over his tense shoulders while he remained seated in his desk chair, “just rest your little head, baby… you worry too much…”

“I do… you’re right…” he sighs deeply while leaning his head back against the headrest to look at you, the smell of takeout distant in the room.

His eyes are clearly tired as you know he’s been overworked lately, but you hold yourself from bringing it up to him, placing a gentle kiss to the center of his forehead instead.

“Thanks for stopping by, though, princess,” he went on, and you already feel like he’s trying to push you away, despite how you literally just got here, “I have to get back to work now, though—”

“You’re always getting back to work, Channie…” you chuckle slightly, and his eyes flutter shut as your thumbs come across a particularly tight muscle in his left shoulder…

Digging in, you massage the knot gently, but the pressure you apply doesn’t feel so soothing at first—

“Ouch, that hurts!” Chan exclaims with a wince, and you simply smooth over his skin with your touch, massaging a different area instead as you decided to give that spot time to heal on its own.

“Look… your body’s aching as if you’ve been working in a field all day… that’s why I’m here to make you feel better,” you return, and his body is clearly starting to relax the more and more your fingers smooth along the base of his neck and back down his shoulders again, soft hums coming from his throat at the sensation.

“But you don’t have to, love…” he says, voice a little weak as the warmth of your touch reeled him into relaxation, “just having you around is making me feel better already…”

“Aww,” you pout facetiously, even though he can’t see it from where he’s sitting, “You missed me, Channie?… Your very own nagging fiancé?…”

“Nooo,” he corrects, turning in his chair now to get a proper look at you, “I missed my beautiful wife to be, and my adoring partner in crime…”

Reaching out a hand, the veins in his arm appear highlighted under the dim studio lighting as he guides your face into his before giving you a kiss that you both smile into… weakly though, considering how it’s literally 4 in the morning...

Breaking from the contact, you tug at his wrist slightly, not letting go until he finally gets up from the chair, letting you lead him to sit on the couch.

The look on his face now very clearly lets you know what’s on his mind, but you simply decide to sit on his lap in a straddle position, wanting him to make the first move from here…

And he did.

“Can I?” He asks while lifting his hands from the couch cushion, hovering them over your hips and being careful not to touch until you allowed him to.

“Of course, silly,” you chuckle, making him blush slightly at your brief fit of laughter.

“It’s not like anyone’s here to tease us for it,” you went on, thinking back to the countless times that your fiancé’s friends (specifically Minho and Han) would outwardly gag whenever you two publicly display affection—

“You’re right, baby… no one’s around to bother us,” Chris breathes in agreement, finally letting his eager hands rest at your hips before adding a bit of pressure as he caressed up your waist and along your thighs, “The two of us could practically get away with doing anything we want for the next few hours in here…”

You didn't even have to ask to know what he was specifically implying, but you decide to play dumb anyway, just because you absolutely loved hearing his strong Aussie accent come out whenever he was sexually worked up with you…

“Takeout’s still waiting to be opened, Chris,” you whisper, letting your nails gently drag against his scalp as he melts into your touch, his silky curls looping around your fingers, “we shouldn’t keep it out for too long or else it might spoil…”

“Well I’m not in the mood to eat anymore,” he whispers back in a raspy voice, and you let your weight sink further into his lap, your bottom resting right above the spot his true hunger was pulling him most.

“Use your words, baby… tell me what you want,” You press, leaving a kiss along his clenched jawline… and another one on his pretty thick lips… and a third one against his Adam’s Apple that makes him groan out loud…

Or maybe his groan had more to do with the way you were also rocking your hips against his clothed hard on, making his hands slightly grip at the fabric of your jeans for any sort of leverage.

“Why… of all the bottoms that you own, did you close to wear tight, denim jeans at a time like this?” He asks with frustration, making you giggle a bit at the way his chest rises and falls every time you circle in his lap, the rough material tantalizing him…

“Don’t you think they make my ass look good, though?” You tease with a pout, watching as he smirks at your question, only to hiss at your movements again.

“They make your ass look great, babe… but they also make it impossible for me to touch you properly…”

He was doing it again, you thought to yourself… That thing where he gets you to do what he wants without specifically asking.

Yes, Chris was a typically a pretty confident guy, but sometimes, you had a way of bringing out his shy, reluctant side when it came to sexual things, but you still found it cute nonetheless.

“Fine, then… since you’re too shy to ask for it properly, I’ll just do it myself,” you say in a bratty tone while getting up from his lap, and he visibly scoffs at the way you stood before him now, fingers meddling with the buckle of your jeans until he stopped you.

“C’mere,” he huffs, pulling you close to him by the belt loop of your jeans until you fall into the couch beside him with a gentle plop.

His smirks again once he finally unzips the rough fabric just enough to see a leak of what’s beneath, and the expression is so wide that his dimples come through…

At first, you’re not sure why he’s a grinning mess, but you understand once his fingers run over the lace of your black panties, the same pair that he brought you a while back on one of his tours cross-country.

“I’ll take a wild guess and say you wore these for me, huh?” He asks with a husk to his tone now that you’re bumping your knee against his clothed hard-on, and his hips subconsciously chase the friction.

“Mhm,” you hum softly, lifting up on your elbows now to look at him better, “I just didn’t expect you to take so long to get ‘em off me…”

“How cute,” he returns, and your eyes follow the veins trailing his forearm, his flexed fingers hooking at either side of your hips before tugging your jeans the rest of the way down and past your ankles with your panties, tucking them under the couch cushion for his private use later…

“Cute?” You repeat with a raised brow, spreading your legs before him as you both watched each others cores intently, practically itching within yourself for him to finally untie his sweatpants.

“Yup. Love it when you get in your little attitudes,” he says plainly, but his smile is half-hearted now as he leans over you, bracing himself with his hands before kissing your forehead.

You try to follow where his eyes are looking, but his bangs are in the way, and you can’t help but ask him what the matter is…

However, he doesn’t answer immediately, simply taking your hands in his and placing a kiss to l the closed knuckles of your left hand, right before pinning your wrist at either side of your head on the couch.

And that’s when it hits you… the reason behind his sudden change in aura:

You forgot to put your engagement ring on…

You had only taken it off for a second before coming to meet him in the studio because some oil from the takeout bag had spilled on your hands… while washing up in the bathroom, you had put the ring in your purse and simply forgot to put it back on…

Though, you knew at this point it’d be worthless trying to get that story through Chan’s thick skull, as he had already made up in his mind that you were playing games with him…

“Where’s your ring, baby?” Your fiancé asks while shimmying down his boxers and trousers with one hand, and you near choke on air at the sight of his glossy and girthy tip springing out before you, red and angry with need.

“I-it’s in my purse,” you stammer, almost feeling guilty now that you had even forgot to put it back on in the first place, “I can go and get it—”

“No need,” he interrupts you, lining himself up with your entrance as the depth of his voice equally catches you off guard, “just make sure you put it back on after this, yea?”

You winced at the sudden stretch of his cock filling you up just right, and your hips are already trembling at the delicious fullness.

“Channie… it slipped my mind, baby… please,” you say, and you’re not quite sure what it is that you’re begging for, but you always had a habit of going dumb around his cock, even if it’s just resting inside you.

“I gave you a simple order, love… now, do you understand me, yes or no?” He asks more sternly this time, thrusting into you with a sharp hit of his hips, and you internally cringe at yourself for hiccuping at the force.

“Y-yes, I understand,” is all you manage to say as he continues slamming his hips into you at a painfully slow pace, looking you dead in the eye as you crumble beneath his intense gaze.

“Say it again,” he orders, and you listen, gripping at his biceps and biting your lip as an attempt to keep your moans in, but the little whimpers and whines end up spilling out anyway.

You can feel Chan's cock twitch inside you every time you say yes for him, especially with the way your walls are throbbing around his length as he groans the words “good girl” in the midst of it all.

“So so good for me,” he continues, grinding his hips in a way that makes his pelvis graze your clit rythmically, and you’re sure you’re seeing stars once his hand finds your neck, just resting it there to get your attention.

“Good enough to let me cum in you, huh?” He questions, but it’s more so of a suggestion than anything, and you oblige to it, nodding your head in desperation as your hips start to follow the movements of his.

“Yes, baby… w-want you to fill me up so bad,” you whimper, and he lets a groan out right after you… one that makes your stomach flutter with emotions given how beautiful it sounded.

“Gonna put a baby in your pretty little stomach,” he huffs in between fucking you open with all his strength, “and at that point, who cares if you don’t have your ring on? Everyone will know who you belong to once your tummy’s all swollen because of me… tell me who this pussy belongs to…”

“Y-you, Channie,” you blabber out pathetically, your own mouth filling with saliva at how amazing he’s making you feel right now.

“Louder…”

“It’s all- fuckkk… yours, b-baby,” you cry out, and it’s a weak cry at that given the way his hand is tightening around your throat, but you don’t mind… not one bit when it feels THIS. Fucking. Good…

He finally lets his lips find yours in a needy kiss, and a string of spit keeps y’all together as he break away to let out a moan of his own, but you’re pulling him back into you, wanting him to be as close as possible to you in this moment.

The couch starts to creak to the rhythm of his movements, and you couldn’t be more thankful for the large cushions it was made with, otherwise you’re certain the both of you would’ve been on the floor at this point.

“Feels so fucking good inside you, baby… sooo fucking good,” he grunts, and you know he’s almost close just from the way his eyebrows are screwing into adorable little crinkles, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier by the second.

“F-fuck~” you mewl against his lips, feeling the knot in your own stomach tighten as his cock hit mesmerizing places inside you.

He keeps his hand snug around your neck while looking into your eyes, and his hips can’t bare to piston into your cunt any longer once your walls clench around him, making him feel dizzy in the head.

“Cum in me,” you plead with a soft voice while, lips puffy from how hard you’d been biting them, and Chan finally lets himself go, barely getting any extra thrusts in before painting your walls with his hot release, groaning shamelessly like a porn star.

“Oh my God,” he grunts with a strained voice, using his last bit of strength to prevent himself from collapsing on top of you given how spent he is now.

“Wait, Channie,” you say, thighs still trembling a bit as he pulled out of you, a bit too early though for you to remind him that his cum would only spill out—

“Shit,” he swears under his breath upon realizing, rushing to catch the fluid spilling from your cunt now with his fingers, trying not to get it on the couch, but to no avail.

He instead lets his fingers push the cum back into you, holding his wrist there until he’s able to reach for a napkin off of his desk to help clean you up.

“Stop that, baby,” he says with a mischievous smile, but only because your walls were sucking his digits in, preventing him from taking them out to clean them off, “give me some time to recharge and then we can go again, okay?…”

All you can bring yourself to do is hum at his words, and he in turn offers you another gentle smile.

Applying light pressure to your lower stomach, he finally gets your walls to release his fingers from the confines of your sloppy hole, wiping the residue off with the napkin.

“Didn’t expect you to cum this much,” you say in a sleepy tone while reaching for your jeans to slide them back on.

“Me neither,” he chuckles, readjusting his pants before getting up to toss the soiled napkin in the bin nearby, “but uh... just know that if in three weeks, we find out that our first future child was conceived on this couch, never tell this story to anyone…”

⋆♱✮ Huge thanks to everyone who made it to the end of this fic, concluding DAY 2 of my Kinktober Event !! This was also my first time publishing any written work for Stray Kids (my ult group XD) so feel free to tell me how I did in the comments !! Finally, if you're interested in reading more works like this, check out my main enhypen masterlist or my kinktober masterlist here by clicking one of these links !!

⋆♱✮ PERMANANT TAGLIST:

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also, check out THIS fic NEXT if you're interested in more...

[urprettylildoe]

𝒮𝒽𝒶𝒸𝓀𝓁ℯ𝒹

♡ yandere football player x fem reader ♡ Every girl wanted to be with him and every guy wanted to be him, and to everyone around the world he was considered the embodiment of perfection. But there's more to what meets the eye, and you're one of the only people who know that very well. ♡ word count: 1.9k words ♡ warnings: yandere/obsessive behaviour, dependency, toxic relationship, kidnapping, attempted drugging, very brief and implied self-harm, nsfw (non-con)

His team had won yet again.

Critics weren't just analysing the performance itself but one particular figure that always made his presence known; whether it was deliberate or natural.

Looks, money, charisma, talent; what characteristic didn't the renowned football star possess?

Blake's motivator was his love for things that kept him on his toes and sent a rush of excitement through his veins.

The constant chanting of his name from the crowds was like music to his ears. He waved and shot them a pretty smile adorned with dimples that would surely make magazine covers.

Cameras zoomed in on each of the team players as they walked out of the field. Pushing the hair out of his eyes, he stared into the camera.

The world out there didn't know that it was reserved for one particular person, and they knew who they were.

A message.

I know you're watching.

♡

"And how do you feel about today's performance?" The lady smiled almost too brightly, holding the microphone up towards him.

"I think we gave it our all today and I couldn't have done without my team," he enthusiastically recited as if he hadn't been practising with his manager for the perfect PR response to the questions. Blake was a natural in front of the camera — he threw in some jokes and made sure to flash those pearly whites every now and then.

The interviewer chuckled, "Oh please, don't be so modest. You were amazing out there, Blake. Give yourself some credit, will ya?"

A few more minutes passed with them going back and forth before he was finally asked million dollar question:

"so, we're all dying to know, any relationship updates we should be aware of?"

For a split second, his flawless facade cracked and his smile faltered, his jaw ticking with something unpleasant. Then, almost as if nothing happened, his expression turned carefully neutral and he maintained a polite smile, "my personal life is just that, personal."

Translation: i'm not answering that. In any other situation, he'd have no problem saying it directly, but he'd rather not listen to his agent talking his ear off about it later.

But the woman obviously did not pick up on the implication and if she did, she didn't mention it. Instead, she leaned in and brushed her hand against his bicep at an attempt of subtle flirting, "Oh, come on. You're one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. Surely there's someone special in your life?"

He feigned embarrassment rather than expressing his anger and scratched the back of his head, "you're really putting me on the spot here." He paused, then added, "i'm just focused on my career at the moment. And as they say, good things come to those who wait, right?"

His answer shut the interviewer down and the last line did have some truth to it. Patience is a virtue.

♡

Pushing the bathroom door open, his hands gripped one of the sinks and he took a moment to calm his nerves.

They don't know. They don't know. It's okay.

His gaze dropped to the scar marring his otherwise perfect skin in the mirror, right under his bottom lip. Yet, instead of frustration like his manager had expressed with utter disappointment, warmth he was all too familiar with fluttered in his chest.

This was no burden, but a gift from his favourite little songbird after one of her many tantrums of be let out of the golden cage. Though it is a hassle to calm her back down, he did cherish the mark imprinted on his skin.

Blake tutted, eyes narrowing as he scrutinised it further. It was fading; he'll need to fix that up soon enough.

He shrugged on a jacket and drove home in his sleek car, ready to finally relax. The day drained him of all his energy.

Or perhaps it didn't, because when he reached his home, all of the anger bubbled up to the surface. Patience was not a virtue, because his had reached its limit because of a certain dove.

♡

Tonight was the night.

The night where you would finally be free of the shackles that bound you to that horrible, horrible man.

Blake.

To his fans and the world, he's a passionate and talented athlete. To you? He's a monster. One that stripped you off everything you've known, one that kept you for his selfish desires, one that held a warped version of 'love' in his heart.

You wanted to flee. Not even tell the police, just run far, far away where he couldn't reach you, where you would be your own person and not some pretty ornament he'd come home to admire every day.

Sanity hanging by a thread, you slipped down the marble stairs in just your socks and cute pajamas. Any captive should have injuries and tattered clothes. Except, your captor wasn't normal. And while you didn't have any physical injuries, you were still hurt.

You were supposed to be asleep, if everything went according to his plan (which usually did). The opportunity was too good to pass up; he was leaving for a match for hours. When he had given you the pill with a fond smile, you returned it and made an act of swallowing, all while keeping it under your tongue. The doors were locked due to his paranoia so you couldn't escape through there. Not to mention your hands and feet were tied, so you spent time on those too.

Finally, the makeshift rope was ready. Hours of twisting bedsheets together finally paid off and now you were ready.

One look out the window and you were already nauseous. It was such a high drop and you weren't willing to die, not yet at least. The rope tumbled down till it nearly reached the bottom, only a few feet off the garden grounds.

In and out. Nothing is going to happen.

Wrapping your limbs around the clothing, your hands clenched around it. Your eyes closed and you let yourself slide. Breathing fresh air felt true bliss, like this was your first time.

When you reached the bottom, your knees trembled with the gravity of what's going on. The closest thing you let out to a relieved sigh was a choked sound out of your throat.

You were free. You. Were. Free.

No more punishments, no more suffering, no more of his constricting love, no more-

maniacal laughter rings through the air sharply, making you halt. No.

You'd recognise it anywhere, even if you didn't want to.

"Wow, I leave for a few hours and come back to this?" He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye in amusement, though you caught a vein in his forehead throbbing. "You surprise me every time, baby. Though I gotta admit i'm a little...hurt."

Your heart stopped and you took a step back, whipping around to face him. Such beauty he had, but so undeserving of it. Your nails had dug blood out of your palms, making them dully ache however not as deep as his confessions of 'love' would pierce your heart.

He didn't have nothing in that chest but rotting flesh.

"Now, now, none of that." He grinned as he followed your steps with his longer, stronger legs and you could only pray that he showed mercy. "You really didn't think you'd get away, did you? You truly do underestimate the lengths I'd go for you.

