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pucksandpower · 2 months

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To Have a Heart

CEO!Max Verstappen x single mother!Reader

Summary: Max is a titan of industry, used to making grown men cry with one glance … then you and your daughter turn his carefully controlled life upside down

Warnings: descriptions of pediatric cancer

Max strides into his corner office, his Italian leather shoes clicking sharply on the marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, but he pays it no mind as he makes his way to the large mahogany desk.

His assistant, Clara, follows a few steps behind, her heels clacking nervously. “Sir, Mr. Henderson is waiting in the conference room per your request.”

Max doesn’t bother responding as he unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat behind the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he motions for Clara to leave. She gives the tiniest of nods and scurries out, closing the double doors behind her.

Taking a deep breath, Max presses the intercom button. “Send him in.”

A moment later, the doors reopen and a balding, paunchy man in an ill-fitting suit enters. Even from across the room, Max can see the bead of sweat rolling down the man’s forehead.

Good.

He should be nervous.

“Mr. Henderson.” Max says, his tone clipped. “Do you know why I called you here?”

The man — Henderson — fidgets with his tie. “Y-Yes, sir. The, uh, the Brighton acquisition ...”

“The $3.75 billion deal that was supposed to be finalized yesterday.” Max interjects, leaning back in his chair. “A deal that the company has been meticulously negotiating for over six months. A deal that would have been the largest hostile takeover in our firm’s history.”

Henderson gives a somber nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Max fights the urge to roll his eyes at the sad display.

“Because of your incompetence, that deal is now in jeopardy.” Max continues, his voice dropping to a menacing register. “Please explain to me how someone with three decades of accounting experience could possibly make the amateur mistake of misplacing a decimal point on the binding purchase agreement?”

“I … I missed it in the final review.” Henderson stammers out, sweat now visibly staining the armpits of his shirt. “The numbers, they all start to blur together after-”

“Do not insult my intelligence with your pitiful excuses.” Max cuts him off, slamming a fist down on the desk. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way the man flinches. “Because of your idiocy, we offered $235 million over the agreed purchase price. An overpayment to the tune of $2.5 billion with a ‘B’!”

Henderson seems to shrink into himself with each biting word. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Verstappen. It won’t happen again, I swear-”

��You’re damn right it won’t happen again.” Max growls, rising from his chair so quickly that it goes clattering backwards. He leans across the desk, getting directly in Henderson’s ashen face. “Because you’re fired. Effective immediately.”

The words seem to take a moment to register in Henderson’s mind. When they do, his eyes widen in panic and he starts shaking his head rapidly.

“No, no, please! You can’t fire me!” he cries, any veneer of professionalism crumbling. “I-I’ll work double shifts, triple shifts! I’ll volunteer for all the weekend audits, no overtime pay! J-Just don’t fire me, I’m begging you!”

Max recoils slightly at the outburst of blubbering, his lip curling in disgust. How pathetic, to see a grown man so thoroughly debased. He almost feels pity for the wretch … almost.

“This conversation is over.” Max says, his tone resolute as he straightens his tie. “You have one hour to collect your things and get out of my building. After that, security will escort you out.”

“B-But I have three kids!” Henderson sputters, tears streaming down his face now. “A mortgage. Alimony payments! You can’t just-”

In a burst of rage, Max sweeps his arm across the desk, sending papers, files, and office supplies clattering to the floor in a violent clutter.

“I am Max Verstappen!” He bellows, his face flushed crimson. “I do not make empty threats, Mr. Henderson. You are a miserable, costly disappointment. A failure. And I will not allow failures to remain under my employ.”

The words seem to drain what little fight was left in Henderson. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. Max feels his anger deflate, replaced with a tired disdain.

“One hour.” he repeats, falling back into his chair in exhaustion. “Get out of my sight.”

Henderson doesn’t need to be told twice. With trembling hands, he begins collecting the various objects scattered across the floor — pencils, paperclips, manila folders now slightly crumpled. His motions are slow, pained, like those of a man having just received a terminal diagnosis.

Max watches impassively as the sniveling accountant gathers his belongings. Part of him feels a twinge of … not quite guilt, but maybe the faintest pangs of empathy for the broken man before him. He quickly smothers that flicker of sympathy. This is the cost of doing business in the world of high-stakes acquisitions and mergers. There is no room for weakness or mistakes. Only results matter.

Finally, with his meager pile of office supplies clutched to his chest, Henderson straightens up. His face is blotchy and tear-stained, but he seems to have regained some small scrap of dignity. He meets Max’s cold stare for just a moment before turning on his heel and shuffling out of the office.

The double doors close behind him with a hollow thud that hangs in the air. Max lets out a slow exhale, suddenly aware of the tension that had been coiling inside him. He runs a hand over his face, then taps a button on his phone intercom.

“Clara, get me William Evans from legal on the line immediately.” he says, his voice steady once more. “We need to do damage control on the Brighton situation before it becomes irreparable.”

“Right away, sir.” comes the reply, his assistant’s voice tightly professional.

Max leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stares out at the New York City skyline. This is far from the first firing he has issued, and it certainly won’t be the last. He is a great white shark, always needing to move forward or else he will drown in the depths of his own ambition.

There is a soft rap at the door, pulling Max from his reverie.

“Come in.” he calls out. Clara enters, her face schooled into a mask of polite disinterest. So much the better — he respects discretion.

“I have Mr. Evans on line two for you.” she says crisply.

Max gives a succinct nod. “Thank you, Clara. That will be all.”

As his assistant withdraws, Max takes a fortifying breath. He is Max Verstappen. He is the master of the corporate ocean. And he will not allow one flailing failure to capsize his empire.

Squaring his shoulders, he picks up the phone and begins issuing a stern series of orders and demands. After all, there is little time for rest when one aims to be a modern day titan of industry.

***

You take a deep breath and rap firmly on the door to the HR director’s office. “Come in.” a flat voice calls out.

Steeling yourself, you twist the handle and step inside the dingy, fluorescent-lit room. Janet, the red-haired HR manager, looks up from her computer with a practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Ah, Y/N. What can I do for you today?” She asks in an overly saccharine tone.

You take a seat across from her cluttered desk, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. “I … I need to request some personal leave. Family medical reasons.”

Janet’s perfectly penciled eyebrows rise in bland surprise. “I see. And how much time were you hoping to take?”

Your throat tightens as you force out the words. “At least a month. Maybe more, depending on … on how things progress.”

The HR manager clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re in our busiest quarter and you know the company policy — no extended leave during crunch periods unless it’s a valid health emergency.”

You feel panic fluttering in your chest. This has to be a valid emergency! “But it is an emergency! My daughter, she’s ...” Your voice cracks and you swallow hard, desperate to maintain your composure. “She’s very sick, potentially terminal. I need to be with her right now.”

Janet’s face remains stubbornly impassive. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. Truly, I am. But unless you can provide official documentation from a medical professional, my hands are tied.”

The words hit you like a slap across the face. Of course they would require documentation to approve leave — it’s standard corporate policy. But how can mentally collect yourself to get paperwork in order when you’ve been spending every waking moment by your little girl’s hospital bedside?

Unbidden, your mind flashes back to two nights ago, watching in helpless terror as your daughter’s tiny body was racked with another severe seizure. You had screamed yourself hoarse calling for the nurses as the meds they pumped into her did little to stop the violent convulsions ...

You’re vaguely aware of Janet still speaking across from you, something about company guidelines and productivity expectations. But the words sound muffled and far away, as if you’re underwater.

How naive you were to think they might bend the rules, just this once. To think the faceless corporation you pour your life into might actually show a shred of human compassion during your hour of desperate need.

No. That’s not how companies like this operate.

They don’t care about you or your daughter’s life. All they care about is the bottom line, and you’re just an expendable number in their organizational flowchart.

You’re jolted back to reality as Janet raps her lacquered nails impatiently on the desk. “Well? Is there anything else or can I get back to work?”

Is there anything else? Oh, there’s so much more you want to scream at this unfeeling paper-pusher. You want to cry and rage and beg her to just show an ounce of basic human decency.

But you know it would be pointless. Janet is just a cog, same as you. There’s only one person here with the power and influence to authorize what you need.

Only one person who strikes abject terror into the heart of every employee with his infamous volcanic temper and uncompromising expectations.

The thought makes your stomach twist into knots, but you know what you have to do. For your little girl’s sake, you have to try.

So you rise from the chair, willing your legs not to shake. “Thank you for your time.” you mutter tightly, already turning on your heel and storming out of the office.

You don’t look back as Janet calls out something about proper procedure. You just keep moving, your footsteps fueled by a mother’s desperation.

The elevator seems to take an eternity, each second feeling like a little bit more of your daughter’s life trickling away. By the time the doors finally open with a mocking ding, you’re practically vibrating with pent-up nervous energy.

As the mirrored box ascends, your heart feels like it’s trying to batter its way out of your chest. You can hardly breathe past the constriction in your lungs. What if the infamous Max Verstappen laughs in your face? Or has you fired on the spot for daring to interrupt his billion-dollar dealings?

No, you can’t afford to think like that. This may be your only chance to get the time off you so desperately need. For your daughter’s sake, you have to be brave.

The elevator seems to crawl upward at a glacial pace. By the time the doors finally part with a soft chime, you feel like you’re going to be sick from anxiety. This is it, the executive floor — the lair of the terrifying Max Verstappen himself.

You step out into the plush, mahogany-accented lobby with shaking legs. Behind a curved desk, Max’s assistant Clara looks up, her expression instantly hardening when she recognizes you as some inconsequential employee.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Verstappen is not accepting any visitors at the moment.” she says, her tone brooking no argument. “If you’d like to schedule an appointment for next week ...”

“Please.” you blurt out, hating how your voice trembles. “It’s an emergency. I … I need to see him. Just for five minutes.”

Clara’s manicured eyebrow arches skeptically. “I extremely doubt Mr. Verstappen would consider your issue important enough to warrant an unscheduled meeting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to-”

“It’s about my sick daughter!” The words burst from your lips before you can stop them. Immediately, you regret being so unprofessional, but desperation has eroded your self-control.

For a split second, Clara’s expression flickers with something that might be pity. But it’s quickly subsumed by her usual cool mask of professionalism as she shakes her head.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. But those are still not grounds for me to disturb Mr. Verstappen while he’s-”

“Please!” You plead, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. “I’m begging you. This could be my last chance! If he says no, I’ll leave, I promise. But I have to try!”

Clara regards you appraisingly for a long moment. Then, letting out a weary sigh, she presses the intercom button. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

The line crackles with static for several tense seconds. You hold your breath, praying beyond hope that the infamous Max has a rare charitable impulse today.

Then, his unmistakable baritone growls through the small speaker. “This had better be good. Send them in.”

Clara winces almost imperceptibly before gesturing towards the double oak doors to Max’s corner office. “Good luck.” she murmurs.

You don’t need any further prompting. Drawing a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and make your way to the doors. You pause just briefly, hands trembling, before rapping your knuckles firmly against the lacquered wood.

There’s no going back now. Either Max Verstappen is about to grant you a miracle … or utterly crush your last, fragile hope.

***

Max scowls as the intercom crackles to life, Clara’s hesitant voice filtering through the speaker. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Surely whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. Max is elbow-deep in paperwork and holding patterns, trying to do damage control on the Brighton acquisition fumble. He has no time for frivolous “personal” disruptions.

“This had better be good.” he growls into the intercom. “Send them in.”

With an irritated huff, Max leans back in his buttery leather chair as the doors to his office swing open. He’s already opening his mouth to berate whoever dares disturb him over something as trivial as a “personal matter.”

Then you tentatively step into the room and Max’s words die in his throat.

Even with your shoulders hunched inward and your makeup smudged from crying, you are utterly breathtaking. A fragile beauty drowning in an oversized blazer, your wide eyes darting around his opulent office with obvious intimidation.

An unwelcome jolt of attraction lances through Max’s chest and he quickly squashes it down. He cannot afford such distractions, especially from a lowly employee like yourself who should know better than to interrupt him during work hours.

“Well?” He finally finds his voice, aiming for a brusque tone to remind you both of your respective places. “You’re hardly someone important enough to be granted an audience. This had better be worth my time.”

The harshness of his words seems to make you flinch. You worry your lip between your teeth, shrinking back slightly.

“I … I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Verstappen.” you begin haltingly. Already Max can feel his patience waning. He hates fumbling fragility and wants only confident decisiveness.

But then your next words come tumbling out in a desperate rush. “It’s about my daughter, sir. My little girl … she’s in the hospital. She has a brain tumor and her condition is deteriorating rapidly. I asked Janet in HR for some personal leave to be with her, but she denied my request and said I need official medical documentation which could take days I don’t have!”

Tears are welling in your eyes now, your voice rising to nearly hysterical levels. “Please, Mr. Verstappen! She’s only three years old and I’m a single mom. I’m all she has right now! I’m begging you … please just give me some time to be with her before … before ...”

You seem unable to voice whatever terrifying possibility lurks in the back of your mind. Instead, you dissolve into shoulder-shaking sobs, burying your face in your hands as you break down completely.

Max feels his earlier irritation softening in spite of himself. He��s seen grown men thrice your age become blubbering messes under his withering glare. But there’s something distinctly vulnerable and gut-wrenching about your anguished tears.

Part of him recognizes this as a prime opportunity to regain control, to berate you for such an unseemly display of emotion. His reputation as a merciless taskmaster practically demands he put you in your place.

But another part of Max … a part he barely recognizes … feels a rare pang of empathy pierce through his calloused exterior.

Perhaps it’s the thought of a scared little girl lying crippled in a hospital bed, scared and missing her mother. Or perhaps it’s the way you wear your devastation so plainly, managing to humanize yourself in a way most people never achieve in his eyes.

Whatever the reason, when Max finally speaks, his tone has lost its earlier bite.

“I did not realize the full severity of the situation.” he says, slowly rising from his chair. He moves around the desk, not missing the way you tense as he approaches.

Up close, he can see the puffy redness rimming your eyes, the despair etched into every line of your face. It stirs something inside him … an ancient ghost of an emotion he can’t quite place.

“I’m sorry you were dismissed so carelessly by HR.” Max continues, struggling to keep his voice even. “Perhaps if you had led with mentioning your daughter’s condition, instead of being so oblique ...”

He trails off as you sniff loudly, dragging the sleeve of your blazer across your nose. The motion is equal parts endearing and mortifying for him to witness.

“Here.” he says impulsively, plucking a crisp linen handkerchief from his suit pocket. He presses it into your hand, watching as you blink owlishly at the unexpected gesture. “Allow me to make things right.”

Without waiting for a response, Max turns and strides over to his desk. He snatches up the phone and rapidly punches in a extension code, holding the receiver to his ear as it begins to ring.

“Janet? Yes, it’s Max Verstappen.” he says crisply when the line picks up. “I’ve just been informed about an ... employee situation that requires your immediate attention.”

He pauses, glancing over at where you’re clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. Your eyes are still glistening with tears, but you’ve gone utterly still — hanging on his every word.

“One of our marketing staff came to me in quite a state about needing extended leave to be with their hospitalized child.” Max continues, his voice hardening slightly. “A matter you seemed to dismiss without proper consideration for the … nuances of the circumstances.”

There’s a sputtering on the other end of the line, undoubtedly Janet trying to make excuses. Max doesn’t give her the chance.

“The decision has been made to grant the employee’s leave request, effective immediately.” he cuts her off. “They will be excused for … two months, with full pay and benefits.”

His announcement seems to render you momentarily stunned. You simply stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking, like you can’t quite process what you’re hearing.

Max clears his throat self-consciously, refocusing on Janet’s flustered response filtering through the receiver. “B-But sir, we have very strict policies about-”

“Which is precisely why I’m instructing you to make an exception.” Max interjects, his voice brokering no arguments. “This leave is to be coded as paid health and wellness time. I expect no push-back or foot-dragging on this, understood?”

There’s a meek murmur of assent from Janet’s end. Max can’t resist a tight smile of satisfaction.

“Good. I’ll leave the paperwork in your capable hands then. That will be all.” He punctuates the statement by firmly hanging up the phone.

As the clatter of the receiver breaks the tense silence, Max turns to find you staring at him with an utterly inscrutable expression. For a long moment, neither of you speak or move. He finds himself paralyzed under the weight of your intense, unblinking gaze.

Then, with a strangled cry, you suddenly surge forward and throw your arms around him. Max goes ramrod stiff as your slight frame collides with his, your tears dampening the front of his crisp dress shirt.

“Thank you!” You’re whispering over and over like a prayer, clinging to him with a desperation that should be uncomfortable. And yet ... “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Max feels utterly transfixed, like a statue too stunned to react. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to encroach so boldly on his personal space, much less make actual physical contact. He’s not accustomed to such … warmth.

But before the unfamiliar embrace can start to grate on him, you suddenly pull back. Swiping at your eyes, you manage a watery smile up at him.

“You have no idea how much this means, sir. I … I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and understanding.”

He wants to scoff at the notion, to remind you that he is Max Verstappen — merciless and uncompromising in his corporate dealings. That this was merely an isolated instance of pragmatism to avoid a PR incident or workplace lawsuit, nothing more.

But something in your earnest gaze stops the curt rebuttal in his throat. For once, the infamously brusque Max Verstappen finds himself momentarily at a loss for words.

So instead, he gives a terse nod of acknowledgment. Already, his mind is starting to analyze how best to re-allocate your responsibilities for the next two months, which temporary hires to bring in for supplemental coverage.

But one stray thought continues to nag at the back of his mind, an errant curveball amongst the dizzying calculations.

For the first time in years — perhaps his entire adult life — Max feels almost … human.

It’s a strange and deeply unsettling realization, but luckily one he doesn’t have to dwell on.

Because in the next breath, you’re sweeping out of his office, a renewed vigor in your step and a brilliant smile lighting up your features. Max watches you go, an odd tightness settling into his chest.

He doesn’t have words — or perhaps doesn’t want to admit to any words to describe what he’s feeling in this moment. But one thing is for certain, for better or worse, you’ve well and truly upended Max Verstappen’s world.

***

Max remains rooted in place long after you’ve departed, his office now eerily silent in your absence. He should feel relieved to have some peace and quiet again after that … emotional encounter.