I give you the most beautiful home, the finest foods — my love. And this is how you repay? By running away from me? From us?"

His voice progressively got louder with each word. You really pushed him to the limits.

"I-I'm sorry-"

Cutting you off, large hands shaky with barely concealed raged cluched either sides of your head, "shh, I know you are. But sorry isn't enough anymore."

It wasn't a normal, torturous kind of punishment — no, you wished it was. You wondered if falling from the window was a better fate than this.

His voice softened at your sniffles, almost as if he was comforting you, shielding from a danger that nothing seemed to poise but him. "Hey, hey, don't cry. C'mon, my dove. If you're good, I won't go too hard on you."

Cries spilled past your lips, begging him that you were sorry and that you weren't going to do it again.

And really, you were never going to. Not after what he did to you afterwards.

You were reduced to a small ball to shivers and hiccups underneath Blake on the soft, fluid-stained sheets. The pink sleepwear was discarded on the floor. Equally bare, his muscles from all the training were on display. He was now beaming affectionately as he watched your tuckered out expression.

This wasn't the first time you've been violated, obviously. But this time it felt worse, like the pain of reality came crashing down on you like a tsunami ten times harder than before. It didn't help that he kept on whispering sweet threats in your ear.

He had branded your skin roughly and taken you, only to cradle you gently with a lover's touch. The drug he had injected you with made you a willing participant in his game, made you ache with desire for the one being you wanted to hate.

You slurred like a broken record, unsure of what was even going on anymore, "m'sorry, I didn't mean to...hic"

"It's okay, it's okay" he sang softly, brushing your sweaty hair out of your eyes, "y'know punishing you hurts me more than it does you, but I had to do this, you were trying to leave me, sweet thing."

A small, hidden part of you still wanted to fight for your freedom, to save yourself.

"you're so silly, thinking anyone would believe you if you ran away." He cooed, peppering loving kisses all over your face.

You closed your eyes and weakly whimpered. They would believe you, they would. Wouldn't they?

"Sometimes, the thoughts become too much for that pretty little head, don't they? You can't possible take all of it at once. But that's why i'm here. To protect you from every bad thing in the world."

His hand cupped your cheek as he tilted his head down, pressing his lips against your forehead, "I'll give you the world. Just — promise not to leave me again"

The sentences tumbling out his mouth just made you feel even more horrible.

You were broken. You had tried to convince yourself otherwise, but it was all in vain. He had shattered you into pieces and rebuilt you to fit his preferences. If you looked into the mirror right now, you don't think you would recognise yourself.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you weren't cut out for the world, maybe there were dangerous things out to get you, maybe safety was in his arms.

"Rest, i'll take care of you"

You let your eyes droop shut. Yeah, that sounded about right. He'll take care of you.

Once you finally nestled against the comfort of his chest with tiny snores, was he finally able to celebrate another accomplishment. He can't remember the last time he didn't have something he wanted, even if his beautiful dove was putting up a fight against him.

♡

Copyright © 2025 urprettylildoe. All rights reserved.

Yours truly,

@urprettylildoe

[godharuhi]

wet dream (bakugou x reader)

| summary: you’re not supposed to have a horny dream about one of your classmates, until you do.

| warnings: explicit language, wet dream, rough sex, one use of good girl

You never talked to Bakugou Katsuki.

You wouldn’t think or want to either; he was just another one of your twenty classmates, and one of the more annoying ones at that. Here you were in your third year of Hero school and he was still just as annoying as the first. He was arrogant, and loud, and clearly a narcissist with anger issues when things didn’t go his way. Sure, he was strong and talented, and clearly destined for success but that’s not enough for you to change your mind and think he’s a nice person. You had no idea how he had such cool, kind friends surrounding him all the time.

You and Bakugou never talked except for the rare, small excuse me when he and Kirishima are being assholes and blocking the classroom door, or a thanks when he frees up the gym equipment you need - meaningless, NPC interactions like that. So, you never gave him a second glance. You know you’re a blurred extra in his life too. His name shouldn’t even be in your thoughts.

So, what was this? Why are you thinking all this about him right now?

What was that?

You sat up in bed the second you woke up, sweating and breathing heavily as if you’d actually been there. One of those naughty dreams. Except, it’s still running so vividly in your mind that you smack your head over and over again, “What the fuck was that?! Stop it!” You scream at yourself. Yes, because it’s that traumatic!

Yet, your core is throbbing with an achy need for relief. Your floral blankets are messy and wrapped around your legs and you hastily kick them away from you to get rid of any more sinful friction. It’s hot. It’s so hot. Your face must have a fiery red glow because it’s entirely too hot.

You feel so dirty.

The usual faceless person who had been giving you some type of pleasure had been morphed into your classmate, and not just any classmate, but the meanest, loudest one you’ve secretly disliked since your first week of school.

Bakugou had fucked you in your dreams.

And you had enjoyed it.

How could you change what you superficially thought of as pointless rage into raw passion? Those terrifying blood hungry eyes could be a piercing gaze of dark maroon? His grunts, his growls, his powerful hits were exchanged for powerful thrusts, and his crude mouth that was usually swearing out naughty words was filtered through radio loops and warp holes into some type of dirty talk.

“God, you’re so…fucking…tight.” It was your classmate, Bakugou. His blond hair spiking in all directions, but looking softer than usual. His fingers dug into the plushiest part of your thighs as his brows knit in total concentration, eyes focused darkly at where he had dug himself to the hilt, your bodies connected with the sleekness of juices. You didn’t know why or how your classmate was between your legs but you didn’t care. He didn’t look like the angry boy from class - this was a god who had your cunt fluttering for him.

Merciless, he started at a brutal pace, gripping your thighs as handles to steady your body as he rocked himself into you with just as much power as he showed on the field. It felt so good. Bakugou had a mean dick.

“Why the fuck’re you clenchin’ down? You like…hah…getting slutted out?” Right now, you did. All you wanted was to feel good. Your back arched off the surface below you, a bed - his bed? - asking for more.

“You’re a needy one. Shit-” He pressed you into the mattress, wrapping his hands on your neck to keep you still when he started pounding you at an unholy pace that made you half-regret acting like that. But still, it felt good. Your arms came around his back to hold onto something while the pit in your core was blissfully stroked every second, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Oh my god, Bakugou,” all you cared about was the pleasure you were feeling, “Your dick is so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” His voice was deeper than anyone you’ve ever heard, “Betcha I can make this little pussy cry for my dick. That’s it, scratch me. Oh, fuck yes,” You couldn’t refuse his order when his husky voice was moaning like that, when you could feel the tremors in your pussy, when his thumb came to your clit and began to rub it like he owned it.

Even fucking you, Bakugou was giving it his all, fucking your brains out. “Good girl, taking my cock so well,” you’ve never even heard him praise someone else so hearing him call you his good girl, seeing that you were also pleasuring him, it did something to you. He was overwhelming and so rough and he was so proud you were managing it, it’s no wonder you melted and spread your legs for him.

“It’s so deep, it feels too good,” you moaned back with a crack in your voice, divinely transfixed by the look on this new face of his.

Bakugou’s thrusts were becoming sporadic, fast and hard hits on the space between your legs that was still throbbing. “Fuck yes, FUCK yess…want it inside? Beg me to cum in this pretty hole. C’mon, fucking BEG.” It didn’t help that he sounded like the one begging for you.

“Please do it inside me, please cum in me. Make me cum.”

His face scrunched together, his jaw slack and panting as ruby eyes were locked on you. So pretty, so hot, and unlike anything you’ve ever seen, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, oh FU -”

The space between your legs felt messy, slick, nasty.

Getting into your morning routine, you made yourself a zombie.

Were you seriously that horny last night?

Of all people - Bakugou? The idea of that mean blond anywhere near you should’ve given you the ick but now you’re doing your makeup and making a face when, unfortunately, you think, He’s hot.

But why him? You’re not friends, you don’t even talk to each other.

Why did some random guy have to show up in your sex dream? Was it because yesterday, you couldn’t stop staring at him jogging into the locker room. He had swiped his shirt off over his head in one yank, a delicate, lean waist with his larger, sweat-shiny chest out and bouncing? And then afterwards, right when you were going into the classroom, that same man had bumped into you, too busy talking with Todoroki to see you. He was all hard and bulky, versus you - soft and physically one of the weakest people in class - but you didn't even comprehend almost falling back because a hand gripped your arm and balanced you off to the side as he still walked past you. He didn’t even glance at you. Meanwhile, you had rushed to your seat in the back, face warm and kind of…impressed.

Truly, you were disturbed.

How were you supposed to walk into class today and see him?

[girlgenius1111]

hard knocks

alexia putellas x reader r gets a concussion, and her girlfriend, alexia, wants to help take care of her. r is incredibly resistant to allowing alexia to help, but she really doesn't have a choice. head injury, blood, etc. soft ale hurt comfort :)

—

You knew it probably wasn’t going to end well for you before you even made the move. The adrenaline was pumping through your veins, and all you could think about was making sure the ball didn’t hit the back of the net. The corner had been taken, and you saw the player you were marking move. She moved with intention, and you just knew the ball was heading towards her. 

So, you did what you had to do, what any defender in your position would have done, and jumped just as the other player did. From there, things got somewhat… blurry. 

You knew your head hit the ball, sending it away from the goal. You knew your body collided with your opponent’s before you were falling towards the ground. And then a sharp stinging pain as your face collided with something hard just before your head slammed into the grass underneath you. 

It wasn’t immediately clear to you what was wrong, just that your head hurt. But when you brought your hands to cradle your face, you could feel the blood. It was all you could do to raise one red stained hand into the air and motion frantically for help. 

The next second, there were hands on your back, voices shouting around you. You didn’t know who was talking, didn't know who was touching you, trying to roll you onto your back. 

It was dark, which was odd, because you remember the stadium lights being bright. Your eyes were closed, you realized, your face pressed into the grass under you. 

Everything began to come back into focus, as if the thoughts that had been smashed out of your head were suddenly allowed back in. 

You recognized Cata’s voice in your ear, her gloved hands on your back. 

“Don’t move, chica, just stay right there,” Cata was saying. She wasn’t trying to roll you over, you realized; she was trying to keep you as still as possible. 

Right. A head wound, you weren’t supposed to move until the medics got there. Forcing your eyes open, you got just a glimpse of the medics in a dead sprint towards you before your eyes slammed shut again, overwhelmed by the light. You groaned, hearing the medics arrive at your side and begin to ask you too many questions as they stabilized your neck and applied pressure to your face. 

Did your neck hurt? Not specifically. 

Did your back hurt? No. 

Could you move your hands? Your toes? Yes and yes. 

Question after question, answer after answer, it felt like an eternity before they cleared you to be rolled onto your back. They made you open your eyes again, and you weren’t even aware of the tears beginning to streak down your face. The neck brace they brought next was entirely precautionary, they assured you. 

“Okay, they’re driving the ambulance on right now. We’ll get you to the hospital soon.” Adriana said, the blonde physio that was currently crouched at your side, closest to your head. You hummed your understanding, allowing your eyes to flutter shut again. 

“Can you open your eyes?” Adriana asked, urgency dripping from her tone. 

You let out a choked sob, one you had no idea was even trying to get out, and cracked one eye just barely open. “Too bright. Hurts.” You managed. 

“Okay, okay. You’ll be off in a second and it’ll be darker.” Alvaro, the physio on your other side, assured you. “We just can’t have you falling asleep. Keep them open for me, just a few more seconds.” 

You forced them back open, just enough to take in the grimly focused faces of those around you. Not just the physios, but the medics they had on standby at the field. At least 6 faces surrounded you, none the one face you were looking for. In fact, you were looking before you even knew you were looking, but some rational part of you must have remained intact in your brain, because you didn’t ask for her. 

Alexia was your girlfriend, yes. But only of a few months. It would have been downright absurd to ask for her to come to you. In the middle of the pitch, surrounded by so many curious eyes. Even if there hadn’t been, Alexia was under no obligation to care for you. 

Even if you wanted her next to you right now, holding your hand as the ambulance began to drive away. leaving her and your teammates behind. They were all beyond horrified.

Cata was getting new gloves on because her first pair had your blood on them. Vicky looked a concerning shade of green. Irene was trying to force the team to focus again, repeating encouragements and patting them on the back as they walked back onto the pitch, even as her own hands shook. 

Alexia, though, was stood rooted to the spot she’d been since Patri had pulled her over to the sidelines, just a minute after you’d gone down. Her eyes were now fixed on where you’d been, terror clear on her face. 

“Ale.” Irene said. Hands gripped her forearms, and Alexia’s eyes snapped up, jolted from the fog of worry clouding her every thought. “She’s alright, she’s conscious. She’s going to be fine, but we need you to focus. Can you do that?”

Irene’s words were spoken gently, even as almost everyone else was back on the pitch. Ingrid was jogging on, coming on in your place. The clock was ticking, the match needed to resume. There were probably less than 10 minutes left even with stoppage time, and the team still had a job to do. Irene was confident, of course, that Alexia would snap out of it. Refocus in, transform into the leader the team needed rather than the worried sick girlfriend she was. 

But it seemed Irene underestimated just how deeply Alexia cared for you. Even Alexia herself had, until you’d been laying on the pitch with a head injury and Alexia was forced to reckon with the overwhelming emotions and feelings trying to choke her. 

“I can’t. I can’t, Irene.” Alexia murmured. There was no untangling all her emotions in that moment. She only knew what she had to do, and that was to get the hell off the pitch and to her car. 

Irene tried to mask the look of shock that washed over her, as if Alexia would even have noticed it in the state she was in. She was surprised, but she also knew that if Alexia was saying she couldn’t go on, she couldn’t go on. With a gentle squeeze of Alexia’s hands, Irene turned to Pere, only to find that Aitana was already standing next to the fourth official, waiting to come on. Pere looked somewhat dumbfounded, not having expected to have to make the change, but Aitana looked sure of herself. Rafel was stood behind her  and Irene knew instantly who was behind this change. Not their head coach, that was for sure. 

When Irene turned back, Alexia was gone. The only trace of her was a mostly brunette ponytail swinging as she sprinted down the tunnel. 

Irene jogged back onto the pitch next to Aitana, both of them focused. There was still a job to be done, and they were both going to make sure the team executed. 

As for Alexia, she was already out of the locker room, barefoot with her white Nikes in her hand, and her bag in the other. Keys, wallet, phone, shoes. That was all she needed. 

That, and to get to you.

—

Alexia had always been such a force, from the moment you’d met her. But confident captain Alexia didn’t arrive at your hospital room. Ale did, hands trembling, brow furrowed adorably with concern. Of course, you didn’t know which version had arrived, only that the door had swung open and you hoped it was a nurse with more painkillers because this hurt. 

“Amor?” Alexia murmured, stuck in the doorway as she took in the scene in front of her. A bright light was shining down on your face, a doctor in dark scrubs working to close the gash on your cheek. 

“You can’t be in here.” A man said, stepping in front of Alexia just as she tried to move to your side. 

“No, no, she is my– I need to see her. She is my girlfriend.” Alexia rushed out, her panic voice only now reaching your ears. She was a mess, face tear streaked from all the crying she’d done in the car. Her ponytail was tangled because it had been raining earlier, and she was still in her kit. It was a miracle her shoes were on the right feet, and she was sure she looked like she’d escaped an involuntary hold or something.

You’d been almost entirely focused on not moving, not flinching or wincing as the plastic surgeon carefully stitched your skin back together. He paused, though, seeing your eyes fly open at the sound of your girlfriend’s voice. 

“Ale?” You murmured, heart clenching in your chest at the thought she was here, here for you. 

“I understand that, but–”

“It’s alright, she can sit on the other side.” The surgeon interrupted. Alexia didn’t want another second, side stepping the nurse to carefully make her way to you. He was well aware that this was a painful process, one even more painful with the very few things he’d been allowed to give you, considering they were still waiting for the results of your head scan. You’d looked scared from the minute he explained that he was going to stitch up the wound on your face, your body so tense he was surprised it wasn’t shaking. 

As he’d hoped, you released a deep breath as Alexia’s hands grabbed yours, your body finally relaxing. Sometimes, the rules needed to be bent for the good of the patient. This was exactly one such case. 

“Oh, amor.” Alexia whispered. You barely registered her words, focused entirely on not crying as her warm hazel eyes bored into yours. When you were by yourself, you could hold it together. Now she was here, and you knew you had to hold it together so she wouldn’t see you fall apart. But her hand was so soft in yours, her thumb gently running back and forth over your skin. 

You hated being hurt. Hated being vulnerable. But being either of those things around Alexia was terrifying. She hadn’t seen you at anything but your best yet, and you hadn’t realized how much fear you carried at the thought of her being disgusted by your weakness. 

So, you grit your teeth, squeezed your eyes shut, and tried to power through. You missed the frown on the surgeon’s face as you tensed back up, missed the furrow of Alexia’s brow as she practically saw your walls come up. You let her keep holding your hand, trying to convince yourself you weren’t lying in the hospital. No, you and Alexia were walking, hand in hand, to the cafe down the street from your apartment. 

The delusion didn’t last very long, if at all, before the surgeon was cutting the excess thread and expecting his handiwork. 

“All done. It was a jagged laceration, but it should heal pretty cleanly. The scar shouldn’t be too noticeable.” 