Yet instead of settling back into his usual all-consuming work flow, he finds his mind stubbornly replaying the scene on an endless, maddening loop.

The desperation etched onto your delicate features. The way your frame practically vibrated with barely-constrained anguish. The broken, pleading sound of your voice as you begged for his mercy ...

Despite his best efforts to dismiss it, the memory of your raw vulnerability has burrowed its way under Max’s skin, taking up an unwelcome residence. It picks and nags at the edges of his consciousness no matter how much he wills it away.

He has witnessed similar breakdowns from countless employees over the years — grown men and women brought to sniveling tatters by his uncompromising demands. But none of them elicited the same … response within him.

None of them made something twist so peculiarly in Max’s chest, unleashing that brief yet startling flicker of empathy from whatever dark crevice it lurks.

Gritting his teeth, Max paces behind his desk in tight, agitated circles. He prides himself on being a merciless pragmatist, unmoved by emotional pleas or babelling outbursts. Whatever decisions he makes are calculated toward the maximum profit potential and bottom line, end of story.

So why does this one case, this one instance of showing a bare modicum of human compassion, insist on gnawing at him so persistently? It makes no logical sense, no matter how he tries to mentally contort it.

Perhaps that’s the core issue — that for once in his life, Max’s motivations weren’t born strictly of logic or financial incentive. Something else had escaped from beneath, something primal and indefinable, when you broke down so nakedly in front of him.

The realization causes Max’s steps to stutter to a halt. His jaw works tensely as he runs a frustrated hand through his brown hair, disheveling the meticulously groomed coif.

He can admit to himself that some base part of his brain had been … affected by the rawness of your emotion. The way you had stripped away all artifice and propriety to plead so urgently and authentically.

Not many people manage to disarm Max Verstappen’s carefully curated expectation filters. But you had blown straight through them without even realizing it, battering down the reinforced walls he builds around his life. Just by being horrifically, unguardedly human.

It’s both impressive and deeply unsettling in equal measure.

Before Max can spiral any further down this rabbit hole of self-reflection, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door jolts him back to awareness. He straightens and clears his throat roughly.

“Come in.” he calls out, already retaking his seat and trying to project an aura of resolute control.

Clara slips into the office, her usual unflappable poise slightly ruffled as she catches the tense atmosphere. “You asked to see me right away, sir?”

“Yes.” Max says brusquely, watching her over steepled fingers. “I need you to do some … discreet digging for me into a personal matter.”

Clara’s perfectly groomed eyebrow arches inquisitively. But to her credit, she doesn’t comment on his evasive phrasing.

“And what exactly am I looking into?”

“The employee who was just in my office seeking leave.” he explains curtly. “The one with the hospitalized child. I need you to find out everything you can — where the child is being treated, their condition, prognosis, all of it.”

Clara’s perfectly glossed lips purse ever so slightly. “You’re aware I can’t exactly go through official medical channels without violating all sorts of privacy laws ...”

“I’m fully aware.” Max interjects with a curt wave of his hand. “Which is why you’ll have to take a more … unconventional approach. I don’t particularly care what methods you have to employ, just get me those details by the end of the day.”

His assistant regards him silently for a long beat, as if trying to suss out his motivations. Max meets her contemplative look with an unwavering stare of his own.

Finally, Clara gives a tight nod of understanding. “Consider it done, sir.”

With that, she pivots on the towering heel of her Louboutin and sees herself out of the office, the click of her footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall.

Max lets out a slow exhale, alone with his thoughts once more.

What is he doing? This bizarre crusade is so wildly outside of his typical conduct and practices. The lengths he’s going to, all for the sake of some random underling’s personal crisis ...

A smart, calculated part of his brain recognizes this entire situation as a fool’s errand, a waste of time and resources. He should be devoting every ounce of his focus toward extricating the Chinese investment group from the Brighton deal before their next earnings call.

And yet, he can’t seem to fully let this go. Your haunted, hopeless expression keeps flickering through his mind’s eye. The memory of your tears soaking into his suit lapel as you clung to him with a desperation that shook something deep within him.

It’s almost as if his body is acting of its own accord, driven by some urge he can’t fully parse or control. Like a murmured voice insistently compelling him to … to what? Help you? Offer some vague sense of solace or security?

The thought is patently ludicrous, and Max scoffs audibly at his own melodrama. Get a grip, he chides himself sternly. Since when do you care about coddling your peons?

He forcefully shakes off the uncharacteristic reverie and turns back to the stacks of paperwork and documents splayed across his desk. Focusing intently on running new financial projections for Q3, he manages to bury himself in the work for a solid two hours.

He’s in the midst of furiously scribbling margin and revenue notes when the trill of the phone line cuts through his concentration. A glance at the caller ID has him resisting the urge to sigh.

“Clara.” he answers crisply, leaning back in his leather chair. “I trust you’ve made progress?”

“Indeed.” comes the smooth reply, devoid of inflection as always. “Though I should warn you, some of these details are … concerning.”

Something tightens in Max’s chest, but he quickly tamps it down. “Just lay it all out for me. No need to editorialize.”

“Very well.” Clara acquiesces. “So the child, a three-year-old daughter, is currently a patient at Lennox Hill Hospital here in the city. According to my sources, she was admitted five weeks ago after experiencing severe seizures and hallucinations. An MRI revealed she has a large mass-”

“Let me stop you right there.” Max interjects, his brows furrowing. Even he can recognize those are less than encouraging signs. “What’s the official diagnosis then?”

“Grade IV glioblastoma.” Clara replies flatly. “One of the most aggressive malignant brain tumors, especially in children her age.”

A terse silence falls between them as the weight of that diagnosis sinks in. Grade IV … practically a death sentence wrapped up in clinical terminology. Max finds his hand unconsciously clenching the arm of his chair.

“And her prospects?” He finally prompts gruffly. “What’s the … prognosis for her case?”

Clara doesn’t answer right away. Over the line, he can hear her exhale slowly, a rare tell of emotional discomfort from his typically unflappable assistant.

“From what my contact at Lennox Hill said … if we’re talking full disclosure?” Her customary professionalism wavers slightly as her voice grows hushed. “They’ve given her three months at most, sir. Maybe less, if another seizure or bleed occurs before then.”

The words hang in the air like a guillotine blade against Max’s neck. Suddenly, all those intrusive mental flashes of your inconsolable despair take on a sharper, even more heartrending clarity.

Of course you were devastated, he realizes with startling empathy. How could any mother face their child’s death sentence with any measure of composure?

An unexpected swell of emotion rises in Max’s throat and he has to blink rapidly to keep it at bay. Now isn’t the time for such indulgences.

“Thank you, Clara.” he manages in a rough baritone. “That will be all for now.”

He ends the call without waiting for a response, abruptly severing the connection.

Alone once more, Max slumps back against the leather upholstery, an uncharacteristic weariness settling into his bones. He reaches up to loosen his already disheveled tie, suddenly feeling stifled within the confines of his suit.

Three months. Three paltry months for a precious young life to be snatched away before it ever really began. His jaw clenches hard.

That’s unacceptable. Not just unfair, but a complete and total injustice to all that is right and good in this world.

No child should have to suffer like that … and certainly no mother should have to face a future of unimaginable grief and emptiness once her only family is gone. Not if there was anything to be done about it.

And, at the end of the day, Max Verstappen has the means to quite literally move mountains with his wealth and influence.

An idea begins to blossom in his mind — one that feels daring and reckless and so utterly unlike his usual business-oriented self. But he finds himself drawn to it with a singleminded resolve he can’t quite explain.

Jaw set, Max snatches up his phone and punches in a number he never thought he’d use outside of donor galas.

“Roland? Max Verstappen here.” he says gruffly when the line picks up. “I need you to connect me directly with someone in Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology department ...”

Half an hour and multiple calls later, Max is finally patched through to one of the top clinical researchers in the field: Dr. Spencer Paulson.

“Dr. Paulson, thank you for making time on such short notice.” Max says, his tone polished yet clipped. “To cut right to it, I was recently made aware of a … sensitive case involving a terminal pediatric patient and some rather bleak estimated survival rates.”

Without preamble, he lays out what little he knows about your daughter — the diagnosis, the staging, the Lennox Hill prognosis that has already written her off for dead. All throughout, the doctor on the other end of the line remains grimly silent.

“So in your expert opinion.” Max finishes, realizing his hand has unconsciously tightened into a white-knuckled fist. “What would you say her realistic prospects for meaningful treatment or survival are?”

There’s a pregnant pause, then a grim sigh filters through the tinny line. “Based on what you’ve told me … I’m afraid the prognosis does indeed sound dire. Grade IV glioblastomas in children under five have approximately a 5% survival rate past twelve months with conventional treatment regimens.”

Max clenches his teeth, brutally unsurprised yet still floored by the frank assessment. Moments ago, he had still been clinging to a fool’s hope.

“However.” Dr. Paulson continues, his tone brightening slightly. “We do currently have an … experimental trial ongoing that might be an outside option to explore.”

Something akin to hope flutters in Max’s chest. “I’m listening.”

“Well, to put it simply, we’ve had some promising early results adapting viral gene therapies to target and destroy these aggressive brain tumor cells in young patients.” the doctor explains, shifting into a more clinical, lecture-style delivery.

“By modifying and re-engineering certain viruses to bind only to the specific mutated RNA and protein markers found in diseases like glioblastomas, we can theoretically use those same viruses as a delivery vector. One that can slip past the blood-brain barrier and directly infect the cancerous cells with a sort of … controlled payload, if you will.”

Max nods along, his mind working furiously to keep up with the technical jargon. “Some kind of treatment regimen then? Drugs or radiation therapy delivered directly to the tumor site?”

“Precisely.” Dr. Paulson confirms approvingly. “Only we’ve expanded past just chemo and gamma rays as the options. Thanks to the pioneering work of doctors like Bert Jacobs, we’ve now created an entirely new frontier of cancer treatments centered around gene therapy and mRNA editing.”

He rattles off a dizzying litany of polysyllabic scientific terminology that sails completely over Max’s head. Not that it matters — his focus is fully captured by the notes of guarded optimism finally creeping into Paulson’s voice.

“Of course, this is all still highly experimental. We’ve only managed to achieve remission in a handful of trial cases thus far.” the doctor cautions. “And we have no idea if the viral vector we’ve engineered will be equally effective against every variation of cancerous mutation out there.”

Max nods impatiently, waving a hand as if to physically shoo away the vague caveats. “I appreciate the need for clinical hedging, doctor. But let’s cut right to the heart of the matter.”

He draws in a fortifying breath. “If you were to take on this little girl as a patient, deploy these … gene therapy regimens of yours … would you give her a legitimate chance? At treatment, remission, survival?”

There’s a pregnant pause, as if Dr. Paulson is carefully considering the ethical ramifications of his answer. Then, “If she meets the selection criteria and baseline health conditions … and we get a bit of luck on our side ...” Another sigh, heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. “Then I’d say we would have a fighting chance, yes.”

Those five simple words crash over Max with the force of a tidal wave, hitting him squarely in the chest.

A chance. At life. At making it past those grim, dire prognoses.

After several moments of stunned silence, Max finally finds his voice.

“Say no more, doctor. Whatever it costs — money, time, logistics — none of it matters. I want this treatment option fully activated and prioritized immediately. Spare no expense, I’ll take care of the bill.” He utters the words with the same decisive confidence he handles his billion-dollar business dealings.

Because in this moment, it doesn’t feel like just some impulsive, emotionally-driven whim. Helping your innocent child — ensuring she gets the fighting chance she deserves?

It feels like the only choice he can possibly make.

***

You sit hunched in the hard, plastic visitor’s chair, your body angled protectively towards the small hospital bed. Despite the tubes and wires snaking from her fragile limbs, your daughter appears almost peaceful in her restless slumber.

She always was such a sound sleeper as a baby, you reminisce wistfully. Remembering how you’d regularly creep into the nursery just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, assuring yourself she was still breathing.

Even back then, the ever-present fear of something going horribly wrong never truly left you. The world is far too cruel a place to let a mother relax, no matter how deeply you wish you could.

One slender hand rests atop the thin bedsheet covering your little girl, your thumb tracing soothing circles along her tiny knuckles. A silent, simple gesture of tenderness you hope she can feel even in sleep. If only you could so easily soothe away her pain and suffering as you could your own.

The quiet flutter of the heart rate monitor keeps beat, each mechanical beep another hammer striking your already shattered soul. You want to feel relieved, blessed even, that it continues that steady cadence. Instead, you only feel exhausted hollowness.

Because this morning, the doctors came to “discuss options.” As if their clinical detachment could soften the blow of learning your child is well and truly out of miracles.

“We’ve run every available scan and lab test.” Dr. Rhodes had said, failing to meet your desperate gaze. “I’m so very sorry, but the tumor isn’t responding to any of our treatments. At this point, we have to start considering ...”

You hadn’t let him finish, couldn’t let those hateful, unthinkable words pass his lips. Palliative care. Hospice. Just give up and let nature take its inevitable, brutal course while they pumped her full of numbing opiates so she could “comfortably” slip away.

The rage and anguish had bubbled up from some primal pit within your guts, hot and viscous like magma erupting from deep beneath the earth’s crust. You’d screamed incoherent denials until your voice was hoarse, begging and pleading through sobs for them not to take away your only hope.

In the end, they’d sedated your daughter fully so you could “calm down” and “process things rationally.” You know they meant well, trying to spare her from your outburst. But it only compounded your devastation, feeling like they were already treating her as a lost cause no longer worth fighting for.

So here you sit, after untold hours of cycling through various stages of grief, left only with bone-deep weariness cloaked by a fragile veneer of numb acceptance. You dimly wonder if you’ll ever truly feel anything else ever again.

Through the blur of tears constantly stinging your eyes, you keep a silent vigil over your daughter’s bedside. You memorize every delicate sweep of her sooty lashes, the tiny smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. Desperate to commit every last precious detail of her existence to memory before … before ...

A choked sob bubbles up from your chest at the thought, hot and acidic at the back of your throat. You quickly muffle it with the crook of your elbow, determined not to disturb your resting girl with the outward manifestations of your agony.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. An old meditative mantra you try to focus on, struggling to regain control of your tenuous grip on composure. You know your tears and hiccupping gasps for air are only harming yourself at this point. Better to conserve what little physical and mental strength you have left to simply be with your daughter while you still can.

The grief is an ever-churning sea just waiting to drag you under its dark, icy depths. But still you stubbornly tread water, unwilling to fully surrender just yet. Not as long as you can still feel the reassuring thrum of her pulse against your fingertips, a solitary lifeline keeping you tethered to the present.

You aren’t sure how much time stretches in that manner — minutes or hours, you cannot say. The days have all started blurring into one long, endless haze of sleeplessness and overwhelming sorrow.

So when the door to the hospital room suddenly clicks open, the sound manages to penetrate the cotton-muffled fog shrouding your senses.Instantly, you stiffen and blink rapidly, as if only just now awakening to your surroundings.

A stranger stands in the doorway — a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit that looks distinctly out of place amongst the bland, sterile patient rooms. His face is sharp and angular, almost harsh in its sternness if not for the way his brow is furrowed with evident concern.

You open your mouth to ask who he is and what he wants, but he raises a placating hand before you can find your voice.

“Please, don’t be alarmed.” he says, words clipped yet softened slightly. “I know this is a terrible situation, and the absolute last setting you’d want an uninvited visitor.”

Now that he’s closer, you can see behind his obvious affluence lurks a cultured, aloof sort of demeanor. There’s no outward malice or disrespect in his manner, but he carries himself like someone long accustomed to privileges and deference. The sight of him sets you even more on edge amid your emotional rawness.

“My name is Spencer Paulson.” the man presses on, taking a few measured steps further into the room. “I’m actually a doctor, Ms ...”

“Y/N.” you automatically supply, dredging up the remnants of social graces. “Y/N L/N. And this is … this is my daughter, Olivia.”

Your voice cracks ever so slightly on her name, heated moisture already welling behind your eyes once more. You quickly dab at their corners with the sleeve of your worn cardigan, determined not to dissolve into fresh hysterics in front of this absolute stranger.

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N.” the man — Dr. Paulson — says, tone measured. “I realize I’m intruding on a highly stressful situation for you and your family right now. And for that, I truly am sorry.”

His apology seems sincere enough. But wariness still prickles along your nape as your overtired, over-protective instincts flare up. You clutch your daughter’s limp hand in yours a fraction tighter.

“Then if you don’t mind my asking.” you begin in a calculated tone, scrutinizing Paulson carefully. “Why are you here? And what business could possibly bring you to Olivia’s bedside unannounced?”

He regards you silently for a long moment, something inscrutable flickering across his features. When he speaks again, his words are deliberately precise, weighted down by their momentous gravity.

“I was recently contacted by … an interested third party about your daughter’s case.” Paulson explains, clasping his hands behind his back. “I was filled in on the specifics of her diagnosis — glioblastoma, grade four, extremely aggressive and largely unresponsive to standard treatment. Am I correct so far?”

You can only numbly nod, a chill prickling across your flesh. The man’s crisp, clinical recitation of your worst nightmare forces a painful convulsion of renewed heartache.

Paulson seems to catch your distress and quickly presses on. “Right, well, I’m actually here in an official capacity as the Chief of Pediatric Oncology over at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.”

The words hit you with all the force of a defibrillator charge, jolting your entire frame upright in the hard plastic chair. Your jaw drops open, already fumbling for a desperate reply that will somehow make this all make sense.

But Paulson continues before you can vocalize any of the hundreds of jumbled questions flooding your mind.

“I’ll keep this relatively simple, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, holding up a forestalling hand. “My team at Sloan Kettering recently received permission to transfer your daughter over to our care as soon as logistically possible. You see, we’ve been working on an experimental new treatment protocol — a form of gene therapy designed to treat even the most aggressive, mutation-riddled forms of cancers like Olivia’s brain tumor.”

You blink owlishly, unable to fully process the onslaught of technical jargon being leveled at you. All you can do is continue sitting there, stunned into silence as the doctor launches into an almost dizzying explanation of re-engineered viruses, targeted gene editing, and “controlled payloads” being essentially the extent of modern medicine.