You nodded your head blankly, ignoring the pulsing pain as you did so, not even thinking to ask any other questions about your injuries. Alexia, on the other hand, appeared to have come with a list. She asked about the concussion severity, when you’d be free to go, wound care. Half of them were questions you were sure she knew the answer to already, and the other half were questions you weren’t quite sure how she’d come up with. You began to tune them all out, allowing yourself to take some deep breaths for what felt like the first time since you’d gone down on the pitch. 

Soon, the doctors and nurses filed out of the room, and you were left with Alexia, who was typing frantically into her phone. Either updating the team or taking notes on what the doctor had to say, you guessed. You cleared your throat, reaching for her hand again. There was dried blood under your nails, you noticed, but before you could retract your hand, Alexia was grabbing it in hers. Alexia’s phone fell into her lap as she abandoned her typing, eyes finding yours almost instantly. She was gazing at you so softly it made your cheeks flush. 

“Thank you for coming. You didn’t have to.” 

“Do not be ridiculous, of course I came.” She murmured, gently brushing a piece of hair off your forehead. “You scared me.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” You whispered back, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the uninjured side of your face. 

“Do not be sorry, either. I am just glad you are okay.” 

You blinked a few times, reminding yourself there were to be no tears. “How did you get here so fast? You weren’t supposed to be substituted.”

If you’d been more coherent, less distracted by the pounding in your head and the aching sting of your cheek, you would have noticed Alexia’s face get slightly red. 

“I… I asked to come out. I would not have been able to focus. I needed to get to you.” She replied, her eyes still flitting over your face as if to assure herself that you were here, you were okay. 

The pain in your head was suddenly overshadowed by a wave of something you couldn’t describe washing over you at her words. 

You couldn’t put a name to the feeling. All you could think was oh, you didn’t deserve her. Yet here she was. 

A tear escaped, sliding down the side of your face and onto the pillow resting under your head. Alexia moved even closer, her face just a few inches from yours now, absolutely filled with worry and sadness. She cupped your cheek in one hand, resting the other on your chest, needing to feel you and make sure you felt her. 

“It’s alright, cariño. You are going to be okay, everything is okay.” 

Nothing felt okay. It felt too good and too scary at the same time, and you weren’t sure how to reconcile those two emotions. 

“I love you.” You whispered. 

Alexia’s eyes widened, and you froze. Where on earth had that come from? You’d been thinking it, yes. Practically since your first date. But they must have given you more painkillers than you thought, or maybe you were suffering a traumatic brain injury, because there was no other reasonable explanation for you saying those words to her before she said them to you. 

Alexia looked as surprised as you felt, shocked into silence for a minute before she leaned in, her lips barely brushing yours, she was so gentle. She seemed to be gathering herself when she pulled away, and you felt your stomach drop. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“Shh,” Alexia soothed, stroking your hair once again. “I love you, too, amorcita. So much.”

She said it like it was easy, like she didn’t need to give it a second thought. You were reminded again at how Alexia always seemed to see only the best in you. Here you were, covered in blood and sweat, half your face covered with gauze, eyes half shut because the light hurt too much, making confessions of love at the worst possible time. Yet Alexia seemed to just be content that you were okay, thrilled at what you’d said. She didn’t see the mess, somehow. 

Though you supposed you could understand, at least partially. Alexia was practically a disaster at the moment, too, but you didn’t see the tangled mess her hair was, or the dried tear tracks on her face. You didn’t care that she smelled like outside, a mixture of grass and sweat. You were just so glad she was here, with you. So glad, in fact, you’d told her you’d loved her. 

So, as confounding as her adoration for you felt, you knew it probably just baffled you. Thinking about it made your head hurt, and your head already hurt. 

“You do?” 

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Tonta. Of course I do.” 

You gave a watery laugh, allowing her to tuck her face into your neck, her arms wrapping around you as best they could. 

“I want to go home.” You mumbled. 

“Soon, amor. We just need the head scan back and then we can go.” Alexia promised, pressing a series of kisses to the skin of your neck. 

“Good. You need a shower.” 

She pulled back, looking offended. “Disculpe! You think you do not?” 

You laughed, a real laugh, beyond amused at how easily you could rile her up. You didn’t even think about how the room was spinning slightly, or the way it felt like an elephant had stepped on your head. You were mesmerized by the woman in front of you, how she could make you laugh when no one else could. 

She must have seen your face soften, because hers did too, into a small, almost shy smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll both get a shower. We’ll get you home, and I’ll take care of you. Whatever you need.” 

Your smile faltered only slightly, just barely enough for Alexia to notice. She was struck with the odd feeling you would not be a very willing patient. 

—

“Amor, the doctor said,”

“Alexia, it’s fine. I need to wash my hair. It’ll be quick, it’s not a big deal.”

You shakily pushed past your girlfriend, heading for your bathroom. Alexia was just half a step behind you, though, as she’d been since the two of you arrived home 10 minutes ago. Steps unsteady, you were secretly glad for her hovering, knowing that if you stumbled even slightly, she’d catch you. 

“But your stitches–”

“Alexia.” You huffed, rolling your eyes as her arms came to wrap around your waist and pull you to a stop. Instead of spinning you around to face her, she moved herself until you were face to face. She looked stern, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed; the face she made when one of your younger teammates misbehaved. 

“The wound cannot get wet. He said you could rinse off in the shower if you made sure not to put your head under.” She studied you, her body still between yours and the shower you so desperately needed. 

You felt disgusting, covered in mud and dirt and blood. The feeling would stick to your skin, you knew, until you took a shower and made sure all of you was clean, including your hair. 

You tried to summon some anger, some frustration that she was being so stubborn, but you couldn’t. Alexia was just trying to help. She’d driven you home, going well under the speed limit and warning you before she turned or braked. She’d let you lean heavily on her as you made your way up to your apartment, pulling you into her arms in the elevator in the most comforting embrace you’d felt in a long time. 

And now you were being difficult, but you knew yourself. You genuinely would not be able to get to sleep tonight if something wasn’t done about your hair. It had spent several minutes on the muddy pitch whilst the medical staff had treated you, and you were sure if you were still enough, birds would come along and take it for a nest. 

“Ale, I really need to be clean.” You pleaded. 

Something in your voice made Alexia falter, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip as she thought. 

“Okay.” She said finally. “Okay. Quick body shower and then I’ll wash your hair in the sink, and that way your face won’t get wet.” 

You blinked, but Alexia was already moving, tugging you gently towards that bathroom. 

“Ale, you don’t have to do that.” 

The midfielder just waved you off, guiding you to sit on the closed lid of the toilet as she got the shower ready. She kept the big overhead light off, only turning the small one over your vanity on.

“Alexia, really, it’s fine I can… I can just go to bed like this.” You attempted, embarrassed and ashamed that you had made her think she had to wash your hair for you. If there was anything that could overcome your desperate need to be clean, it was your desperate need to not inconvenience Alexia any more than you already were. 

Alexia turned the showerhead on, bringing it to a temperature much less hot than you normally liked, but she didn’t want you to get any dizzier than you already seemed to be. She turned to you, then, already pulling her kit over her head and tugging at the ponytail in her own hair. 

“Amor, I said I was going to take care of you. That is what I am doing. Whatever you want, whatever you need. I promise, I don’t mind.” She said softly, crouching down in front of where you sat and placing her hands on your knees. 

“But–”

“No buts.” Alexia interrupted, leaning up to peck your lips. “Come on, baby.” 

She rose to her feet, extending a hand in your direction, and you made yourself take it. 

—

You felt awful. Worse than awful. It hadn’t really hit until after you’d showered and Alexia had shampooed and conditioned your hair in the sink. You’d told her she could just stop after the shampoo but she’d ignored that, insisting she liked the smell of the conditioner and how soft it made your hair. 

You knew she really just didn’t want to disrupt your routine, but you appreciated that she didn’t say that. 

But as she carefully combed through your hair, she noticed your face grow suddenly paler in the mirror. It wasn’t immediately clear, because half of it was swollen, a large bruise blooming across your cheek over the neat line of stitches, but when she noticed the way your body started to sway, the way your eyes began to glaze over, she knew you weren’t doing well. 

Quickly, she put the brush down, steadying you with her hands on your arms. 

“You okay?” 

You hummed, letting your eyes shut as you leaned your head back on her shoulder. Your hair was still wet, and therefore cold, falling directly onto Alexia’s skin as she only had a cropped tank top on, but she resisted the urge to shiver. 

“Talk to me. How are you feeling?” She insisted, wrapping her arms loosely around your waist, still studying your face in the mirror.

“Not… not great.” You replied finally. Your heart fluttered in your chest as she gently kissed your unwounded cheek. “I just need to lie down.” 

Alexia took that sentence as a mission directive, kissing you once again before carefully beginning to guide your body out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Your bed was practically calling your name, the soft blankets and squishy pillows all you’d been thinking about since leaving the hospital. 

Your girlfriend helped you under the covers, propping up two pillows under your head so your face didn’t swell too much. Once you were all tucked in, she sat on the edge of the bed, tracing over the bruise on your face with her fingers, so lightly you couldn’t even feel it. 

“What else can I get you? Food? Water? An ice pack? Anything, amor.” 

You smiled weakly at her, your face erupting in pain at the motion. The laceration was high up on your cheek, so close to your eye that it was now almost swollen shut. It had its own heartbeat, pulsed so painfully you almost felt sick to your stomach. All you wanted in that moment, all you wanted, was for Alexia to climb into bed with you, and hold you until it didn’t hurt anymore. 

But you couldn’t say that. Couldn’t ask for that. She’d done so much already. Left the match early, sat with you in the hospital, brought you home and helped you bathe. She’d done much more than enough.

The two of you weren’t the type of couple to spend every waking second together. You each still had your own apartments because you really valued your alone time, and post matches were normally nights you spent separately. You’d eat dinner together, discuss the match, before going your separate ways to decompress on your own. It worked for both of you. There had been exceptions, of course. After a loss in the league, when you could tell she didn’t want to be alone, you slept at her place. And after that awful own goal you’d had, though you’d still won the game, she’d ordered your favorite take out, put on your favorite film, and pulled you into her arms, mumbling something about being too tired to drive home. 

Still, you were sure that Alexia wanted to go back to her own apartment, get in her own bed and not be kept up by your tossing and turning [you were sure you weren’t going to be sleeping well that night, either].

“No, no, I’m all good, Ale. Thank you for everything. You can go home now, I know you probably–”

“Go home?” Alexia interrupted. She looked borderline offended at the suggestion, her hand gripping yours as if someone was going to come and try to make her go home. 

“Well, yeah. Like always after–”

“Mi amor, you have a concussion. You cannot be by yourself overnight. I have to wake you up every few hours, make sure everything is still okay.” Alexia explained, her face firm again as if daring you to push back. 

And, well. You’d forgotten about that part. Maybe you were more affected by this concussion than you thought. Your brain felt unbelievably foggy, all of a sudden, like you couldn’t string all your thoughts together without a few of them getting lost.

“Oh. That’s right.” You replied. “Still, I could set alarms…” 

Alexia frowned, something flickering in her eye that you couldn't quite decipher. “Do you really think I’d leave you when you were hurt?” 

Alexia looked disgusted at the mere notion, and your lips twitched with amusement. 

“Well. No.”

“No.” Alexia echoed. “I’m staying right here, with you. Okay?”

“Okay.” You replied, yet your bottom lip began to tremble and Alexia could see tears pooling in your eyes. 

“Cariño, what is it?” Alexia asked, voice dripping with concern that made your stomach twist. 

How did you even begin to explain why you were crying? Why this was so hard for you, why you were pushing her away when you needed her desperately to stay? 

“I j-just feel bad.” You whispered, averting your eyes from her hazel ones gazing at you. Less than a second later, though, a hand was finding your chin, carefully guiding your face back up to look at her. 

She had that look she got when there was a problem to be solved, the face she made when she stood over a free kick and tried to figure out exactly where to place it. 

“Why do you feel bad?” She wondered.

You inhaled deeply, and Alexia brought your joined hands up, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. She waited so patiently, absentmindedly raking her fingers back through her hair to get it out of her face. You wondered if she knew how distracting she could be without even trying. 

“I just… I’m not good at this. I feel terrible for making you take care of me. It’s stupid, but I feel like…” 

“Do not even say it. You are not a burden to me.” Alexia interrupted, forehead wrinkling, eyebrows pulling together as she regarded you unhappily. Her hand tightened around yours. “You are not making me do anything. I am here because I care about you, and I want to take care of you.” 

You sniffled, shutting your eyes and leaning your head back. It was too much to look at her and have this conversation. Your head ached too much for that. 

“I know that, reasonably. But I can’t turn my brain off, I can’t make it stop overthinking and doubting and worrying and–” You broke off into a sob that you weren’t expecting. 

“Oh, mi amor.” Alexia murmured. She nudged you until you opened your eyes, wincing at the light. She opened her arms for you, drawing you in close to her chest. She was so warm, her hands sliding up the back of your shirt, pressing you even tighter against her. Your good cheek rested against her chest, and you inhaled the scent of her, somehow so much better even though you’d used the same body wash. “I wish I could make your brain be quiet.”

She seemed to pause for a moment, still gently rubbing your back as she thought. She wasn’t sure quite what to say, how to make you feel better. After a few seconds she leaned back slightly, her eyes meeting your teary ones. 

“Listen, amor. I love you. I would not be here if I did not want to be. There is no place in the whole world I would rather be right now than here with you, making sure you are okay. I know words can only do so much but please, baby. Try to believe me. I love you, I want to take care of you.” 

“I love you.” You whimpered, leaning back into her chest. She caught you easily, snuggly tucking you into her yet again. “I’m sorry, I’m trying, and it’s not that I don’t trust you,” 

“Shh, I know that mi amor. I am not offended.” Alexia reassured you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “It’s all alright, hmm? Everything is okay.” 

You forced yourself to hear it, to internalize it and believe it. Everything was okay. Alexia was here, that was all that mattered. Not the pounding in your head, or the dizziness you felt when you moved even the smallest amount. Not the gash on your cheek, and not the fact that sometimes it felt like your brain was working against you. It was just you and her, and you let that knowledge wash over you like a calming wave. 

Once your body stopped trembling and the tears stopped falling, Alexia made you lay back down. She pulled the covers up to your chin, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. 

“Now. Tell me what you need before we get some rest.” 

Hesitantly, you patted the bed next to you. The tension in the room fell away as Alexia beamed, bounding around to the other side so she could crawl in next to you. 

Everything had felt so jumbled and messed up since you’d gone down on the pitch earlier that evening. But as Alexia wrapped herself around you, pulling you back into her, the world seemed to put itself back on its axis. Your girlfriend flicked the light off, the two of you laying there in content silence for a minute. 

“I cannot believe you said I love you for the first time in the hospital.” Alexia whispered, breaking the quiet that had settled over the room. “Very cliche.” 

You burst out laughing, a laugh that made your cheek sting and your head pound, but you found you didn’t really care. 

“I can’t believe you got subbed off when I got hurt. Did you run off the pitch really dramatically?”

Alexia huffed, lightly pinching your side. “Cállate.” 

She wasn’t about to admit that it had been probably very dramatic. 

Alexia snuggled even closer into you, leaving a few kisses on the skin of your neck. “Goodnight, baby. I love you.” 

Tomorrow, you’d think about how good it felt to hear her say that to you. For now, you just placed your hand over hers where it rested on you, and squeezed. 

“I love you, too.” 

Alexia let the words wash over her, enjoying the feeling of you laying so happily in her arms, even if she hated that you were hurt. She loved when you were snuggly like this, and knew to savor the moment. 

Especially knowing that when she had to wake you up in a few hours, you would not be so pleased with her. She didn’t really care though. Not if it meant you were okay and safe and happy. 

—

it feels like its been FOREVER since ive written and i'm slightly self conscious of this but im very happy to be getting something done and posted 🙂❤️‍🩹

[invoncible]

mark grayson & fem!reader, MDNI.

cw. overstim

mark’s never been good at taking losses.

he hates feeling he’s even a second too slow or a punch too weak. hates being reminded of the impossible expectations everyone has for him… like he can never quite get it all right. it makes him itch for something he can win at.

at the end of the day, the only thing he does right 100% of the time is doing you, and he never ends a hard day without proving it. makes you remind him of that over and over again until you’re spent and unable to give him anything more than the shake of your body underneath his.

your breath comes in weak, shuddery pants, throat raw from begging for him. you don’t know how long you’ve been at it. the only thing that anchors you is the deep, slow roll of his hips as he works you through the mess of slick and cum between your thighs.

your body soaked, drenched in sweat and the heat of his body pressing heavy against yours. the air is thick with sex, filled with the wet sounds of his cock dragging through your swollen, fucked-out cunt that made your body flush with heat all over again.

“she’s so good to me,” he groans, pulling out of you before snapping back in, sharp and fast. his grip on your hips tighten. “so good.”

he’s not talking to you—not even looking at you. his chocolate eyes almost black from his blown pupils while he commits your ruined pussy to memory. she’s the best reward he could ever get.

you’d been going for… who knows how long. it’s like he had something to prove. he had your skin covered in a sheen of sweat, glistening under the low lighting.

for the first time in hours, mark’s given you just a bit of mercy and slows the snap of his hips to a lazy grind. not that it helps how overstimulated you feel. you still feel him so deep, his tip prodding that spongy spot inside.

“mm…” your brows knit as you moan hoarsely, back arching off the bed for what seemed like the millionth time, whining as your nails scratch up his back. “mark—”

“yeah?” he grins because that’s what he wants to see, your body readily accepting the pleasure he’s giving you. he’s breathing heavy as he pulls your legs higher up on his hips, lowering himself onto you nd propping himself up by his elbows on either side of your shoulders.

your eyes flutter when he leans in, his hair damp as it tickles your forehead. his lips brush over yours. “you still with me?” he murmurs, kissing you before you can respond.

dick. he knows the answer, and the way he smiles and chuckles lowly against your neck proves it.

barely. you’re barely there. he’s spilled on you more times than you can count, and it doesn’t seem like he’s stopping. mark exhales against your jaw, pressing kisses at your cool skin, and starts to piston his cock inside you again. whatever gentleness he felt like giving you gone in an instant.

“mark—!” you cry out, your body tensing around him, thighs squeezing his hips like a vice.

“fuck—” he groans, voice muffled in the crook of your neck. “i know, baby. but you take me so perfect, you always do, i just need—”

your walls clamp down in weak, desperate pulses, struggling to keep up as he pumps his veiny cock into your ruined insides.

fuck everyone else. everyone else could figure out their own problems. cecil could go fuck himself too and find someone else to get thrown around and beat up for the day. this was the win he needed. you were what he needed. and if he could bring you to pleasure over and over again, then he was doing something right.

“needed this today,” he grunts, “well. need you everyday, but—you know what i mean, don’t you?”

“uh-huh.”

he didn’t know why he asked. he knew he wasn’t getting a real response. the only thing bouncing around in that pretty head of yours was him and how good he was making you feel.

your lip burns from biting down on it, your head lolling to the side.

he chases you, perking up and putting himself in your field of view. “tapped out already?”

‘already’ like he hadn’t made you cum three times so far.

“fuck...” he loses his train of thought, his eyes unfocused as he gets close. his thrusts become erratic. “one more,” he begs brokenly, letting his head drop onto your chest. “gimme just one more. you can—can you do that for me?”

“yes,” you nod breathlessly. “please.”

“that’s my girl,” he smiles languidly and kisses your cheek before sitting up and towering over you once more. his hands gripped your hips, pushing you down into the mattress as he fucked himself into you. “knew you—fuck—knew you would, pretty girl.”

you gasped sharply, clawing at the sheets. you open your mouth to speak but all you could do was whimper and whine. his eyes flicker to your face in recognition, his thumb flying to your clit to bring you over the edge.

“s’too much,” you sob, tears pooling in your eyes as your body shakes. you try to push him away with your leg instinctively.

“don’t run,” he pouts.

“i can’t—“

“you can.” he coos, his fingers curling around your calves and folding them into you in a mating press. he adjusts his angle before fucking into you with renewed vigour. “you said one more, remember?” he grits out through his teeth.

you cry out as he drives his thick cock deeper than before, hitting your g-spot with precision with every crack of his hips.

“that’s it,” this man is pussydrunk, the joy on his face as he feels your tight heat squeezing him for all he’s worth. “you—”

he doesn’t get a chance to spew whatever bullshit he had in mind—you came with a ragged cry, arching into him, pussy tightening around him like a glove and milking him dry.

“shit.” mark curses under his breath at the sight of you. his eyes roll and his hips stutter, pulling out of you with crazy speed and shooting hot ropes of cum onto your already cum-stained stomach.

he drops on top of you, both of you panting and basking in your bliss.

you smile, threading your fingers through his dark hair as you come down from your high, body buzzing with satiated desire.

then he shifts. stares up at you with those puppy dog eyes of his and nuzzles against your chest. “i like this position,” he starts lowly, his voice thick and heavy. he presses kisses to the valley of your breasts, making your breath catch all over again.

“wanna go again? last time this time, promise.”

© invoncible

[joelsrose]

Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler—Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

let me know your thoughtssss

[bitters-n-sweets]

what survived the fire pt. 1 — jack abbot x fem!reader Years after battlefield promises are shattered by war, Jack is haunted by the combat medic who saved his life—until she walks into his ER, very much alive.

warnings: imagine any age you want, maybe the reader is immortal or smth | reader was in the same tour as jack once | blood, almost dying | hints at su1c1d4l tendencies | nothing 18+, but minors still go away masterlist | part two

[flashback]

"Don't you die on me, Jack."

Jack's eyes fluttered, blood staining his teeth when he coughed. You caught the splatter against your cheek and didn’t even flinch. He tried to speak, and you silenced him with a firm shake of your head.

"You promised me coffee when this is all over, remember? You can't go back on your word now."

You pressed harder on his wound, felt the strain in your body, but you wouldn't give up. You wouldn't let him go. The blast had taken out a lot of people, left the rest of the convoy a disaster.

But all you could see was the man in front of you. The surgeon who had come to the field a few weeks ago, who worked with his sleeves rolled up, with his sharp senses and wit, who had made you laugh when you forgot what laughter sounded like amidst the blood and chaos.

And he was dying in your arms.

[present day]

Jack sits upright suddenly as another nightmare courses through him, sweat clinging to his skin. He's been having the same nightmare for the 3rd time this week. Always about you.

He's never stopped thinking about you. You were the one thing he looked forward to on his last tour a few years ago. He didn't even know why he said yes to the deployment in the first place, but getting to know you made it more than bearable.

Jack decides to come in early for his shift. He's got nothing better to do anyway, and it's not like he'll be able to sleep some more.

"Jack?" Robby calls as he sees him, "You're way too early."

"Can't sleep." He says, colder than usual without realizing.

"The same nightmare again?"

Jack's jaw tenses. "Yeah."

[flashback]

“What’s your life like?” you’d asked, your voice low. “Outside all of this mess.”

The two of you were tucked behind a supply tent, sharing a small, half-empty bottle of whiskey passed between gloved hands. It was late. And after a long, hard day, you both needed a friend.

Jack leaned back against the canvas wall, eyes on the stars like they might offer a real answer. “Still in the ER. Still patching people up. Going to therapy. Dodging my self-destructive habits.”

You blinked, surprised. “Therapy? Huh.”

“What?” he asked, almost smiling.

“Didn’t expect that,” you admitted. “No offense, but guys in this line of work don’t usually line up for therapy.”

Jack shrugged, taking another sip. “Guess I got tired of trying to outrun my own head. Figured I’d give something else a shot.”

You watched him in the dim light, shadows softening the edges of his face. There was something vulnerable in the way he said it—something that made you feel warm inside.

“You’re a good man, Jack,” you said, quiet and sure.

He glanced at you then, unsure of how to process what you just said. His hand brushed yours when he reached for the bottle again, but he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

[present day]

"I can't stop dreaming about her." Jack says, knowing it's Robby behind the railing of the rooftop.

Robby steps up beside him, leaning on the cold railing. "Well what's she like?"

Jack lets out a quiet chuckle, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "She was young. But not really—she had this old soul thing going. Like she’d seen more than most of us and still came out swinging."

"She's smart. Stubborn. Brave. Had this spark that could light up the darkest places... she’d rock anyone’s world."

Robby doesn’t speak, just listens.

"I promised her we’d get coffee when it was over. I’d show her around town, give her something normal... let her into the parts of my life that didn’t hurt.” Jack’s voice breaks just slightly. "I wanted her to see something good for once." Jack fights the tears threatening to fall over.

"She saved my life, Robby. And I couldn’t save her."

"Is she...?" Robby leaves his question unfinished.

Jack sighs. "MIA. That’s all they told me. No body. No signs. Just—gone. So they slapped on a label and called it closure."

He laughs bitterly under his breath, because the system failed them.

[flashback]

"So what's your life like?" Jack asked you this time.

You looked at him and chuckled. "Not much. Been here my whole life, never knew anything else besides GSWs and traumas."

Jack went quiet.

"Sorry, that's too depressing." You laughed awkwardly. "Um, I like jazz, or blues. Whiskey is a new thing I like—thanks to you, and uh.. here's something weird, I used to want to be a writer. I don’t know, stupid dream, I guess. Never really had the time."

"It's not stupid," Jack said. "Wanting something quieter, gentler than this."

"Gentler?"

"Yeah." He said. "You're still carrying something good, something calm in you. Don't lose that."

You tried to play it off, laughing softly as you looked down at your boots. "You say stuff like that and I forget we’re sitting in a field hospital with six wounded and a crate of morphine that’s probably expired."

Jack smiled. "You make this place bearable. At least to me."

You met his eyes then. And something in your chest shifted—makes you want to lean on him.

"Someday," he said, voice low and sure, "I hope you write about it. All of it."

You shook your head with a quiet laugh. "Only if you promise to read it."

"Deal."

[present day]

Jack's back at work, buried with patients and he feels like his head is about to explode. He's halfway through reviewing charts at the nurses' station when Gloria calls him over.

"Got a minute?"

Jack doesn’t even look up. "Robby's not here."

"Wasn't looking for him."

With a heavy sigh, he sets the chart down and rubs the bridge of his nose before stepping around. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Gloria?"

"We’ve got a new trauma fellow transferring in today. She’s doing her first rotation with you."

Jack glances at the folder Gloria hands him, flipping through it without giving much thought. The name doesn’t register at first—he’s skimming more out of habit than curiosity. "Okay, is she here yet?"

"She should arrive any second now—oh, there she is."

Jack turns.

And time stops.

You’re standing just past the entrance, signing in with Ahmad, your coat slung over one arm with a stethoscope in your pocket. The light catches your face—you look older, changed, but he'd recognize you anywhere.

His stomach drops. He forgets how to breathe. Jack hears his own heart in his ears, pounding so hard it’s drowning out the sounds of the ward. He doesn’t move. Can’t.

You don’t see him at first, too busy scanning the ER. But then your gaze lands on his.

You freeze. Your expression shifts—confusion, disbelief, almost afraid. "J-Jack?"

Gloria glances between the two of you, puzzled. "You two... know each other?"

Jack doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at you like you’re a ghost—because as far as he knew, you were.

-----

a/n: i can't get him out of my head help

[whosashan]

THE LITTLE THINGS

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader

SYNOPSIS: How they show you their love.

A/N: Hope you enjoy!

Xavier

Xavier was an affectionate lover in ways that often went unnoticed by others. To the world, he seemed distant—aloof, even—avoiding large gatherings and keeping to himself. But to you, he was warmth itself, a presence that never failed to lift your spirits. He had an uncanny ability to summon a smile to your lips, savoring the sound of your laughter as if it were his favorite melody. With him, your heart always felt full.

Physical affection was his language. Whether it was the gentle press of his lips against your forehead first thing in the morning, the reassuring squeeze of your hand as he guided you through a crowded street, or the way he enveloped your chilled fingers in his own to chase away the cold—his love was always expressed through touch.

Helping you get ready had become one of his favorite rituals. The first time he offered to apply your blush, he had been hesitant, his brows knit in concentration, as if a single misplaced stroke would earn him a scolding. Now, it had become second nature—his careful hands brushing across your skin, his focus entirely on you, everything to be able to touch you in any way.

A rough day? He was there to knead the tension from your shoulders with steady, practiced hands. A moment of comfort? He would wrap you in his embrace before you even had to ask.

On this particular evening, you were away on a field trip with your colleagues—an event Xavier had only agreed to attend because of you.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the encampment. You sat on a log, the warmth of the flames barely reaching you as exhaustion weighed heavily on your limbs. Organizing this trip had been a draining ordeal; you felt less like a leader and more like a weary caretaker herding unruly children—children who happened to be highly trained hunters.

The laughter and chatter around you blurred into background noise. When a coworker made a poorly timed, half-hearted joke at your expense, you merely furrowed your brows, too drained to muster a response. All you wanted was sleep.

Xavier, seated beside you, noticed immediately. His fingers pressed gently into your thigh—a small, grounding touch, yet one that brought an immediate sense of comfort. A silent promise. 'I’m here. If you need me, I’m right here.'

He took your hand in his, tracing slow circles over your knuckles, urging you to look at him. His gaze held a silent question—'Are you okay?'

You met his eyes, their soft concern melting into you like a balm. With a quiet smile, you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze in return.

Yes, you were okay. Because you had him.

And in moments like this, you knew—you were truly lucky.

Zayne

Zayne was the embodiment of composure—level-headed, calm, and unfailingly rational. Yet, when it came to expressing his true thoughts, words often failed him. His concern for you, though deeply rooted in care, sometimes surfaced as stern remarks, particularly when you disregarded your doctor’s (his) orders.

But where words fell short, his actions spoke volumes.

You had long since grown accustomed to discovering fresh bouquets of your favorite flowers at your doorstep, their delicate petals carrying the unspoken warmth of his affection. At his apartment, a set of spare clothes always awaited you, neatly folded as if in quiet anticipation of your stay. He had even gone so far as to purchase travel-sized versions of your toiletries, a small yet endearing detail that never failed to make your heart flutter. His fridge was perpetually stocked with your preferred snacks and drinks, as though he had memorized each of your favorites without effort.

And then there were the little things—the unspoken gestures that revealed just how closely he paid attention. He had noticed, without you ever mentioning it, how much you loathed doing the dishes. So naturally, he had taken it upon himself, never allowing you near the sink, brushing off any protest with quiet insistence.

That was the man Zayne was—one who showed his love not through grand declarations, but through unwavering acts of service, ensuring you were always at ease in his presence.

Today, you had set out for a shopping trip, eager to refresh your wardrobe. Fortune was on your side—Zayne had the day off and had agreed to accompany you, an unexpected treat that left you brimming with excitement.

As expected, you never carried so much as a single bag. He handled them all effortlessly, his grip firm yet gentle as he held your hand in his free one—a small but steadfast reminder of his presence beside you.

The golden hues of the setting sun stretched across the pavement as the two of you made your way home, the air crisp with the promise of evening. The weight of the shopping bags didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, yet, midway through the walk, he suddenly came to a halt.

“Wait.” His voice was calm yet firm.

Before you could ask why, he crouched down, carefully setting the bags on the ground. Confused, you followed his gaze—only to realize your shoelaces had come undone.

A flush crept up your neck as your eyes widened slightly. He was tying them.

“Zayne! I could’ve done it myself,” you protested, voice tinged with sheepish embarrassment.

He remained unfazed, fingers moving deftly as he secured the knot with practiced ease.

“There’s no need to strain your back when I’m here,” he murmured, his tone as steady as ever, as though his actions were the most natural thing in the world.

When he stood, you gazed up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. Without hesitation, he returned it, his warmth evident in the soft curve of his mouth as he reached for your hand once more.

“Thank you,” you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

A faint blush dusted both your faces—a delicate shade of pink, fleeting yet impossible to ignore.

And in that quiet moment, with the evening sun painting the sky in amber and rose, you felt it once again—the quiet, unwavering love that Zayne had always shown you, not with words, but with actions that spoke louder than any confession ever could.

Rafayel

Rafayel loved to tease you—whether through over-the-top dramatics or by shamelessly flirting at every opportunity.

“There she is—the one and only, the gorgeous, the radiant, the absolute love of my life!” he declared theatrically, placing a hand over his heart as if he were on the verge of swooning.

You rolled your eyes, elbowing him in the side, but not before a telltale blush crept onto your cheeks.

Despite his endless antics, he always knew where to draw the line. No matter how much he delighted in seeing you flustered, he never overstepped your boundaries. His teasing was playful, never intrusive—an affectionate dance he had perfected just for you.

He was, at his core, an attentive lover. Whether you were ranting about work, venting about a frustrating friend, or simply rambling about whatever occupied your mind, he listened. Fully. Unwaveringly. And if you ever sought advice, he was more than ready to offer it.

He was also the best gossip partner you could ask for. If you didn’t like someone—even if he had never met them before—they were already erased from existence in his eyes.

His affection was woven into the little things. He often left behind handwritten notes, filled with charming doodles and sweet messages, knowing how much you adored thoughtful gestures. He had an uncanny ability to anticipate your wants before you even voiced them, surprising you with clothes, shoes, makeup—anything he thought would bring that spark of joy to your eyes.

And though he usually saw right through your mischievous schemes, he often indulged them anyway. Seeing you get all giddy over a well-executed prank or a perfectly timed joke was worth playing along.

Like now.

You turned to him, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Hey Raf, what do you think - Which days are the strongest?”

Rafayel narrowed his gaze, already sensing the incoming disaster. “…Enlighten me, cutie.”

“Saturday and Sunday,” you declared, barely holding back your grin. “The rest are week days.”

A loud snort escaped as you dissolved into laughter, as if you had just delivered the comedic masterpiece of the century.

He scoffed, shaking his head, but there was no hiding the soft smile tugging at his lips. You looked so carefree like this—unburdened, unfiltered, perfectly at ease.

And to him, there was nothing more beautiful than that.

Sylus

The big bad wolf was utterly, hopelessly smitten with you.

It was no secret that Sylus spoiled you beyond reason. If your gaze so much as lingered on something for a second too long, it would magically appear at your doorstep the very next day, wrapped in elegant packaging with a handwritten note attached. He wanted you to feel cherished, adored—to know that you deserved the absolute best.

But beyond lavish gifts and extravagant gestures, Sylus had made it his mission to memorize every detail about you.

Your birthday? Expect an unforgettable surprise, meticulously planned down to the last second. Your anniversary? He had booked a luxurious getaway months in advance—and had already arranged for your days off at work. Don't ask how. Allergies? Noted and accounted for. Every little habit, every unconscious quirk? He knew them all, and each one only deepened his fascination with you.