“... And while the trial is still in its early stages, we’ve actually already achieved partial and even full remission in a few key pediatric cases remarkably similar to that of your daughter.” Paulson continues, his tone growing faintly tinged with optimism and something akin to pride. “Which is why we’re reasonably confident Olivia could be an excellent candidate for our experimental therapies, if you allow it.”

He lets the weight of that statement hang in the air between you, watching you carefully for any visible reaction. But you’re frozen, fighting between warring tides of soul-rending hope and knee-jerk cynicism.

After all, you’ve come to reflexively distrust when desperation-stoking scenarios sound too good to be true over the past several torturous weeks. A small, rational voice in the back of your mind pipes up to remind you that you can’t afford to get your hopes up, only to be gutted yet again by the crushing inevitability of disappointment.

But another part of your wearied brain — the part that’s grown so fatigued by the oppressive feeling of hopelessness — recoils at dismissing any potential reprieve from the nightmare, no matter how fanciful or far-fetched.

So instead you hear yourself croaking out a single, wobbling syllable.

“How ...”

Paulson tilts his head inquisitively. “I’m sorry?”

You clear your throat, igniting the spark of desperate yearning flickering to life inside your chest. “How much would … would a treatment like this cost?”

For the first time since barging his way into your fragile world, Paulson’s aristocratic features twist into an unmistakable grimace. He lets out a tight sigh, clearly recognizing the gravity behind your simple question.

“Unfortunately, due to the experimental and intensive nature of this therapy … the baseline costs do run relatively high.” he explains in a precise tone, as if trying to distance himself from the crass logistical realities. “If approved for the trial and full treatment regimen, we’re looking at around $1.4 million in projected costs over the first six months alone.”

The astronomical number hits you squarely between the eyes, setting your head swimming with disbelief. One point four … million? The amount is so ludicrously exorbitant that it almost doesn’t seem real.

You open your mouth, fully intending to spit out the derisive scoff that such an impossible ask deserves. No amount of desperate wishing could ever make that attainable for a single, working-class parent already drowning in tens of thousands of medical debt.

But Paulson clearly recognizes the crestfallen defeat settling over your features. Because he quickly rushes ahead with his next words, effectively cutting off any vocal dismissal on your end.

“However, as I mentioned earlier, we did get some … special circumstances greenlighted regarding your daughter’s case.” he says, tone brightening with carefully cultivated hopefulness. “You see, there’s an anonymous benefactor who’s agreed to cover the full cost of treatment on a … philanthropic basis, let’s call it.”

The words punch you directly in the gut, momentarily robbing your lungs of oxygen like a cruel sucker-punch. You blink dazedly up at Paulson, struggling to make sense of what he’s saying through the roaring static in your ears.

“I … I don’t understand.” you manage to stammer out. “Someone wants to … pay for my daughter? All of it? But why? How could they possibly-”

“Hey now, none of that.” Paulson cuts you off, his voice softening with what might be the first hints of empathy and warmth creeping in. “The why doesn’t matter right now — only that it’s been arranged at no cost to you or your family.”

He moves closer then, resting one hand on your shoulder in an unexpected gesture of kindness that makes you flinch despite yourself. Up close, you can see the sincerity shining in his hazel eyes, pleading for you to simply accept this incredible parting of the dark clouds that have shrouded your existence.

“I know this is … well, frankly astounding news on top of everything else you’re already dealing with.” Paulson continues, giving your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “And please, believe me, we want to avoid overwhelming you with undue complications. For now, I think it’s enough to simply feel that spark of hope again, yes?”

Despite your best efforts to tamp down the desperate yearning swelling in your chest, you find yourself nodding mutely in agreement. Because in this moment, you understand exactly the miraculous implications of his words.

After so many agonizing weeks of feeling utterly powerless, of watching your baby girl’s life slowly ebb away before your very eyes … there is a chance. An opportunity, a fighting possibility that everything won’t end in crushing grief and irredeemable sorrow.

And even just that single glowing ember of hope, no matter how faint, is enough to shatter the dam holding back your turbulent sea of pent-up emotion. Paulson watches in quiet acceptance as you finally break down in great, shuddering sobs — only this time, they’re threaded with the catharsis of relief.

Happy tears stream down your blotchy cheeks, unchecked and convulsive. You press your face into the cool, starchy sheets of Olivia’s bed, body wracked with a release of tension weeks in the making. It feels as though you’re being simultaneously unmade and reborn in this singular, messy instance.

Through the storm of your breakdown, you’re dimly aware of Paulson stepping away to give you privacy. And then, just before he slips from the room entirely, his composed baritone rings out one last time.

“We’ll make all the arrangements to transport Olivia to Sloan Kettering as soon as possible. Get her started on this treatment regimen right away, alright?”

You can’t even summon the words to respond, only nodding rapidly between hiccuping bursts of gasping and sobbing. But just before he exits, shutting the door silently behind him, you catch Paulson’s murmur.

“There’s a fighting chance now. That’s all any of us can really ask for ...”

***

Max rakes a hand through his meticulously styled hair as he strides down the sterile hallway of Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology ward. His eyes scan the room numbers tacked to each door, searching for the one he was provided.

456 … 458… ah, there — 460. Max pauses outside the closed entry, squaring his shoulders as he tries to tamp down the uncharacteristic fluttering of nerves in his stomach. Taking a fortifying breath, he gives the door a perfunctory series of raps with his knuckles.

Almost immediately, a muffled voice filters through from inside — your voice, he recognizes with a start. “Come in!”

Max’s brow furrows momentarily at the warm, chipper lilt to your tone. So unlike the brittle, devastated one he had heard that fateful day in his office. Though he supposes that’s only fitting, given the radically shifted circumstances these past several weeks.

Pushing his hesitation aside, Max takes the invitation and pushes into the hospital room. You’re seated in one of the uncomfortable plastic visitor’s chairs, wearing a soft cardigan and jeans — by all appearances the very portrait of a typical doting mother.

Well, not entirely typical. Because curled up on the bed next to you is a tiny, doe-eyed little girl whose resemblance leaves no question as to her relation to you.

Olivia.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you glance up — and immediately do a double-take, eyes going comically wide. “M-Mr. Verstappen?” You splutter out, frozen halfway out of your chair like a hostess belatedly remembered her manners. “I … I didn’t realize you were-”

Max holds up a hand to stop the tide of nervous rambling, inexplicably touched by your visible shock. The effect is only compounded when Olivia shifts on the bed, eyeing him owlishly from beneath the cuddly weight of a stuffed unicorn nearly as large as she is.

“It’s quite alright, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, offering you the barest hint of a disarming smile. An expression he finds shockingly easy to produce given the scene before him. “I admit I hadn’t warned you about my visit in advance.”

He pauses there, suddenly realizing the reason for his impromptu trip isn’t entirely certain, even to himself. It had begun as little more than a nagging impulse tugging at him throughout his days, growing more persistent and insistent until he finally gave in and scheduled some time away from the office.

And now that he’s here, standing in this dimly-lit hospital room, Max feels strangely … unmoored. Adrift in a situation his renowned business acumen didn’t even begin to equip him for handling.

But then your daughter is shifting again, curiosity winning out over her bashfulness as she props herself up on her elbows. “Who’re you?” She pipes up in a tiny, raspy voice that somehow bypasses Max’s usually implacable defenses.

Something pangs oddly in his chest at the innocent inquiry. He finds himself crouching into an automatic squat, bringing himself level with the bedside so he can better meet Olivia’s inquisitive gaze.

“You can just call me Max.” he says, injecting a gentle warmth into his tone that he didn’t even realize he was capable of. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

It occurs to him then that he’s been subconsciously clutching the bouquet of flowers still in his off-hand — an overly ornate spray of exotic lilies and birds of paradise blooms that probably cost more than a month’s rent for most families. He had ordered them from the city’s most exclusive florist boutique on pure aesthetic impulse, without pausing to consider the message such an excessive display might send.

This morning, holding the massive arrangement felt appropriate, a reflection of Max’s stature as a dominant business magnate. But now, watching Olivia’s large eyes track the oversized bouquet with open-mouthed awe, he feels suddenly self-conscious.

Hoping to recover some sense of propriety, Max clears his throat and holds the flowers out in front of him.

“These are, ah, for your mother.” he explains gruffly, avoiding your questioning gaze burning against the side of his face. “A small token of … of appreciation, one might say.”

He isn’t quite sure what prompts the carefully worded addition — perhaps an instinctive reflex to avoid showing any overt sentimentality. But either way, you seem to simply accept the generous offering with bemused grace.

“Thank you, Mr. Versta-” You quickly correct yourself at his mild arched brow. “Er, Max. They’re absolutely lovely.”

You bend to inhale the rich floral perfume, eyelids fluttering in evident delight at the fragrance. Max watches the childlike awe play out across your soft features, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction settle in his chest.

Having given you the flowers, he rises to his feet once more with a put-upon sigh of effort. Every bit of spoiled opulence and bravado that usually comes as second-nature to Max.

And yet, none of it lands quite with the affected solemnity he’s accustomed to projecting. Not when Olivia’s sweet-faced attention is still utterly transfixed by his every move and micro-expression.

Your daughter still hasn’t looked away from him even as you arrange the flower vase on her bedside table, entranced in a way only the very young can be. It’s … disarming, to say the least. But not entirely unpleasant, Max finds himself admitting.