He never wanted you to worry about a single thing. Bills, rent, grocery shopping—it was all taken care of before the thought could even cross your mind. Somehow, your fridge was always stocked with your favorite foods, the shelves lined with your go-to snacks, as if by magic. In reality, it was just Sylus, ensuring you never had to lift a finger.

Even the smallest details didn’t escape his notice. You were running low on a product? He had already replaced it before you realized it was gone. You casually mentioned a preference? It was ingrained in his mind, woven seamlessly into his everyday actions.

He even tailored his appearance to your liking. He had long since noticed the way your eyes lingered on him whenever he wore tight-fitting shirts that accentuated his muscular frame—so naturally, he made sure to wear them more often. That cologne you once complimented? It was now the only one he ever used.

And then there were moments like this—where his attentiveness caught you completely off guard.

“Ugh, I’m running out of my favorite perfume,” you sighed, pouting as you finished getting ready. Sylus, lounging nearby, watched you with quiet amusement.

“Worry not, sweetie. It’s in the cabinet on the right.”

You blinked, confused, before pulling the door open—only to be met with an entire row of neatly arranged bottles of the exact perfume you had just lamented about.

Your jaw dropped. “Sylus!” You turned to him, eyes wide in disbelief. “You really shouldn’t spend so much money on me.” You pouted, though deep down, the sheer thoughtfulness of it all made your heart swell.

His deep, rich chuckle rumbled through the room as he pulled you into his arms, his embrace effortlessly warm and secure. “That’s quite insulting, darling,” he mused, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I could buy you five houses, and my bank account wouldn’t even take a scratch.”

You rolled your eyes at his arrogance, but as he held you close, his scent wrapping around you like a comforting embrace, you couldn’t deny how deeply, undeniably loved you felt.

Caleb

For Caleb, spending time with you was the highlight of his day—especially now, knowing he could never take it for granted.

He seized every opportunity to be close to you, no matter how small.

"Oh, I just dropped by to say hi. I'm in Linkon for a business trip for a few days." he said casually, though the truth was, he had purposely cleared his schedule just to spend more time with you.

During his stay at your place, he would carefully plan ways to make your time together unforgettable. A cozy movie night, complete with blanket forts? Already arranged. Baking together? He lived for the excuse to smudge flour on your cheek just so he could wipe it away, stealing a touch in the process. Playing Kitty Cards? He would feign ignorance every time you sneakily took an extra card, pretending not to notice the mischievous glint in your eyes.

He knew you better than anyone—your habits, your favorite pastimes, the little things that made you light up. And he understood that sometimes, the best moments were the quiet ones—when you were simply absorbed in your own world, content in silence, with him just within reach. As long as he could see your face, that was enough.

"Caleb, that's cheating!" you whined, throwing your controller down as he effortlessly defeated you in yet another round of your video game.

"All's fair in love and war, pipsqueak," he mused, his deep chuckle sending warmth through the room.

You huffed dramatically, crossing your arms over your chest. "I don't want to play anymore."

His eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned in slightly. "That means you lost," he murmured, inching closer. "And you know what that means."

Your heart skipped a beat. "No, Caleb, don't you dare—!"

But before you could protest, his hands were already on you, mercilessly tickling your sides. Laughter erupted from your lips, filling the apartment with the kind of pure joy that made everything else fade away.

And in that moment, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[nerdygirlramblings]

Stuck on Reader being someone like Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds, stationed in the US under Laswell

Off to See the Wizard (1)

next

eventual poly!141xfem!reader

TW: mentions of canon-typical violence

"You'll find exfil three klicks north, far side of lake," you say. You have the intel about their op open on the monitor to your left; the time in the corner reads 6:30pm. Your stomach grumbles, reminding you you skipped lunch, and you tell yourself you'll eat dinner when the op is done. Your eyes flick back to the time on the monitor in front of you. You can see Task Force 141's helicopter waiting; local time reads 4:00am. It's been a long few days, and you can't imagine how tired they are.

"tch, lass, 's a loch," Sergeant MacTavish whines. Despite sounding a little like a toddler needing a nap, his breathing pattern tells you he's moving quickly, trying to stay quiet.

"Copy that, Sergeant," you chuckle back. "Exfil's north of the loch." You wait a beat before adding, softly, "Get home safe, boys."

Captain Price's voice rumbles in your ear, "Copy that, Oz." He, too, waits a beat and says, "Thanks for the help."

You roll your eyes at the nickname: Oz, like the great and powerful wizard of. When you asked, Sergeant Garrick said it was due to how you seemed to anticipate their needs when you're Watcher. You tried telling them over and over again anyone doing your job would do the same, but they all swore you were Laswell's best. Their best. "You know there's no place like home, luv, and you make sure we get back every time," the Sergeant said. It made your heart flutter to hear it, and you have no idea how much their affection for you grows each time your magic gets them home safely.

You pull yourself out of your musings and focus on the drone feed for the next twenty minutes, needing to see all four heat signatures make it to the helo. As they cross into view, you immediately notice something off. They aren't filing in one at a time like usual. There's one out front and three together behind the first man.

"Bravo-6, what happened? I'm seeing unusual movement at the helo,” you say. You wait several long moments, listening to the crackle of satellite communications. You're about to say more when the Captain sighs.

"Gaz took a bullet," he said calmly. "It's a through and through, and Ghost already put Celox on it."

You try to calm your breathing, but even though you know, you know, these men have dangerous jobs, you can't help your reaction. One of your boys - not yours, not yours - is hurt, and you're an ocean and a half away. "Bravo-6, I'm putting in a forward call to your temporary base," you tell him as you bring up the base's medical building information over the op intel. "They'll be waiting on the tarmac for you." You haven't spoken to them yet, but you will make sure someone is there to take care of Sergeant Garrick.

"See, Oz, always ten steps ahead," the aforementioned soldier chuckles in your ear. Despite the distance, you can hear the strain in his voice.

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Sergeant,” you scold. “Keep your strength,” you say more softly. “I- we want you back in one piece.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds quietly.

Your office is quiet for the next few weeks. Laswell directs most operations to other groups, giving the 141 time to rest and recover, and while you support whomever Laswell tells you, your work is mostly with the 141. You've been their primary point of contact for nearly a year now.

Despite not covering them in the field, you're a bloodhound, following any scrap of gossip about your boys. You know after the bullet tore through his thigh on that last op, Sergeant Garrick - “Gaz, please, Oz. Or Kyle,” he insisted softly when you checked in - had multiple surgeries to repair the wound.

Months back, during an op that had them embedded on a snowy tundra for more than two weeks, you found yourself chatting quietly to whomever was on watch during your shift. You were their anchor to the real world, "Oor very ohn angel on the airwaves," Sergeant MacTavish cooed. One long, quiet night - local time - Lieutenant Riley mentioned some of the things from home they missed. You squirreled the information away, as you did everything you learned about them.

While Kyle was in surgery, you sent a care package to their barracks, timing the delivery with their return to Hereford. You needed to feel like you were doing something to aid in everyone's recovery. You didn't expect to receive a call from Captain Price - "None of this Captain stuff, yeah? Yer not one o' my men. It's Price or John to you, dove." - thanking you for "making the barracks feel a little more like home."

While Kyle recovers, Laswell sends the others out sporadically on short missions. You make sure to be on this side of the monitor when any of them are deployed. It's superstitious, but you fear what will happen if you aren't there to watch their backs. You keep Sergeant MacTavish from walking right into a hostile camp whose heat signatures barely registered on the drone. You'd missed it too, until a blip from what had to be the terror cell's servers made you look closer. Afterwards he says,"Ya watched me clear the place, bon. Ya knoo how ah got mah name. 'S time ya use it, ya ken?"

Another time you're watching John and Lieutenant Riley on a mission to liberate human cargo. The Lieutenant is in his sniper nest, waiting for the buyer, plying you with his dry humor as he's done before, and this time you have a response. "Hey, Lieutenant, why do seagulls fly over the sea?" You give him a moment to think before continuing, "Because if they flew over the bay, they'd be bagels."

He groans and follows with, "If we're trading jokes that bad, Oz, call me Simon. No leftenant in his right mind would chuckle at that rubbish." Unlike the others, he didn't want to give you the choice of using his call sign. He was no Ghost to you.

As each man offers more of himself to you, you fall harder. You are not aware they do it because they are all falling for you too and are trying to break down the walls between you.

Five weeks after Kyle's surgery, he's deemed fit for duty, and Laswell mentions an op that's going to embed the boys in the desert for close to two months at least. She wants someone forward at Hereford, acting under her direct authority, to minimize delays with intel, communications, and decisions. Unbeknownst to you, Price has all but demanded Kate send you.

She comes into your office early, startling you as you read over the details of the 141's new operation. It worries you: eight weeks embedded in Uzbekistan, where intel says there's been an uptick in black market trafficking of both weapons and people. The 141 are being tasked with sorting enemy from friend, identifying their buyers, routing their sources, and cutting off the supply chain. It's a massive undertaking, one you're sure will take longer than predicted. Your heart aches for what your boys will have to do.

Laswell stands in your doorway and says your name, pulling you from dark daydreams. "Yes, ma'am?" you ask.

"You got a go bag?" You don't answer. In theory you know what a go bag is, but you've never needed one in all the years you've worked for her, and she knows it. "I have a forward assignment for you. Three months, maybe more." She reads the confusion in your face and continues. "The 141's new op is bigger than we've done in quite some time. I need eyes and ears I trust over there, able to make smart decisions on the fly, and they need someone whose priority is a successful mission, and that includes getting them home safe." She pauses and lets the information settle. Then she holds your gaze. "That's you, Oz. I know it, and more, the boys know it. Other than me, you're our best chance of pulling this off the way it needs to be done."

You don't even need a moment to think. "What should I bring, and when do I leave?"

Laswell smiles wide.

In short order you're boarding a military transport with two duffle bags and a hard-side case full of your tech. Laswell said you'd be put up in the barracks and be given a secure workspace in one of the base's office buildings.

The flight is uneventful, so you spend the time mentally preparing for finally meeting the 141 in person. You feel like you know them from the little glimpses you've had into their lives, but this will be your first true interaction with them. You hope they aren't disappointed to see the woman behind the curtain.

You're going over your role for the hundredth time when the plane finally lands. You grab your bags and follow other personnel off the back of the bird into a damp, overcast day. Your watch says 11:00, but with the weather, it could be any time really. You want to settle your things down and find the base canteen for lunch before setting up your work space. As much as your heart thrums in your chest about finally meeting your boys, you remind yourself this is a job.

Price stands inside the open hanger door, watching everyone exit the transport. Laswell told him you'd be arriving today, and he wants to be here to greet you. He knows if he said something - if the boys knew you were the intelligence specialist Laswell was sending them - he'd have had to fight them all to stay away. He knows they're all a little in love with you. If he's honest with himself, he is too. Which is why he needs to run interference, or they might scare you off.

He finally sees a woman in civvies with a nondescript duffle bag slung over each shoulder and rolling a shiny silver piece of luggage that screams fancy technology. He walks over, catching your eye as you take in the details of your new surroundings. You don't startle much as he approaches; he likes that you keep your cool. That combined with the look on your face that isn't delight or awe, just a cool calculation, filing information away for later, raises you in his esteem even more. You slow your stride until he's right in front of you.

"Hello," you say cordially. Price is a little surprised. You're usually much warmer than this. But then he realizes he's never seen your picture and only knew it was you because everyone else on the plane was clearly a soldier. Perhaps you don't know who he is. Yet.

"Oz, dove, so glad to have you," he rumbles, holding out a hand. He sees the moment his words hit, your eyes opening a fraction wider, mouth popping open a bit.

"Oh! Captain Price?" You're hesitant but proffer your hand to shake his. You know his voice over comms, but in person, the rich timbre is more rounded and melodic. You'd question it, but he's the only one who's ever called you dove.

"'s me," he replies, warm hand wrapping around yours, "An' I'm not yer Captain, remember?" You feel his callouses against your palm, and you smile widely at him. His moustache twitches, and you see his crows feet crinkle. He seems pleased.

He reaches over and snags one of the duffles from your shoulder before you can muster a protest. He leans down for your equipment, but you hold fast to the handle. "Sorry, sir. Can't let this go 'til I've got it in a secure location." He hums at that, and you swear his smile grows.

"Knew you were who we needed here,' he says quietly. He looks you over again. "You must be tired. Let's get you settled, yeah?"

"That sounds lovely," you tell him. You follow in his wake as he makes his way across the base. He points out various buildings as you pass them: medical (not that you'll need it), gym (not that you'll want it), armoury (not that you're allowed in it), mess (not canteen), and various office buildings. Price stops at this last destination, leading you to the secure room (keypad entry only and you get to set the code) where you drop your equipment. For now, it's enough that it's in a safe place. You can set it up after some food and sleep. The 141 doesn't ship out for this op for another week, so you have time to settle in.

After you lock the door behind you, Price takes you past the training grounds to where the classrooms and barracks are. "This isn't much, but it's ours," he says, a little bashfully, ushering you into a small building on the edge of the training ground. You notice 'TF 141' painted in black over the door of the grey building. "Welcome to your temporary home away from home."

You stand in the entryway and look at Price. Clearly your emotions are all over your face because he huffs out a laugh. "Didn't Laswell tell you we were putting you up in our barracks?"

You splutter, shocked. No, she certainly did not! "She simply told me the barracks. I had no idea I'd be..." You wave your hand around the space. How will you cope with basically living with these men whom you've grown so fond of? You panic. They'll be able to read your feelings a mile away. They're highly trained SAS soldiers.

Price waits you out, silently cataloguing your physical changes. Your eyes dart around, never staying on one thing for long. You're breathing just a hair faster now, and through your mouth as if desperately trying to fill your lungs. There's a bead of sweat forming at your hair line. He can tell you're nervous, but he doesn't realize he's the cause, him and the rest of the 141, so he says, "If it's a problem, Oz, we can find a bunk in the women's quarters with the recruits. Laswell and I jus' thought you might prefer the quiet of personal quarters instead."

You quickly come back to yourself. "No, no, it's fine!" You know your voice is pitched too high, but you can't help it. You're being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live with these men and you refuse to lose it. "I was just a little surprised," you rush to continue. "I don't mind if you all don't." You look at Price and hope your smile isn't as deranged as it feels.

He chuckles softly, and the sound causes warmth to blossom in your chest. "A'right then. Come see the place, then I'll introduce you to the boys." He points down a short hallway to the left, noting where his and Leftenant (not lieutenant like you've been calling him) Riley's offices are and telling you there's one the Sergeants use that you're welcome to. In front of you are a pair of double doors Price says hide the common room and kitchen area. There's a door to your right he takes you through, and this is the living quarters with a communal bathroom at the far end. Most of the doors are closed, though a few are propped open. "Most task force units have nearly a dozen members, but we only got us four, so there's plenty of extra space. Take any open room ya want, dove." You almost ask where everyone else is to position yourself best, but in the end you take the interior room closest to the bathroom.

Your last stop is the shared space. You aren't sure what to expect from a space shared by a group of men with such very different personalities, but stepping in, it reminds you of the fraternity living spaces you'd been in during college. Two worn but comfortable looking couches and a mixed collection of wingback chairs and recliners are arranged in front of a large television. Wires peek out from an entertainment center under it, and you suspect more than one gaming system is hidden behind the doors. A few bookshelves stand like sentinels along the back wall, covered in various books and movies and games. To the left is a small kitchenette. You see an electric kettle and coffee maker on the counter next to a microwave and hot plate with cabinets beneath. There's a small refrigerator too.

You take in all these details in an instant before settling on the most important thing: the other members of the 141, who have all sat up, conversation forgotten, as Price leads you into the room. You barely have time to consider what they must make of you as Price starts introductions. He starts with his men, pointing first to a man who is the living embodiment of the Tasmanian Devil Looney Tunes character, all compact muscle and startlingly blue eyes with the most ridiculous, and completely against regulation, haircut you've ever seen. "That's Sergeant John MacTavish, but you can call him Soap." Price must not know you've been urged to do just that. He continues around the room to an absolute beast of a man: nearly as broad as he is tall in his seat and covered entirely in black. "Leftenant Riley, goes by Ghost." You blink; that's not at all what he told you, though you realize he never gave you his callsign at all. "And Sergeant Kyle Garrick. We call 'im Gaz." Price is pointing to a brown-skinned man who, if you weren't seeing him with your own eyes, you wouldn't believe really looked that good.

You're about to introduce yourself to the room when you catch a slight smirk on Price's face. He puts a hand on your lower back so gently you think it's an unconscious gesture. With a little pressure, he pushes you further into the space the men inhabit. "Boys, meet Laswell's intelligence agent, Oz, the Great and Powerful."

an: Whelp, this spiraled quickly out of my control. There is absolutely more as I haven't even gotten started.

series masterlist | main masterlist

[homeofthelonelywriter]

The plane was filled with soldiers, all getting ready to land and start the mission. Everyone was preparing in their own way. Some people were listening to music; others were reading either a novel or the mission briefing. There were the quiet ones, their eyes closed, and their head leaned back against the wall behind them. Simon was one of those. Before missions, he wanted to be in his own bubble. He’d drown out the noise around him, go through the plan again and again until it was in his blood. But this time…he couldn’t. Because of you.

“Love…” he sounded exasperated as he addressed you. “…what are you doing?” You glanced up at him before your attention returned to the project in your hands. “Crocheting, why?” He watched you for a few moments, the way your eyebrows were pulled together in concentration and your tongue peeked out from between your lips. You looked adorable. “Nothing, just curious, babe.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, ignoring the mask separating the two of you. By now, the pair of you were used to it.

Simon closed his eyes again and thought back, trying to remember if he had ever seen you crochet before, but nothing came up. This must be your first project. He couldn’t help but peek at you again, especially at your project. He desperately wanted to know what you were creating, but before he could ask, Price came up to him, gathering his attention.

“Ready?” Simon nodded and got to his feet. Unlike most of the other soldiers, the 141 was going to parachute out of the plane. He turned to look at you one more time, reaching down and tilting your head up to kiss you properly. “See you soon, love.” You smiled, though he could see the fear in your eyes. “See you soon, Si. Be careful.” He nodded, before joining the rest of his team.

The mission was cruelling, and he couldn’t wait to be back in your arms. They spent two weeks in enemy territory, trying to get the intel they needed. The rest of the soldiers were used in different missions to keep attention away from the task force. And it worked. After those two weeks, they had what they needed and returned to camp, where you were already waiting.

Being a medic, you rarely ventured out onto the field. Mainly, you stayed at wherever the base camp was and waited for patients to come to you. But when news traveled that the 141 was on its way back, everyone knew not to bother you. After all, you would never forgive whoever kept you from Simon. And the moment you saw him, you jumped into his arms. “I missed you.” He chuckled, holding you tightly. “I missed you too, sweetheart. Come, let’s rest a bit, yeah?”

The plane back to Britain would leave the next day, so you had a few hours to relax before that. Thankfully, the task force members all had their individual tents, so you could enjoy the downtime without Simon having to wear the mask. However, when he immediately wanted to get into bed and cuddle, you had to send him off to shower first. He stunk. Plus, it gave you time to prepare your little surprise.

When Simon returned to his tent, he found you kneeling on the field bed, wearing only one of his shirts and panties, while hiding something behind you. “Oh? What did I do to earn this?” You chuckled and shook your head. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Si. I’m not having sex surrounded by horny soldiers.” The faux disappointed look on his face made you laugh again before you waved him closer. “But I do have a surprise for you.”

He stepped closer to you, even kneeling down right in front of you when you asked him to. “Okay, close your eyes.” The way he didn’t even hesitate, the way he trusted you, made your heart swell with love. And though it wasn’t what you actually wanted to do, you couldn’t help yourself but lean in and press a soft and short kiss to his lips. “Keep them closed.”

Finally, you brought out what you had been hiding behind your bag and pulled it over his hair. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open and he looked up, confused as to what you just placed on his head. “It’s not perfect, honestly, it’s the first time I even tried crocheting, but…” Simon stood up and grabbed the broken piece of glass he used as a mirror. “…when I saw it online, I just had to make it. Once I’m better, I’ll make it again, I promise. Just…do you like it?”

Simon stared at the beanie on his head, it was black and fit perfectly. “I love it. Thank you, babe.” You grinned and bounced to his side. “There’s more.” While making sure that he was still looking into the poor excuse of a mirror, you gently unfolded the edge of the beanie until it was a balaclava covering Simon’s face. A soft gasp escaped him when he realized why you wanted to make it for him. “This way, if you ever feel uncomfortable in public, you can just roll it down, you know?”

Without a word, Simon placed the ‘mirror’ down and spun around, pulling you into a tight hug. “I love you so damn much. I don’t deserve you, my love.” You chuckled, happily wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you too, big guy. Now, cuddles?” With a grin, he nodded and picked you up, carrying you to the bed, where he laid down with you on top of him, the both of you quickly falling into a deep slumber.

A/N: This one is long...oops. Based on this TikTok. Also, I don't usually post on Sundays, but this is a little thank you for all the love you guys showed me recently and for 3000 followers! Hope you like it!

[kaiser1nsfw]

ᯓ★ shut up pretty boy .ᐟ

𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗸𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿. there was only one way to make him stop complaining, and he enjoyed it so much. ౨ৎ wc :: 1.0k ˖ ࣪⊹ face sitting, established relationship, use of pet names

Your boyfriend had started his usual rant, frustrated and annoyed, but you barely listened. You perched yourself on his lap, your knees on either side of him, and your weight was a comforting pressure against his thighs. His words tumbled like he needed you to validate his superiority on the field. 

"Couldn't even get a good pass the whole game and–" 

But then he stopped. Your hands slid from his biceps, giving them a teasing squeeze before you looped your arms around his neck. Playing with his hair, twisting the blue strands between your fingers as your lips found his neck. Kissing him softly at first, then a little harder, letting your tongue trace his skin as you sucked gently. You weren’t about to leave marks—no, you knew better than that, but you wanted him distracted. And you succeeded. 

His breath was hot against your ear, and his chest rose against yours as his hands gripped your thighs, his fingers smoothing your skin slowly. He didn’t hesitate to let his hands wander, sliding under your shorts as if searching for something to hold onto.

“And what?” you asked, your voice a low purr, grinding against him just enough to feel the way his muscles tensed beneath you. His eyes widened slightly before they locked on yours, his lips parting like he wanted to speak but forgot how. 

You paused your movement, leaning back just enough to get a good look at him. That face—flushed, a little stunned, and utterly beautiful—was already yours for the taking. You let a sly smile curl your lips as you tilted your head.

“Go on,” you teased, trailing a finger along his jawline. “Finish your story, love. Or should I find another way to keep your mouth busy?”

He chuckled, low and raspy, his hands squeezing your hips. “You really know how to make a man lose his ability to speak, meine Liebe.”  

He shifted your positions, flipping you both so that he was lying on the bed beneath you, and you were now straddling his abdomen. The way his hands immediately slid under your—well, technically his shirt, made you arch your back a little, his touch firm and warm against your skin.

“Such a tease,” you murmured, but your breath hitched as he shifted you closer to him, his hands guiding you like he couldn’t get enough. Your fingers found his biceps again, squeezing slightly, a silent reminder of how much you loved his strength, his touch. God, you loved everything about him: his face, his lips, his hands. You loved him.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he said, smirking as his thumbs traced slow circles over your bare thighs. “You’re so easy to read…” His voice dropped, teasing, knowing, making your stomach flutter. He knew exactly what you wanted. “You want to sit on my face, don’t you, darling?”  

The way he said it was so cocky, yet so affectionate. It was one of the only ways you could truly silence him, and you both knew it. His smirk only grew wider as he added, “I’m a lucky man, you know. Pretty and smart—you really are too good for me.”  

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you didn’t let him have the last say. “And you’re so easy to silence, my love~” you quipped, standing up and sliding your shorts down, leaving only your underwear on. “The rest is your job.” 

Kaiser’s teasing smirk only grew as he watched you, his hands gliding up your thighs and hooking fingers under your soft, soaked panties, dragging them down, his blue eyes locked on yours, taking in and enjoying every reaction. 

“Legs up, meine Liebe,” he murmured, voice low and commanding. You did as he asked, letting him rest your legs over his shoulders. He gripped your hips firmly and lifted you, holding you just centimeters above his face. The heat of his breath ghosted over your sensitive skin, making you let out a slight moan.

“Dripping, love,” he teased, loving the view you blessed him with “Ah, how cu—”

You didn’t let him finish, cutting him off by lowering yourself onto his face, your thighs trembling as his mouth latched onto you. His tongue moved slowly at first, savoring every inch of you as though you were his last meal. The slow, deliberate strokes quickly had your fingers tangling in his hair, gripping hard for support. 

“Michael—,” you moaned, your voice breaking, “F-faster, oh my—” 

His tongue went deeper, his movements becoming more rapid, as though he needed you to know just how much he loved this—loved you. He groaned against you, the vibration making your legs shake, your hips grinding instinctively against his face as he devoured you. 

He was a gift, one you didn’t deserve but couldn’t live without. No one else could make you feel like this—no one else was like him. He was your everything, your perfect chaos, and with every stroke of his tongue, he reminded you of why.

And you? You were his angel, the one who watched him from above and drove him wild with just a glance, the one who made him crave things he’d never even thought of before. You were the only woman who could make him lose control, make him want to lose control, and he worshiped you for it. 

He was so messy now, your juices mixing with his drool, coating his mouth and chin, but he didn’t care. In fact, he relished it. If drowning in you was his fate, then he would gladly go under, over and over again. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you impossibly closer as if to keep you from ever leaving. 

When he finally pulled back for a breath, his voice was muffled. “If this is what heaven tastes like, I will never leave.” And then, with a wicked grin, he dove back in, determined to bring you to come as many times your body let you, as he knows you will want more.

Oh, how you loved to shut up pretty boys.

©2024 takiishiluvr do not copy, repost or modify my work.

[apricot-blossomss]

☛ the moment they realize they are in love with f! reader [apollo, eros, hermes, ares x reader]

☀️ APOLLO falls for you when he hears you sing

☛ there was nothing you would rather do on a sunday afternoon than have an exhausted god resting on your lap and running your fingers through his hair. right after coming home from his godly duties, apollo had swept you away to this remote flower field in the mortal realm. a glistening stream splashed lightly in your ears as you watched apollo, the way the sun kissed his cheeks and showed his freckles, the way he seemed to glow with a golden hue. his divinity on full display, and at the same time, the visible tiredness made him look more human.

subconsciously, you started humming a tune. a lullaby for your sleeping god as your fingers drew small circles on his scalp. in his slumber, a little huff left his lips that fanned your wrist and you smiled affectionately. it was almost too natural, the way your tune turned into a melody and the way that your humming turned into words, but you couldn't help a grin when you serrated to sing in a low voice. "here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo-doo, here comes the sun..."

when apollo was around, poets got inspired, artists creative and people couldn't get catchy melodies out of their heads. wherever he went, he often left the mortals singing and dancing. if he did not say so himself, his voice was ethereal, the most beautiful tune one's ear could ever be blessed with, captivating, divine, amazing. he used to think his was and would always be the most perfect voice in the world, but the one filling his ears as he slowly regained consciousness shook him to his very core.

it only took him a few seconds to realize he was listening to you, singing to him. though a little hushed, your voice was stunning to him, the most ethereal tune and he was definitely not biased. you were ethereal. feeling your soft fingers in his hair, listening to your melodic voice, it was heaven to him. when he carefully cracked his eyes open, you were hovering over him with your adoring eyes and beautiful smile.

as soon as he opened his eyes though, you fell silent and averted your eyes. unfortunately, you misinterpreted his frown for judgement of your very much imperfect vocal abilities and your embarrassment worsened even further. to sing in the presence of the god of music- what had you been thinking? "sorry," you chuckled and looked away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"why'd you stop?" surprised, you looked down at the god and swallowed, seeing his clear green eyes. wondering how to convey the obvious, that being your mediocre singing abilities, you big your lip and looked away, when you heard him hum. his voice was a soft, melodic whisper until he started to gently continue the tune. "little darlin', it's been a long, cold, lonely winter. little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here" his voice stunned you. it was beyond beautiful, beyond pleasing. when you began to well up at it's perfection, you felt silly, but your heart clenched and fluttered hearing him sing.

but he didn't continue, looking at you expectantly, like he was waiting for you to do something. correctly interpreting his body language, you gasped. "no-"

"yes!" he cut you off, sounding delighted and a little deranged. with one fluid motion, he sat up and reached for your clasping hands.

"you should be ashamed of yourself, that you want me to embarrass myself like that," you snorted and looked to the side, avoiding eye contact. "truly, you are cruel."

"embarrass yourself?" he asked, and again with those furrowed brows. "darling, that was beautiful."

light, warm fingers came up to trace your features gently and you saw no lie in his eyes. "you are biased," you accused him and pushed against his chest because him being so near made you unable to think straight. like a strong parfume, sweet but messing with all other senses.

"maybe," apollo smiled. he was resting on his back once more and he hadn't once enjoyed being pushed into a flower field like right now. "but that's how I hear it. and, last time i checked, i'm still the god if music so i would say i have some authority in the matter." his finger came up to trace your lips and his gaze got so heavy and so ... heated that blood shot like hot water into your cheeks. "sing with me?"

well, how could you possibly refuse him when he was looking at you like that? "i- but only a little," you said, feeling shy. "and if you make fun of me I swear, I will never sing again!"

"what a loss for the world and, more importantly, for me that would be," the sun god smiled and his eyes trailed down to your lips. "well, then.. sing, lover"

and when you gave up your resolve and sang the refrain with him, his heart burst with giddiness and he knew; he was head over heels in love with you.

💘EROS falls for you when you give him valentine chocolates

☛ valentine's day was the busiest day of the year for eros, so it was no surprise that he arrived late to your date when he usually was the first of you two at everything. after he spammed your phone with a thousand apology texts about how he was a horrible date and offering to drown himself in tartarus for eternity if you asked for it, he did manage to get his job done for the day and was now sprinting towards you, nearly trampling a satyr waiter of the cafe you a made a reservation at.

at least the view of him toppling over and trying not to destroy the valentine decorations with his wings was easing your nerves a little. you had been fawning over the god for a while now and when he asked you out two days ago, you nearly combusted with excitement. at the same time, though, eros had the tendency to make you very flustered. even though you had known him for years, your breath still got shaky and your hands sweaty whenever he so much as smiled at you.

like right now, when he spotted you from across the room and sent a bashful smirk your way. Under the table, your hands tightened around the heart-shaped box of valentine chocolates and you beamed back, unable to contain the happiness you felt.

"i am so unspeakably sorry i'm late," he panted upon arriving at the table. checking his reflection in the nearby mirror subtly, he ran his hand through his bronze locks and flashed you a seductive grin, though he still seemed a little out of breath. "tell me how to make it up to you."

"you're only ten minutes late," you smiled as your insides fluttered. his damn smile made your stomach do cartwheels.

"ten minutes i didn't get to spend with you," he argued and only now let his gaze wonder over the parts of your body visible. "love, you look beautiful. can't believe i've missed out on this sight"

damn charmer.

"speaking of beautiful," he continued and reached down to pull a giant flower bouquet out of nowhere, in your favorite color. "though it doesn't come close to your beauty, it reminded me of you."

by now you were just as red as the rose decorations. shyly, you stretched your arms out over the table to take the bouquet. "busy day?" you asked, placing it beside you and picking out a particularly colorful flower to put behind your ear.

"you would not believe how many arrows i shot today," he said, reaching over to take your hand over the table. "apparently, everyone is just as head over heels for a wonderful person in their life as I am"

you didn't know what in the world to answer with. a love declaration? just smiling? saying thank you? you opted instead to reach under the table and pull out the valentines chocolates. it was a pink box, you picked it specifically because it had a little cupid drawing on top. "i hope you like chocolates."

"oh, i love-" eros gaze dropped to the heart shaped box and suddenly, his heart seized. as if he had just been shot by his own arrow. you had given him valentine chocolates. cute. he couldn't explain why his tummy exploded with butterflies at the simple action but he felt the blood rush to his cheeks. he had to remember to breathe and when he did, he breathed out "-you."

🪽HERMES falls for you when you kiss him on the cheek

☛ "when are you finished?" hermes whined for the fifth time in the last minute and pulled his lips into a pout. the only acknowledgment coming from you was a deadpan stare over the edge of your book. not only had he come by unannounced and without a reason, now he was annoying you in your scheduled reading time. and as if that wasn't bad enough, he also looked so cute doing it you felt the urge to kick his face that currently invaded your private zone by burying itself in your tummy.

"come back in half an hour and maybe i'll be finished then," you murmured, already invested in your book again.

"half an hour?!" hermes cried dramatically and sneaked his arms around your waist. "but I'm busy!"

"hm, is that right?" you sighed and nudged his shoulder. "get back to work and leave me alone, then."

"come on," he said and a sly smile took over his face. "dont'cha want to come with me? fly over a few countries, live in the flash for a day... it would be far more exciting than your book!"

"my book is very exciting," you mumbled, already caught up in the story again. not for long, though, as hermes began to complain under his breath, muffled by your belly that still served as his pillow. you peaked past your book and couldn't help but find the sight utterly endearing. when he looked up, you quickly hid behind your book again and heard him laugh.

your face burned up when the affectionate god sat up, only to prop himself down next to you and lean his head on your shoulder. "do you know for how long you have been reading this one page? ten minutes,"

"oh, and why might that be?" you grinned, though his teasing tone tinted your cheeks pink. "maybe because this pain-in-the-ass of a god won't leave me alone."

"admit it, you have fallen for me," he retorted, poking your side with his deft fingers. "and you will miss me dearly when i am gone, impatiently awaiting my return so i can whisk you away as i do in your daydreams."

"well, you are quite the dreamer," you mused and put your book down. "let's make a deal. today i read this book, tomorrow i am all yours. 'mkay?" and to silence any further protests, you pressed a kiss to his cheek and pushed him off the bed.

you expected a retort, another teasing comment, anything, which was why you were confused by the following silence. looking over the edge of your bed, you found him sitting there, looking up at you dumb-struck and with very rosy cheeks. the spot where you had kissed him tingled and hermes head was wiped clean of any funny reply, just full of you, you, you and the feeling of your lips on his cheek.

"i- okay," he finally managed to say and walked over to your windows with weak knees. falling for him my ass. he was head over heels in love with you.