“I, ah, got something for you as well, Olivia.” he announces impulsively. From behind his back, he produces a floppy-limbed teddy bear easily half her size.

He’s not even sure what prompted him to purchase such a pedestrian sort of toy. All he knows is that he saw the stuffed creature in the hospital gift shop window on his way in, and some impulse compelled him to acquire it for reasons he still can’t understand.

But any lingering uncertainty fades from his mind like a passing cloud when Olivia lets out an audible gasp of delight. Her little hands instantly shoot out, making desperate grabbing motions at the plush offering.

“Ohmygosh, thank you!” The words tumble out in a breathless, childish rush. Before Max can even react, she leans precariously over the edge of the bed, arms outstretched and grasping imploringly.

On instinct, Max takes a half-step forward, carefully depositing the stuffed bear into Olivia’s waiting embrace to avoid any accidents. She immediately snatches it to her chest, burying her face in the softness of its soft fabric with a contented hum that seems to vibrate in Max’s very soul.

He swallows hard past the unexpected lump that forms in his throat, watching a child delight in something so simple and innocent. How long has it been since he allowed himself to find joy in the pure, unbridled way that Olivia does? Far too long, he’s forced to admit.

Clearing his throat with an awkward rumble, Max tears his gaze away from your daughter’s cuddling. He levels his focus back onto you instead. Only then does he realize you’ve been staring at him throughout the entire interaction, an unreadable look painted across your face.

“I trust the medical team has kept you informed of Olivia’s progress so far.” he prompts in his usual clipped tone, struggling to reassert some sense of distancing professionalism. “I don’t have any special insight into the procedural specifics, but from what I’ve gathered, positive results are steadily accumulating, yes?”

You blink once, almost like shaking yourself out of a reverie, before offering a slow nod in response. “Y-Yes, you could definitely say that.”

Something sparks behind your gaze then — some dawning realization creeping over your delicate features. “In fact, Dr. Paulson himself said Olivia seems to have responded better to the gene therapy than almost any other patient yet. Her tumor reduction trend is so far exceeding their best models that they’re actually considering tweaking the formula for future tria-”

You abruptly cut yourself off, lips pursing into a tight line as you turn your focus back to Max. He holds your stare evenly, waiting for whatever it is you seem to be mustering the courage to say.

Then, almost in a whisper, “Max … are you the anonymous donor paying for all of this?”

The words hang in the air like a physical force between you, so full of implication and unvoiced emotion that even Max can’t find a way to deflect them. He stares back at you, utterly disarmed beneath the intensity of your scrutinizing gaze.

For a long beat, only the hum of hospital machines and equipment fills the weighty silence. Max’s jaw works tensely as he considers how best to respond. He wants to shrug it off, make some sardonic quip to reestablish the carefully curated aloofness that serves him so well in the business world.

But then Olivia lets out another joyous giggle as she squishes the plush bear’s paw, completely enraptured and undistracted by the silent standoff occurring across her bedside. And all of Max’s formidable defenses and calculated denials abruptly dissolve in the face of such childlike innocence.

So instead of evasion, he answers your question with a small, barely perceptible nod and a softly murmured, “Yes.”

He doesn’t have time to brace himself before you’re suddenly surging up out of the chair with a wounded cry. And then your arms are flung around his neck, your body slamming against his chest as you pull Max into a fierce and entirely unexpected hug.

The impact momentarily stuns him, freezing Max in place with his arms held useless at his sides. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to initiate such a brazen display of physical contact — perhaps ever, now that he racks his brain.

But just as he contemplates gently extricating himself from your clutches, your ragged voice rises to his ear in a trembling whisper.

“Thank you.” you’re whispering over and over like a fevered prayer. “Thank you, thank you, thank you ...”

With each impassioned repetition, Max can feel more of the tension slowly leeching from his frame. He finds himself sinking bonelessly into your embrace, one hand coming to rest against the small of your back in an automatic gesture of soothing.

Soon enough, heaving sobs are wracking your entire body against his. Hot tears quickly begin to soak through the fabric of his expensive dress shirt as you cling to him with the desperation of a fallen angel clawing her way back into grace. But Max doesn’t pull away, doesn’t extricate himself or put distance between your respective roles as worker and corporate king.

Instead, in a move even he can’t fully explain or justify, his free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in even tighter as you keen your grateful relief against the column of his throat.

“It’s … quite alright.” he finds himself rumbling in a low, soothing voice completely at odds with his usual persona. “No thanks are necessary. All that matters now is ensuring your daughter’s full and complete recovery … at whatever cost required.”

He isn’t sure whether his throwaway platitude is meant more for his benefit or yours at this point. But either way, you show no signs of releasing him from the crushing strength of your desperate clutch anytime soon. So Max does the only thing left available to him — he simply lets you cry and shake and cling to him for as long as you need.

Until finally, with a handful of watery hiccups and sniffles, you manage to tilt your blotchy face up towards his.

“I … I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.” you murmur throatily. “For giving Olivia more than just some faint hope, but an actual chance to grow up and live the life she deserves.”

Tenderness isn’t something that often breaks through Max Verstappen’s shroud of callous indifference. He can count on one hand the number of times in his adult life he’s allowed himself to indulge in such sentimental trivialities.

But gazing into your puffy, reddened eyes, he finds he can’t quite summon any bitter cynicism. Instead, his voice remains low with a soothing gentleness that feels almost foreign falling from his lips.

“The only form of repayment I’ll require.” he says finally, “is your permission to take you to dinner.”

He blinks once, almost taken aback by the words that slipped unbidden from his throat. But you, for your part, seem equally dazed as your brows knit in bewilderment.

“Dinner? But … I haven’t left Olivia in weeks.”

At that, Max manages a wry smile, feeling as if he’s regained at least some fraction of his footing and composure. “Of course I don’t expect you to. I simply meant for the three of us to dine together … here, in the hospital. My treat, naturally.”

Your fingers unconsciously clench tighter into the fabric of his ruined dress shirt. But even with the hint of embarrassment pinkening your cheeks, he can see what looks almost like … excitement? Perhaps even coyness sparking behind your gaze before you avert your eyes demurely.

“I … yes, of course.” you murmur, sounding almost bashful. “We would be honored.”

Max simply nods, committing every little part of the interaction to his increasingly scattered memory for later dissection. For now, he withdraws himself from the gentle circle of your arms with what he hopes appears a natural sort of casualness.

“Very good then,” is all he finds himself able to say in response. “I shall make the necessary arrangements and return shortly with something to eat.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the exit, throwing one final look over his shoulder. You’re already back in your chair at Olivia’s bedside, shooting him another shy little smile as you start to idly stroke your now dozing daughter’s hair.

And before Max even fully processes the impulse, he feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a warm half-grin in response.

A expression so unfamiliar on his usually dour features that it renders him momentarily unrecognizable, even to himself.

Shaking his head as if to cast off the dizzy sense of displacement, Max continues out into the hallway. He stubbornly refuses to dwell too much on the stirrings of contentment radiating through his chest.

Such indulgent notions are highly unseemly for a man of his stature and influence, after all. Better to ignore them entirely, as he always has.

Though even as the thought crosses his mind, Max finds himself picking up his pace with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Because somewhere along the way, he realizes ...

Denial doesn’t appear to be an option anymore.

***

Two Years Later

The ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticks rhythmically, its pendulum swinging with measured precision. Max’s gaze flicks over to it briefly before returning to the stack of documents before him. Numbers and figures blur together as his eyes scan the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.

A giggle from the corner of the room breaks his focus. He glances up to see Olivia sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, curls bouncing as she plays with her Barbie dolls. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the sight of her innocent joy.

“What are you up to over there, kleine muis?” He asks, his voice gruff but tinged with affection.

Olivia looks up, her eyes sparkling. “I’m having a tea party with Barbie and Ken.” she explains, brandishing the dolls. “Would you like to join us, Maxie?”

Max chuckles softly. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have a bit too much work to do for a tea party right now.”

“Okay.” Olivia says cheerfully, returning to her imaginary festivities.

You had dropped Olivia off at Max’s office after her kindergarten class, needing to rush to an urgent marketing meeting. Max had insisted on keeping her company until you returned, despite the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

He watches Olivia play, mesmerized by her ability to create entire worlds from mere toys and her vibrant imagination. Her carefree laughter is a soothing balm against the chaos of his day.

After a while, Olivia looks up again. “Maxie, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, lieverd. What is it?”

Olivia fidgets with one of the doll’s dresses. “Today at school, we had to draw pictures of our families.”

Max’s heart constricts slightly at the innocuous statement, but he manages a reassuring smile. “Did you have fun with that activity?”

Olivia nods enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. I drew me, Mommy, and you.”

The words hit Max like a physical blow, stealing his breath away. He stares at Olivia, his eyes widening as a storm of emotions swirls within him.

Olivia, oblivious to his inner turmoil, continues, “But then Timmy said that you’re not really my daddy since we don’t have the same last name. Is that true, Maxie? Are you not my daddy?”

Max swallows hard, his throat constricting. He had grown to love this child as if she were his own flesh and blood, but he had never dared to assume the sacred title of father. The realization that Olivia saw him that way, despite the lack of biological ties, threatens to shatter his carefully constructed walls.

Pushing back from his desk, he rises to his feet and makes his way over to where Olivia sits. He lowers himself to the floor, his movements stiff and hesitant. Olivia watches him with curious eyes, still clutching her dolls.

“Olivia.” he begins, his voice thick with emotion he struggles to contain. “Even though we don’t share the same name, and I didn’t ...” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I didn’t have a hand in bringing you into this world, you are every bit as much my daughter as if you were my own.”

Olivia tilts her head slightly, considering his words. “So, I can call you Daddy?”

The simple question unlocks something deep within Max’s core, a part of himself he had locked away long ago. He feels moisture prickling at the corners of his eyes, an unfamiliar sting that he doesn’t fight.

“Yes, kleine muis.” he whispers, his voice wavering. “I would be honored if you called me Daddy.”

Without warning, Olivia drops her dolls and flings her small arms around Max’s neck, hugging him tightly. Max freezes for a moment, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection, before melting into the hug. He wraps his arms around Olivia’s tiny frame, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment.

They stay like that for long minutes, Max’s shoulders trembling slightly as the dam he had so carefully constructed finally cracks. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, mingling with the softness of Olivia’s hair as he buries his face against her.

At last, Olivia pulls back, her eyes shining with joy. “I love you, Daddy.” she says simply, the words reverberating through Max’s very soul.

He manages a watery smile, brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. “And I love you, lieverd. More than you could ever know.”

Olivia beams at him before scrambling to her feet. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She darts over to her little backpack, rummaging through it eagerly.

Max watches her, his heart still thundering in his chest from the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. He had built an empire, commanded boardrooms with an iron fist, and struck fear into the hearts of grown men … yet this innocent child had disarmed him completely.

“Here it is!” Olivia exclaims, returning with a piece of paper clutched in her small fist. She holds it out to Max, beaming. “For you, Daddy.”

With trembling hands, Max takes the drawing. A bright smile breaks across his face as he studies the crude but endearing figures — stick figures, but he can clearly make out Olivia, you, and himself, joined by vibrant swirls of color.

“It’s beautiful.” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over the lines with a tenderness he reserves only for her. “Thank you.”

Over the next few days, Max has the drawing professionally framed, the simple piece of artwork taking pride of place on the wall of his office. Whenever his gaze falls upon it, his heart swells with a love and sense of purpose that had been missing for far too long.

Beside the framed drawing hangs his business degree, a symbol of his power and influence in the corporate world. Yet, it is Olivia’s artwork that holds the most meaning, a reminder of what truly matters in this life.

Because Max is many things — a captain of industry, a force to be reckoned with, a man who has clawed his way to the top through sheer grit and determination.

But most importantly, he is a father.

And he has never been more proud of any achievement than to call himself Olivia’s daddy.

3K notes · View notes

meiieiri · 7 months

Text

𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 [toji fushiguro]

synopsis: so she tells him not to cry over the injustice of a life cut too short for at the end of all this, she’ll only be a dream.

pairing: ex-husband!toji fushiguro x terminally ill wife!reader | song inspo: soon you’ll get better, cancer

warnings: heavy angst, terminal illness (primary bone cancer, stroke and MS), mentions of divorce/past infidelity, allegories to cheating, major character death. please read at your own risk. | a/n: this was so heavy for me to write, i started writing at 2 in the morning, and it’s 6:34 now.

word count. 3k~

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

Toji should have noticed, he laments as he takes a sip of his cognac. He should have sensed that something was wrong sooner, maybe that way, he wouldn’t be begging to borrow some more time to make things right. Your fingers were trembling that day — the first time you ever ruined his morning coffee — your hands shaking uncontrollably as you washed the mug with a sorrowful look on your face, your eyes glossy with the tears you were desperately trying to hold back.

He shouldn’t have been so harsh, he realizes that now. Breakfast had been burnt to a crisp and ruined, sure, but nothing could compare to how he constantly ruins the one beautiful thing that has ever happened to him, who haphazardly spilled her smoothie on him when they first bumped into each other in Shinjuku just after he finally cashed in enough money with Shiu to get his laundry done.

Toji, whose senses have now been honed to pick up on the slightest of your sluggish movements and your pained and suppressed hisses, hears the bedsheets rustling and he instantly gets up before you could even force yourself out of bed. “Hey, hey, easy now.” He catches you before you could fall backwards onto the mattress, your skin appears cold and clammy, your thinning muscles stiff as a board — you must be having one of your episodes again. “What do you need?” he asks, his voice heartbreakingly gentle for the first time in months.

“Water.”

Your husband nods, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, hurriedly making his way to the dining table which was now kept in your bedroom so you aren’t forced to move around too much. The sound of water splashing into the glass fills the air and you feel another stabbing pain coarse through your joints.

Toji gingerly brings the glass of water to your lips and you sighed, an exasperated yet amused smile on your face. “I can do it, babe. Don’t worry.” Why did that sound like you were trying to convince not just Toji but yourself? You bring your bony hands to grip the glass and it takes everything out of your husband not to break into a fit of sobs when he sees your hand violently shaking with effort just to keep the glass steady.

His larger hands close around your defeated one. “I-I…I can do it, I did it yesterday. Y-you saw me.”

“Shhh, I know, it’s okay.”

You bite your lip to distract yourself from the anguish of realizing the truth behind the doctor’s words. Everything you feared was finally becoming your and Toji’s bleak reality.

“It’ll be a painful decline.”

Funny how you’re the one fighting to extend your life but Toji feels like he’s already gone ahead and passed on. Just a few minutes earlier, you were overjoyed to see him again. You didn’t think he’d see your text thinking that his new girlfriend must have asked him to block your number, and you most certainly didn’t expect him to arrive when you asked for him via a brief phone call to drive you to the hospital for your monthly checkup since he took the car with him when you separated. He made up a bullshit excuse when Yuko asked where he was going in such a hurry and he makes it to your old shared apartment to see you sitting on the driveway looking thinner and sicklier than ever — your eyes were sunken, and your cheeks were hollow.

Yet in spite of that, you gave him the brightest of smiles, waving shyly to him as he steps out of the driver’s seat. “Happy morning!” you smiled, greeting him with your signature good morning tagline which he used to happily wake up to everyday. There wasn’t a scintilla of resentfulness in your demeanor, and you genuinely looked so happy to see him for the first time since he moved out.

“How long?” Toji asked the doctor, his heart twisted into knots when he hears you happily humming in the MRI room as you put your clothes back on, oblivious to the solemn mood in the other room. You already knew what was going on, but you’ll just continue pretending that everything’s alright and that this is nothing more but a case of fatigue so as not to inconvenience Toji.

“A year, maybe even less.”

“And…you’re saying it’s best if she simply…doesn’t get the treatment?”

The doctor sighs heavily. She’s seen many cases like this before, but none as utterly hopeless as yours. Even if you did start the treatment, the lesions in your spinal cord have already entered the most severe stage, you were already exhibiting signs of autonomic nervous system distress — the tremors, the uncontrollable stuttering of your words, the growing loss of balance — and as if that wasn’t enough, the doctor also discovers that you were suffering from primary osteosarcoma.

There was no way to cure you now that it’s too late.

“I suggest we just focus on keeping her comfortable. The only thing left for us to do now is to bring her home. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re so fucking embarrassing. I can’t bring you anywhere.”

By some miracle, you and Toji went out one night around four months before the divorce proceedings. He went home that day, exhausted beyond all belief from another mission, but he was in a good mood. Yuko was out working late tonight, so, he decides to take you out to your and his favorite izakaya for some yakitori.

Some time during the night, after downing three full bottles of sake together, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. “I’ll be right back,” you told Toji, tipsily kissing him on the cheek as you hop off the bar stool in the direction of the women’s room.

You couldn’t tell if you were staggering from the copious amounts of alcohol you ingested, but your legs were beginning to feel heavy, and for some ominous reason, you were slowly losing all sensation in your left leg. You try to hold onto one of the izakaya’s shōji panel decor pieces to regain your balance, but it was a futile effort in the end. Your knees suddenly buckle, and a sickening crack tears through your tibia as you fall to the ground.

“Are you alright?!”

Toji picks up on the commotion instantly and he sees the izakaya patrons crowding around the hallway leading to the restroom. He quickly makes his way over and a look of disgust appears on his features when he sees you crumpled on the ground and the mortifying sight of you having relieved yourself on the floor, tears of embarrassment staining your cheeks at the thought of your body suddenly malfunctioning like this.

Muttering out an ignorant apology for his seemingly drunk wife, he roughly picks you up, growing increasingly infuriated with you when one izakaya employee offers him a damp cloth to dry out your urine with. It was funny how quickly other people came to your aid — people whose names you don’t even know — while your own husband seems very reluctant to even touch you right now. He doesn’t speak to you on the way home even as you apologize while he’s loading you into the car, grimacing when the leather seat gets wet. “Toji, I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened—“

“—Save it.”

What he should have said was: “Are you okay?”, “It’s alright.” or better yet, “I still love you.”.

At present, Toji decides on a whim to take you to Yokohama’s famed bayside today. It’s only a two hour drive from your place in Tokyo and Toji figures you must miss going on road trips by now with you cooped up at home all the time. “Toji, are you sure this is a good idea?” you murmured nervously as the car pulls to a stop by the bayside promenade. What happens if you can’t control yourself again? There doesn’t look to be a lot of public restrooms nearby.