🗡️ARES falls for you when you slap someone

☛ your smile was so tight your cheekbones were aching, but you kept your calm. if ares, who would yell at a pigeon staring at him in the park and almost give your mom a heart attack when he started a fight at the last family get-together you invited him to, could restrain himself right now, you could as well. firsthand, you knew how protective ares was of his friends and family, you belonging to the former. for him to not remodel the face of your ex whom your mom had invited to her birthday party and who had cheated on you twice, it had to take a lot of meditation and begging from you.

but now it looked like you were about to violate your own principles. by violating the absolute train wreck of a bad person that was your ex. luckily, ares was in some other corner of the room, having a stare-down with your dad, but you felt like you could mess this man up real good even without his help. you were really not one for violence -ignoring the odd choice of plus one- but right now you felt rage burn inside you as this pathetic excuse of a man tried to rile you up to boost his ego.

"listen, i think i'm going to go grab me a drink now," you said, overplaying your anger with a stiff politeness this piece of trash didn't deserve. "nice talk."

"yeah, whatever," the guy drawled. "back to that hunk of a date you brought, huh? i see your going for the looks now. not that you ever cared about anything else, you girls are all the same."

"if i was going off of looks i would have never dated you," you bit back and turned around to leave when his sweaty hand closed around your wrist tightly. "hey, let go!" you hissed but he didn't budge, only stepping closer so all you could smell was his excessive deodorant.

"what, does he fuck better than me?" he snarled and lowered his voice. the hand that wasn't holding your wrist hostage wandered down your back where you definitely didn't want it. "wanna give it a second try?"

SMACK

before you yourself knew it, you had struck him across the face with your free hand, resulting in a sound that made the room fall silent, all eyes in you two. as your ex stumbled back, he let go of your wrist and you locked eyes with ares, expecting him to jump at the opportunity for a fight. but instead, you only saw him looking at you, with a sort of awe-struck expression that really didn't suit the occasion.

you lifted your chin, shouldered your purse and brushed past ares as you hastily walked towards the exit. ares had to collect himself before following you. your anger, that fire in your eyes, the way you had struck this pathetic mortal man- it was more than hot. oh he definitely was in love with you. he would deal with this piece of crap later. now, all he wanted was to follow you to his car, follow you anywhere, as long as it was with you.

[betterthanyalls]

hi!

can i request for a hermes x gn!reader x odysseus? :)

i was thinking that maybe reader is already a friend of odysseus, like a childhood friend maybe or a neighbor/citizen of his kingdom and has known him for years

reader liked ody but ody already has penelope so they arent flirting anymore but when hermes shows up and starts taking readers attention for himself that's when ody starts to get a little jealous maybe? aaa sorry it has been a while since ive requested anything - i hope its not too specific ;v;

i just thought it would be fun to see witty banter battles and playful snark ^^"

I have spent my entire day throughout school and home to work on this so i am very sorry for any mistakes or if its bad, i was speed running before i eepy, also i tried to make reader x odysseus more platonic cus he got penelope yk? ALSO NGL THIS WAS VERY FUN TO WRITE HEHEHEH

Masterlist

Divine Intervention

Hermes x GN!Reader x Odysseus [p]

EPIC: The Musical ~ Oneshot ~ Fluff

Words: 2.1K

Published: 11-5-2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A gentle puff of air blew through the vacant meadow, flowers brushing each other in a picturesque view. Within the center of the field, two souls lied together, laughing and gazing at the clouds with imagination. 

“That one reminds me of Argos,” Odysseus pointed up to a running puff of white above that loosely resembled said dog. “Oh, I see it!” Penelope grinned, her smile shining brighter than Helios. A short distance away, under the shade of a tree, sat the best friend of the couple. With their backs against the tree, Y/n watched on emotionlessly. Their mind felt blank; witnessing the source of their love showing admiration to somebody else delivered a new type of pain to their chest. Y/n felt lost. Would they never be the first choice? Odysseus had known them for the entirety of both their lives, but the moment he met Penelope, he forgot all about Y/n. He was head over heels, claiming he’d marry the princess before he turned twenty. Sure, they stayed friends, but that wasn’t enough for Y/n though they’d never admit it. Y/n couldn’t even blame Odysseus. Penelope looked like a goddess sent from Olympus. Anyone could mistake her for a divine being. 

With a silent sigh, Y/n prepared to push themself to their feet and take their leave. But a new presence stopped them from rising up. Looking to their left side, Y/n saw another figure sitting beside them. “Wow, really the third wheel, huh?” A cheery voice sounded from his mouth.

“Who are you?” Y/n asked, like any sane person would. “You mean you don’t recognize me? Your friend Ody would if you asked him,” the individual turned to face Y/n, giving them a good view of his identity. A metal helmet sat atop his head, adorned by smaller, brown, speckled wings. A mischievous grin was placed on his lips, with the rest of his face remaining covered by a shadow. Y/n leaned back slightly so the sun could pierce the shade better, revealing more of the man. A chiton made of the finest silk hung loosely from his shoulders, stopping at his knees. The male sat casually criss-crossed, his back propped against the same tree. A scepter sat on the ground beside him, holding two golden snakes and two glistening wings, power radiating off the item. Another point of interest for Y/n’s eyes were the sandals on his feet. Not in a footfetish type of interest, but intrigue with the fact wings fluttered like no big deal off the heels. Just as Y/n was going to breathe out his name, the guest spoke first. “Indeed, it is I, Hermes. God of messengers, travelers, luck, gambling, borders, animal husbandry, thieves, wit, speed, language, trades, commerce, athletes, merchants-”

The god continued rambling proudly about each of his domains as Y/n’s awe slowly fell into a deadpan. “I know you,” they cut off his boasting, not truly caring if it was rude. Thankfully, instead of being offended, the god merely grinned. “So, Y/n, what are you doing out here? Away from the party?” Hermes had a teasing tone in his voice, gesturing to the two lovers ahead of them. Odysseus and Penelope had no knowledge of a god offering company to their closest friend. Y/n wanted to ask how he knew their name, but they figured it was some divine power thing.

“Ody wanted to spend time with Penelope, but he was too nervous to come alone. So he dragged me along. But I don’t want to intrude on their moment together,” Y/n shrugged, looking at their friends.

The mischief god watched the mortal for a moment before a plan formed in his mind. “Well, I can’t let such a beautiful soul be alone, now can I?” Y/n turned to face Hermes, an amused yet confused smile on their lips. “I’m sorry?” They inquired, not sure if they understood his words correctly. In response, Hermes stood up and held his hand out to help the mortal up too. “If they have their moment together, then allow me to give you a moment for us.” The god had a gentle smile, keeping his hand out for them to grab. Raising an eyebrow, Y/n hesitantly took his offer and grabbed his hand. He pulled them up to stand beside him.

“So, where are we going?” Y/n asked, looking into the forest behind them. Hermes just laughed in excitement.

“You’ll see!”

And before Y/n could utter another word, the god pulled them close and took off racing through the trees. The world whipped past them at lightning speed. Trees, rocks, roads, towns—everything went by in a flash until suddenly it all paused.

Taking a deep breath, Y/n stepped away from the god. Their legs felt like brittle wood, threatening to give out at a simple breeze. Once they caught their breath, the mortal looked around to see them in the center stands of the nearby sports. Athletes were in the midst of competition down below, and nobody seemed to question two people just appearing. Hermes sat down on a stone slab and patted for Y/n to sit beside him. Doing so, the god offered them some grapes he may or may not have stolen from other mortals. “Did you choose this event just because you’re the god of athletes?” Y/n questioned  with a small laugh, taking a grape to eat and watching the sports continue. Hermes responded with his own laugh, beaming at the person beside him. “Would you leave if I said yes?” Y/n pretended to think for a moment before turning to face him with a hum. “No, but you better make this worth it,” they chuckled playfully, popping another grape to their mouth. ~~~~~ Hermes did truly make it worth it. So worth it that the two began going on adventures every day. From splashing around in rivers to exploring dark caves, the mortal and god’s friendship grew each day.

Anytime Y/n questioned themself in a mirror, Hermes would somehow maifest behind them to compliment their looks before going back to whatever job he had that day. “Dahling, you look gorgeous—beyond stunning, truly.” Was heard more than once

They would even find gifts sometimes, usually always stolen, waiting in their bedroom.

~~~~~

Currently, Y/n and the king of Ithaca were sitting in his bedroom, just talking like old friends. “So, you’ve been disappearing randomly only to come back in one state or another. Not to mention, you’ve been much more upbeat lately. What’s going on?” Odysseus interrogated with a grin. Y/n stayed quiet for a moment. Could they tell their lifelong friend about the new soul in their life? Odysseus had a raised brow, waiting for a response. “C’mon, you know you can tell me anything.” He offered with a calmer smile. Y/n’s expression softened, and they sighed, deciding to speak the truth. "I met someone,” they began, trying to form the correct words. Something in Odysseus’ eyes changed at this revelation. His posture stiffened just for a moment before returning to his previously relaxed state. “And who may this 'someone’ be?” The king continued, trying to get as much information as possible. With a quiet whisper, Y/n confessed. “Hermes...” Their lips held a bashful smile as they looked away from their friends' eyes. The friend in question paused, blinking slowly to process the information. “Hermes?! The god?!” He exclaimed with an open jaw. Y/n quickly shushed him, shoving their hands in his face. “Sh sh sh! Shut up! Not so loud,” they hissed, taking their hands away carefully once Odysseus nodded in agreement. “You know Hermes?” He continued to quiz. “Don’t you?” Y/n raised an eyebrow, thinking back to the first conversation with the god. Hermes said that Odysseus would know who he was.

“Well, yeah, I do. But I didn’t think you would too,” he tried to reason, although his point fell flat. “You don’t think a lot,” they retorted. Before Odysseus could try to fire back, a sudden breeze blew in from the open balcony. Looking over, a certain god stood against the stone railing with a familiar grin. “If it isn’t my two favorite mortals! If I wasn’t mistaken, I’d say I was the center of this discussion,” Hermes laughed, waltzing into the room. He ruffled Odysseus’ hair playfully before taking a stand next to Y/n.

“Hermes.” Odysseus brought a hand up to fix his hair. The god just laughed again, wrapping an arm around Y/n’s shoulder to give them a side hug. The narrowing eyes of the soldier didn’t go unnoticed by Hermes, brightening his smile.

“Hey Hermes,” Y/n greeted warmly.

Odysseus didn’t enjoy seeing his best friend so cozied up with another person. Even if that other person was a god who saved his life multiple times and also his great-grandfather. An idea began forming in his mind to get rid of the situation. “Y/n, I think I remember seeing a show taking place in the city. You and I can go see it now before it finishes,” the king offered, casting a victorious grin to Hermes as Y/n gave their own smile. “That sounds cool! Yeah, we can go!” Y/n moved away from Hermes' hug as the two mortals took their leave. Once they left, Hermes frowned and took his own leave back to his previous tasks for Olympus. ~~~~~ It didn’t take long for a secret war to begin. Every moment, Y/n was in between two opposing sides. They were either with Odysseus one day and Hermes the next, or they were sitting in between both males who kept trying to one-up each other, which would eventually end in arguments.

“I mean honestly, darling, why spend your time with such a brute when you could have someone as divine as I?” “BRUTE?!”

“Really, Y/n, he’s the god of lies. If anything, his words mean nothing compared to mine.” “Your entire reputation is a lie.” “Well, I guess it’s just you and me, Y/n—” “Oh, please. That’s more of a stress than a privilege.” “Did you hear something, dahling? Why, I can’t seem to hear anything below FIVE FEET.” “OH HOW MATURE—” “IT IS!!”

This took place almost daily, and it acted as peak entertainment for Y/n. ~~~~~ Today, unlike any other, Y/n and Odysseus sat quietly in a familiar meadow. However, the king was being unnaturally quiet. Turning to face their friend, Y/n spoke up.

“Ody, are you alright?” Concern was clear in their voice as they waited patiently. Odysseus didn’t make any notice of hearing their words for a minute before he finally answered.

“You’re replacing me.”

Those words caught Y/n off guard. Odysseus was looking at the grassy field around them rather than meeting his companions eyes.

“What? No, I’m not. What makes you say that?” They furrowed their eyebrows in worry, anxious for his reasoning.

“You spend more time with him,” he hissed, speaking of the god like venom on his tongue.

“Well, maybe, but-”

“BUT NOTHING! I’m supposed to be your best friend! Me! Not him. It’s us against the world; we agreed on that years ago.” Odysseus turned to Y/n with a deep frown, his eyes showing unease. He had been betrayed time and time again before; he couldn’t risk losing another friend.

Y/n stayed silent, stunned by his sudden outburst. Odysseus just looked back to the meadow, shame filling his soul. After a few moments, Y/n regained their bearings as sympathy and guilt covered their features.

“Ody,” they called softly, but he continued to look away. "Ody, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he looked over to his friend.

“Ody, I could never replace you. You are woven into my soul like a grapevine. Why do you think I would break our pact?” They spoke softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Odysseus sighed, looking back to the ground. He felt so stupid for assuming they would hurt him too.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled gently, looking at them out of the corner of his eyes.

“It’s alright; I would do the same if I were you. I forgive you,” Y/n smiled warmly to him, earning a hesitant smile back from him.

~~~~~

After this whole incident, Odysseus stopped arguing so much with Hermes. Sure, the mortal still gave the god a few half-hearted glares, but they eventually learned to share Y/n’s attention.

The trio sat calmly on the balcony of Odysseus’ room, waiting for Penelope to arrive for a nightly get-together. The sun sank slowly below the horizon, offering a charming glow to the city.

“So, darling, how’d you manage to get such a feral man to calm down?”

“FERAL?!”

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Ten

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Cricket Oscar I repeat Cricket Oscar! Also... you know that whole 'ten chapters per era' thing? Yeah, scratch that. I'm just going with the vibes. They have more story to tell than I thought! We're almost at the end of Boarding School era though. Almost.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The outfield shimmered under the kind of sun you could almost believe was nearly summer, not just the British version where your nose still ran but your calves were burning.

Harper was stretched across the cricket pavilion steps, blazer bundled under her head, school skirt hitched to mid-thigh. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her legs — bare, pale, with a fresh constellation of freckles — were aimed straight at the sky like solar panels.

"Do you think it's working?" She asked, squinting behind her sunglasses.

Jane, sat beside her with her knees up and a blue slushie in one hand, sniffed. "Your thighs still look like milk, but your knees might be caramelising slightly."

"Excellent," Harper muttered. "Just what every girl dreams of. Caramelised knees."

On the pitch below, the Year 11 and 12 boys were playing some kind of friendly cricket match, which was loosely organised and entirely chaotic.

Oscar, Sam, and Matt were all in full whites — jumpers on, shirts rolled at the sleeves, trousers already grass-stained and untucked. Oscar bowled like he was in the Ashes. Sam swung the bat like he was in a pub fight. Matt had no idea what he was doing, but his mum was a big donator to the sports department, so he was on every team they had.

Jane slurped her drink loudly. "How do they look fit in cricket whites? Like. That shouldn't be hot. But it is."

Harper hummed in agreement. "Oscar looks so good."

"I'd let Sam ruin my life," Jane said mildly, tilting her sunglasses down her nose to peer over them. "Just for the record."

"That's a given," said Alfie from behind them.

He was leaning against the pavilion rail with his arms crossed, sunglasses on, his tie slung around his neck like a scarf. He looked like a bouncer at a VIP tanning party, watching the crowd.

Harper smirked. "You alright there, security?"

"I'm good," he said, not moving. "Just enjoying the weather. And making sure no one ogles the royal bump or the goth queen over here for too long."

Jane fluttered her lashes. "Aw, Alfie. That's so sweet."

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but didn't deny it.

Two Year 10s walked by, gawking a bit too long at Harper's stomach. Alfie flipped them off without looking away from the field.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "It's like they've never seen a pregnant girl before. Weirdos."

Harper rolled her eyes. "Leave them alone, Alf. Our sex-ed programme here is awful."

On the pitch, Oscar had just clean bowled a year 12 twice his size. He didn't celebrate. Just walked back to his mark like a soldier reloading his gun.

Sam, meanwhile, had pulled off a sliding catch and promptly started peacocking like a West End actor. Matt attempted a cartwheel and fell flat on his face.

The girls howled with laughter.

"They're so stupid," Jane said, beaming.

"They're our stupid, though," Harper replied.

"And you're stuck with them forever," Alfie added, which made Harper laugh so hard she snorted.

Oscar looked up at the sound — squinting toward the pavilion — and smiled when he saw her, quick and quiet and just for her. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, waved once, then turned back to the game.

Jane sipped her slushie. "God, you two are cute."

"Shut up," Harper said, but she was still smiling.

The sun drifted a little lower. Somewhere in the background, the school bell rang for Sunday chapel — and nobody moved.

For a moment, just one, they weren't kids dealing with exams and babies and contracts and races and aristocratic uncles and tabloid magazines.

They were just fifteen and full of sugar, with sun warmed skin, watching the boys they liked pretend to be grown-ups in too-big uniforms and too-small egos.

It was perfect. Brief. Messy.

Life.

—

The boys came trudging up the slope from the pitch victorious — Sam with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, Matt skipping like he'd just won Eurovision, and Oscar... quiet, scuffed, a bit pink in the face and pretending he didn't notice Harper jogging down the last few steps to meet him.

"Oi, lovers!" Jane called, slapping her empty slushie cup onto Alfie's head. "We're going this way!"

Harper didn't care. She launched herself at Oscar, nearly knocking the water bottle out of his hand.

"You were so good," she said, wrapping her arms round his neck. "Seriously, I think I'm ovulating. I don't care that I already have a baby inside me."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Alfie, who had not asked to hear that.

Oscar went bright red. He kept his arms mostly around her waist but was clearly short-circuiting in front of his friends.

"Harps," he mumbled, shifting his grip awkwardly. "There's, like—people watching..."

"Let them watch," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You're so fit."

Sam passed by, clapping Oscar on the shoulder. "You're a proper stallion, mate. Well done."

"I hate all of you," Oscar muttered, voice muffled by Harper's hair.

Jane high-fived Matt for literally no reason. "Good effort, you absolute weapon."

Matt beamed. "I caught a ball with my face."

"And still the girls love you," Jane sighed. "Life's unfair."

As they reached the top of the hill, the group slowed — sweat-stained boys dragging their jumpers over their heads, the girls walking barefoot across the hot pavement in socks.

Alfie rolled his eyes as Harper kissed Oscar on the neck. "Get a room."

"We've got a room," Harper said sweetly. "Yours. I sleep in it four nights a week."

Sam gagged. "Alright, alright — leave some dignity on the grass."

Oscar was flustered beyond speech. He kissed Harper's temple, quickly, like a reflex, then shoved his kit bag higher on his shoulder and marched ahead of them.

The rest of the group, of course, followed him, cackling like feral hyenas.

By the time they reached the dorm block, Oscar had nearly made it to the stairwell alone — but Harper caught his wrist and tugged him back.

"You alright?" She asked, quieter now.

He glanced around — no one right next to them, just the echo of stomping boots on the stairs.

Then he nodded. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Oscar looked at her, eyes soft now that it was just them. "I don't mind the kissing. Just...not when Sam's narrating it."

Harper grinned. "Sorry. It's the hormones."

"Okay," he said, leaning in and kissing her properly this time — quick, but real. "I like when it's just us."

She smiled. "Me too."

"Also I think Sam might throw up if he ever wakes up when we're — you know."

"Sucks to suck." She said.

Oscar huffed a laugh.

They walked the rest of the way up together, quietly bickering over whose turn it was to nick KitKats from the vending machine and which bed they were claiming tonight.

Down the hall, someone yelled that Matt had thrown a sweaty sock at the fire alarm, because Jane was already in the process of burning her toast.

Harper smiled at Oscar.

Oscar smiled at Harper.

—

The classroom windows were cracked open, but the air still tasted like too many bodies in one place — biro ink, cheap deodorant, and GCSE anxiety.

Harper sat at the back, her copy of Macbeth balanced on top of a closed ring binder. She had a pen tucked behind one ear, a half-drunk bottle of Lucozade on the desk, and one hand pressed to the base of her spine like she could physically will the ache away.

Miss Freeman was rambling up front about ambition and power, pacing between the whiteboard and her desk with her usual furious energy. Her voice was sharp, quick — trying to cram five months' worth of content into five minutes, as if the sheer velocity of her teaching could force it into their heads.

"Harper," she called without turning, "what's Macbeth's fatal flaw?"

Harper blinked, sat up straighter. "Uh — ambition?"

"Good. Expand."

She swallowed. "He... wants power more than he wants to do the right thing. Even though he's full of doubt, he still goes through with it. Because he wants it too much."

Miss Freeman turned and pointed her marker like a sword. "Yes. Wanting something doesn't make you worthy of it. Write that down."

The room scratched with the sound of pens on paper.

Harper tried to focus — genuinely, she did — but her lower back was killing her. Not sharp pain, just that low, constant pressure, like someone had tied a sack of flour to her spine and told her to sit still with it.

She shifted slightly in her chair, trying to stretch out discreetly, but the movement drew a glance from the boy next to her — Toby something, always smelled like orange body spray and stale chewing gum.

He leaned slightly away, like she might suddenly explode.

"You alright?" He asked, face pinched.

Harper raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

He stared at her stomach like it had just started glowing.

"It's not catching, you know," she added dryly, turning back to her notes.

Toby flushed. "Didn't say it was."

"Didn't have to."

He said nothing after that, except to edge his chair a full six inches away.

Harper bit back a sigh, pressed her fingers harder into the knot at her back, and underlined the word ambition three times.

Across the room, she caught Jane's eye — Jane raised both eyebrows and mimed stabbing herself with her pen.

Harper smiled, barely, then went back to her book.

The clock ticked too slowly. The air buzzed. And the ache in her spine crept up just a little further.

—

The school nurse's office was too bright, too white. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, sharp against Harper's already pounding head. She sat stiffly on the low cot near the radiator, both hands braced on either side of her bump. Her back hurt — a dull, dragging ache low in her spine that came and went like waves. Not agony, but not normal either.

She'd tried to ignore it in class. Kept her head down, revising and pretending the ache wasn't spreading like warm pressure across her belly. Until she couldn't anymore.

So she'd texted Oscar.

Can you come with me to the nurse? Not urgent just... a bit of pain.

He hadn't replied.

He'd shown up at the English classroom less than two minutes later, breathless, eyes wide.

Now he was sitting beside her, not saying much, hand closed tightly over hers. She could feel how tense he was in the way his thumb didn't move, how his leg bounced nervously even though he was trying not to fidget.

Mrs. Lyle, the school nurse, was kneeling by a cabinet, flipping through a stack of maternity leaflets she hadn't touched in probably two years. That's how long it'd been since the Haileybury baby.

"You said it's low back pain? Tightening?"

Harper nodded. "Sort of like... pulling. Like pressure. Not sharp, but weird."

Oscar's fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Mrs. Lyle stood and crossed to them, sitting down on the little stool by the cot. "Sounds like Braxton Hicks. You're about what — thirty weeks now?"

"Almost thirty-two," Oscar said, before Harper could answer.

Mrs. Lyle smiled softly. "Right. That makes sense, then. These start around now — practice contractions, essentially. Not actual labour, but your body's working out the muscles. Like rehearsal, in a way."

"But it hurt," Harper said, quietly. "I mean, not properly. But it felt like..."

"Something more serious?" The nurse finished for her, nodding. "It's normal to worry. It's good you came in."

Oscar looked down, jaw clenched. "So it's not — she's okay? The baby's okay?"

"Everything sounds textbook," Mrs. Lyle said calmly. "Nothing to panic about. She needs rest, hydration, and someone to carry her backpack for the rest of the day."

"Oscar always carries my bag." She said, automatically. Then she let out a breath, trying not to sag too visibly into Oscar's side. But he felt it anyway, leaned a little closer like it was instinct. His thumb finally moved, brushing against the edge of her knuckle. "I didn't know what to do," she said quietly.

"You scared me," he replied.

"I thought maybe it was real. Like — too early. I thought something was wrong."

"I know," he said. "I thought that too."

The nurse busied herself across the room, giving them quiet.

Oscar stared at the floor, then looked at her again. "I'm going to switch English periods. So I'm with you most of the day. Only class we'll have separate is Maths."

"Thanks." She whispered.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his hand lingering at her jaw. "I keep thinking I'm going to mess this up. Like there'll be a moment, and I won't know what to do, and you'll be hurting, and I'll just... freeze."

Harper turned toward him, forehead brushing his. "You didn't freeze, though. You ran out of class and came to get me."

"I got detention for it," he muttered.

"Worth it?"

"Obviously."

She smiled faintly, and for a second it almost didn't hurt anymore.

Mrs. Lyle came back with a bottle of water and some instructions about warning signs. Harper nodded through them, Oscar listening like it was life-or-death briefing.

Later, when they walked back toward the dorms together, Harper's bag slung over Oscar's shoulder and her hand in his hoodie pocket, she felt it again — the ache, the low pull in her back.

But she breathed through it. Didn't let herself panic.

Oscar stopped, watched her, gave her a minute.

And when she gave him a tiny little nod, they started walking again.

—

Oscar's pit garage was alive with movement — laptop screens glowing, air compressors hissing, the sharp scent of tyre rubber and brake dust thick in the air. The mechanics were everywhere, half-in and half-out of red team jackets, their radios clipped to belt loops, voices clipped and fast in the way only race days made necessary.

Harper sat on a crate in the back corner, half out of sight, a bottle of orange Lucozade in one hand and Oscar's helmet balanced beside her. She was wearing his old team fleece, zipped to the chin. Her legs ached from walking too much around the paddock that morning, and the baby — thirty-three weeks now, she kept reminding herself — was sitting weirdly on her spine. But none of that mattered.

She'd learned the names of all the engineers now. Matteo, who let her plug in tyre temp data to practice her number handling skills; Hugo, who always made her tea when it rained; and Ana, who'd secretly slipped her a granola bar the first time she nearly fainted from the garage heat.

They didn't look at her like she was a distraction.

They looked at her like she belonged.

"You're back early, Harps," Hugo said, passing her a stack of pit notes. "Track walk not worth the dust?"

She smiled faintly. "It was just Oscar doing that thing where he looks at gravel and pretends he understands how it affects his drive."

"Funny kid. Acting like he doesn't just drive like a lunatic every weekend and somehow make it work," Matteo added, grinning.

Harper smiled wider, adjusting the fleece over her bump. "We like lunatics."

There was the clatter of boots on metal and a burst of voices outside the canopy. Then Oscar pushed in through the side flap of the tent, tugging off his headset, face flushed and bright-eyed. His hair stuck up on one side, and he looked like he'd just run three miles.

He spotted her instantly.

"Harper—" His voice was breathless. He crossed the garage fast, past the prep bench, around the team radio desk, and knelt beside her like he couldn't get close enough fast enough. "Come here. Two seconds. Just—"

She blinked, startled, letting him pull her up by the hand and half-drag her toward the quiet side of the tent, near the stacks of spare slicks and a half-drunk bottle of Red Bull.

Oscar looked like he might combust.

She tilted her head. "You alright?"

He looked at her for a second like he was checking if it was real.

Then he said, "Prema wants me. For F3."

Her mouth parted.

"What?"

He nodded, quickly, still flushed, eyes almost glassy with adrenaline. "Just talked to Marco. They want me. Already. Like—next season. They said I'm tracking above expectations. They want to get me in the F3 car before the year's out. Testing. Maybe a free practice."

"Wait—wait, wait," Harper said, stepping in closer. "Oscar, are you—are you serious?"

"I think I'm going to cry or be sick," he said, but he was smiling, wide and unguarded.

She grabbed his face with both hands, stared at him like she was trying to press the words into his skin. "You're going to F3."

"Yeah."

"You're actually—"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God." She let out something between a laugh and a sob and kissed him. It wasn't a careful kiss. It was messy, hot with nerves, almost desperate — the kind of kiss that comes after months of half-holding your breath and hoping everything you're building doesn't slip through your fingers.

When they broke apart, Harper kept her forehead against his.

"You deserve this," she whispered. "You've worked so fucking hard, Osc. This isn't luck. This is you."

He didn't say anything at first. Just closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were clear and determined.

"I want it," he said. "I want it bad. But I'm scared that—"

"Don't," she said. "We'll make it work."

Someone called Oscar's name from the garage entrance.

He kissed her again, faster this time, and muttered, "Gotta go."

"Win this one," she said, still breathless.

"I will."

As he jogged back to his engineer, helmet under one arm, Harper stayed near the stack of tyres, heart hammering in time with the noise of the circuit starting to come alive beyond the paddock.

F3.

It wasn't just an idea anymore.

It was happening.

Step by step, formula by formula.

Her boyfriend was going to be a world champion one day.

And she'd be right next to him when it happened.

—

The computer lab always smelled like dust and old wires, the kind of cold room that was either boiling from server fans or freezing from the busted window. Today it was somewhere in between.

Harper sat in the corner by the window, legs tucked under her in the school's worst office chair, a hoodie tugged over her bump and a stubborn frown etched into her face.

"Line thirty-six," Matt said, leaning over her screen from the side. "You've got a missing semicolon."

She groaned and dropped her head to the desk.

"I hate JavaScript. I hate the entire concept of JavaScript. It's all chaos and no laws."

"You're learning React, which is basically JavaScript on crack."

"I chose this language because it was meant to be user-friendly."

Matt looked at her with wide eyes. "It's not. It lies."

Harper sat back up, cracking her knuckles. "Whatever. It's a project site, not a space launch. It just needs to work."

On her screen: a rough landing page — bold, accessible design, a mockup portfolio header, a contact form that mostly worked, and a bright pink font that she'd argued about with her teacher twice already.

The title read: Harper Grace Whiatt | Front-End Developer.

"You're not even doing this for class anymore, are you?" Matt asked, squinting at the layout.

"Nope," she said, popping her lips. "I've been attending this accredited course online, doing the certification stuff. Once I get my GCSEs out of the way and baby is born, I'm going to spend all my free time on it. Maybe go freelance. Build stuff."

Matt blinked. "Like... actual websites? For people?"

"Yeah," Harper said, tapping her space bar like it owed her money. "There's this girl I follow on Instagram — she's eighteen, self-taught, does Squarespace templates and Shopify setups, makes more than a junior lawyer. I figured, you know... it's smart. Futureproof."

She said it like a defence. Like she had to prove to everyone — to herself — that she wasn't going to be the story people had already decided for her.

"You don't have to," Matt said after a moment. "Prove anything. We already know you're clever. And, like. Kind of terrifying."

"Aw," Harper said. "You're sweet." Then she said . "Ever say that again and I'll launch this keyboard at your head."

Matt rolled his eyes, but grinned. "You're going to be good at it."

She looked back at the screen, the site stubby and full of placeholder text, but real. Hers.

"I want to build stuff people actually use," she said, softer now. "Not just pretty things. Useful ones. That don't assume you've got perfect eyesight or that you know where all the buttons are."

"Accessible design?" He asked, a little impressed.

Harper shrugged. "Bit ironic, right? Couldn't pass GCSE Maths if you paid me, but give me a CSS framework and I can make your entire checkout system retina-ready."

"You're the only person in this school who knows what 'retina-ready' means."

She grinned. "Maybe."

A message pinged on her screen — a Discord notification from a dev server she'd joined the week before. Someone had commented on her mock portfolio build: Nice typography choices. Would love to see more of your work.

She stared at it for a second.

Maybe this wasn't some pretend future. Maybe this was real.

Her world didn't have to shrink. It could shift. Change shape. But it didn't have to vanish.

Her laptop fan wheezed and clicked. She opened her browser, pulled up her GitHub, and started typing.

—

Oscar was lying flat on his bed, hair still wet from his post-training shower, eating Haribo one by one like they were sacred. Harper was on the floor cross-legged, MacBook balanced on her knees, pyjama sleeves pulled over her hands. Her bump curved gently under the fabric, resting against her thighs.

The screen glowed blue in the dim light.

"You're not allowed to look yet," she said, waving him off.

"It's going to be my website," Oscar muttered, tossing a Haribo into his mouth and missing.

Sam snorted from the other side of the room. "To be fair, you couldn't design a website if your life depended on it, Piastri. You'd just put a picture of your face and 'vroom' underneath."

Oscar threw a sock at him.

Harper kept typing.

They'd been working on it — quietly, between revision and races and everything else — for the last two weeks. He hadn't told anyone yet. Mark knew, obviously. And Alfie, by accident, when Harper asked if anyone had high-res images from Oscar's most recent F4 race.

They'd all gone to watch him from the grandstands like normal fans. Sam, Alfie, Jane, Matt — and obviously Harper. It'd been like a weird, fun little school trip.

Now the website was almost done.

"Okay," Harper said finally. "Try it."

Oscar leaned over and squinted at the screen. Then blinked.

The landing page was sharp and minimal, black background, bold white type. A full-width photo of him racing — visor down, car catching the light just right — stretched across the top.

OscarPiastri.com

"Whoa."

She kept scrolling for him. Stats. Race results. An embedded video reel Mark had helped them trim. A bio she'd bullied him into writing. Sponsor contact section. News feed. Instagram integration. All responsive. All accessible.

"You made this?" He said, eyebrows high.

She nodded. "Built from scratch. No Wix bullshit. I even set up the CMS so Mark can update the results and press stuff without breaking anything."

He just stared. "It's so... professional."

"I am professional."

Oscar looked properly impressed. Then a little overwhelmed. "You're literally fifteen."

"Sixteen in, like, nine weeks," she corrected, deadpan.

He reached for her, pulled her gently up onto the bed beside him, and kissed her temple.

"Thank you," he said, soft.

"'s nothing," she said, tucking herself under his arm. "I liked doing it. Made me feel like I'm... part of it."

"You are part of it."

She didn't say anything. Just closed the lid of her laptop and leaned against him.

Across the room, Sam looked up. "Wait. If you're building sites now... think you could make me one for my rap career?"

Harper didn't even blink. "No. I want nothing to do with that disaster."

Oscar laughed.

Sam sulked.

—

The early morning light filtered through the cracked dorm window, casting a pale glow on the cluttered room. Harper sat on the edge of her bed, fiddling nervously with the hem of her jumper. Oscar leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyes tired but trying to look calm.

"First one," Harper muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar shrugged, trying for casual. "Biology. Easy, yeah?"

She snorted. "You're joking. You've seen my biology notes."

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Hey, you've got this. We've done the revision, the late nights, the panic... now it's just another test."

Harper bit her lip. "I'm scared. What if I mess it up? What if I let everyone down?"

Oscar crouched down, grabbing her hands. "No one's expecting perfection. And what does a biology result matter anyway?"

She squeezed his hands, trying to hold onto that steady feeling. "Thanks, Osc."

He smiled, awkward and sincere. "We celebrate. Whatever happens."

She nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay. I think I'm ready."

He pulled her into a quick hug, warm and tight. "Go smash it."

NEXT CHAPTER