Toji plants a reassuring kiss to your nose. “Babe, you remember what the doctor said, spending some time outdoors can do wonders for your health. Besides, didn’t you always love the coast?” He brings your hand to his scarred lips, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin before stepping out of the car to retrieve your wheelchair from the trunk.

“I know but what if I have another accident?” you said worriedly, rolling down the car windows so he could hear you. “What if I embarrass you again?”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about you.”

You’ve lost all control of your lower extremities three months ago, rendering you unable to walk and feel when you need to relieve yourself. Toji struggles with the wheelchair for a bit and a flash of sadness fills your heart when you see him take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He wasn’t angry, he was devastated. He looks wistfully at the boardwalk, a distant gaze trained on the sea. He remembers when you used to walk down this very lane, his hand protectively around your waist as you happily take selfies. He could still hear your fond giggles the last time the two of you went here.

“Why don’t you ever smile when I take pictures of you?”

Toji shoos away a pigeon from stealing a bite of his ice cream sandwich. He feigns an unamused look when you try to take another picture of him on your phone.

“Come on, I’ve been trying to get a shot of you all day! You still have to take pictures of me so I can post it on my Instagram feed!”

Your ever moody husband pinches off a small piece of bread and feeds it to the nosy pigeon. “You and your precious feed,” he bemoans jokingly.

“Please? Just one picture!“ you playfully nudged him. Truthfully, you just wanted to see him smile for once, a genuine one and not one of those lopsided smirks he usually gives you when he’s teasing you. “Please?” you pout knowing he can never say no to that adorable face you make when you really want him to do something or worse, buy something for you.

Sighing, he turns to look at your phone’s camera lens and you blush when a smile slowly illuminates his usually stoic face. Your thumb hovers over the stop recording function, not realizing you’re taking a video, but you can’t seem to press it. “What’s taking so long?” he holds the smile like he’s some cartoon character and you snap out of it.

“Oh shoot, it’s a video!” you laughed, and you begin to run down the boardwalk, eagerly getting away from Toji who demands that you delete it immediately. Of course, you’re no match for his borderline inhuman speed attributed to his athletic physique and he catches you by the waist, playfully swinging you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes.

Now, your giggles have gone silent.

Toji realizes now he should have indulged you more over the course of your relationship and subsequent marriage. Had he known that you won’t even make it to your third wedding anniversary, he would have allowed you to take as many pictures and videos of him as you’d like, he’d swallow his pride and he’d give you the brightest of smiles so you could happily post him on your social media accounts with a heartwarming caption about him being your “smiley hubby”.

More than that though, he should have taken more photos of you, mostly stolen candid shots, of course. You can’t catch him being all soft on you now. He still has a reputation to live up to after all. But more than that, had he known that your illness was intent on stealing every scrap of you from him, he should have made more effort in preserving all these memories. He should have kept everything from those toll tickets on your late night drives together when the two of you just needed a quick escape from the world, to receipts from your trip to Tokyo Disney Sea on your first wedding anniversary, and even simple convenience store receipts.

Toji should have kept everything down to the smallest of memories knowing one day, that’s all he’ll have to remember you by.

He opens the passenger seat’s door and he effortlessly gathers you into his arms, being extra careful with your fragile form as he sits you down on the wheelchair. He opens the backseat and he pulls out two different colored blankets, one sea-foam green and the other, rose pink. “Take your pick,” he smiles at you and you chuckled softly, pointing to the rose pink one. He happily covers your legs with it to keep you warm, stroking your cheek when you whisper a bashful ‘thank you’.

Suddenly, the wind picks up and your hair-clip that’s holding your locks in a low bun comes loose, and your head turns in the direction of where it flew off to. Toji is quick to take out his phone and he snaps a quick burst shot of you, your hair blowing in the wind, under the coastal spring weather. You turn to look at him and your face falls when you see him burying his phone in his pocket. Since you fell ill, you’ve become insecure of your appearance, banning your husband from taking pictures and videos of you altogether. “Toji, I thought I said no pictures.”

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

The next day, you serendipitously find your photo on your Instagram handle with the caption: “Y/N — Yokohama, Spring, 2024” and when you swipe left, another picture, well to be more accurate, a screenshot of the video clip you accidentally took of him captioned: “Toji — Yokohama, Summer, 2022”.

“You don’t have to stick around for me. Please just go, I’m sure Yuko must be looking for you right now.”

Yuko, his new fiancé, had been blowing up his phone the entire day with texts demanding to know where he is and if he’s going to make it to their date that night. It’s 7 PM now, and Toji still hasn’t shown up to confirm their restaurant reservations. The damn witch will surely cuss him out when they see each other again, but for some reason, even if he tries, he simply cannot bring himself to give a flying fuck. Your immunologist and oncologist stepped out for a bit to allow you two a brief moment of privacy which had now stretched to an expanse of five hours since your results came in.

The air in the room is thick and heavy, not a single sound can be heard. Inside however, underneath this tough exterior he was projecting, Toji is throwing a fit, screaming at the sky like those broken men in those shitty Netflix romance tragedies he used to callously make fun of.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? You knew, didn’t you?”

Toji’s bites his cheek trying to keep a lid on his emotions. He knows the answer. He just wants to hear you say it out loud. You hated him. You wanted nothing to do with him after he cheated on you with some girl he met at a bar in uptown Shibuya. That’s why you didn’t tell him, he didn’t deserve to know. “Shit,” he whispers harshly, crumpling the medical abstract in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Was it because you hated me? Is that it? You didn’t think I’d worry about you?”

You screwed your eyes shut, shaking your head. You didn’t hate him, not even when you have every reason to. He abandoned you, left you to waste away and to die and yet, even now, you can’t bring yourself to resent him for the simple reason that he is the literal love of your life, the reason behind your smiles, your happy mornings and passionate midnight hours. “At first, I thought I was fine, maybe just fatigued or something.”

“Don’t lie. You knew something was going on and that something in your body was seriously fucked up.”

“And we weren’t married anymore so, I didn’t think it was right to tell you…I wanted to though, but I didn’t want to intrude on you and Yuko,” you said meekly. Even in your greatest hour of need, you were still thinking of him, putting him first even when he doesn’t deserve it. “I-I…I don’t hate you enough to worry you, to make you feel that you could have done something to prevent this. Because I’m telling you right now, regardless if you were faithful or not, I was bound to get sick anyway. You couldn’t have done anything to change that.”

“But I could have been there. I should have noticed. I shouldn’t have downplayed everything.” He says this as if he wants to shake this noble, self-sacrificing bullshit attitude out of your system. “I’m your husband. I should have been there.”

You flash him a heartbroken smile at his little slip-up, so, even now, he was still referring to himself as your husband, not your ex-husband. “To see me waste away? Babe, I don’t want you to see that.”

You begin to feel tears streaming down your face, the emotions you were experiencing now flowing like a free river after an entire dam is destroyed. Toji watches you unravel before his eyes and his bottom lip begins to tremble. What has he done? Dear god, what has he done to his poor, poor wife?

“I want you to remember me healthy, I want you to remember me as myself not this…sickly pitiful woman you’re unlucky to call your ex-wife…besides, after all this, I’ll only be a dream.” A mere passing second in his life. “And believe me, my life wasn’t so bad.”

He loses it at that.

“Just stop this, Y/N! Stop acting like you’re not scared shitless of dying, like you’re not gonna have regrets once all this is over! Stop pretending that things are gonna be alright one day because it won’t! Not when I’m now being forced to accept that you won’t get better, not when I’ve wasted so much time putting you through hell and back instead of taking care of you like a proper husband should, and certainly not when I’m suddenly supposed to learn to say goodbye and to live without you! Because fuck that, Y/N!”

You are left speechless at that.

Toji was never one to lose his cool, even during your worst arguments, he may slide a few snarky remarks here and there but Toji Fushiguro…never yells, and he doesn’t sob either.

You hesitantly stand up and walk over to him, crouching down in front of him as he covers his tear-stained eyes with his right hand while the other is crumpled around your medical abstract. Taking his left hand, you gently remove the medical abstract from his grip, and for the first time in so many months, you feel one another’s warm skin against each other. You press your forehead to his hand as you wept with him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be a dream. I want you to be real.”

“Can’t you be bothered to clean up in here?!”

You wake up from your nap, you’ve been battling muscle and joint pain the entire day, the slightest of movement causing you to double over in agony and because of that, you weren’t able to clean the apartment today. You slowly get up from the couch, being extra cautious not to make any sudden movements. “Well?” Toji presses, his lips curled into a scowl.

“I’m sorry, I was feeling a little tired,” you sighed heavily, picking up a broom to sweep the living room floor despite the excruciating pain you were in. Toji rolls his eyes, handing you a Manila envelope. “What’s this?” you asked softly, peering inside.

“Divorce papers,” he shrugs nonchalantly. Everything stops, even the very rise and fall of your chest halts into an uneasy stasis. “I already signed them. I just need your signature then, I’ll move out by tomorrow.”

You must be dreaming. That’s the only logical explanation to all this. You’re asleep, in a deep REM sleep, utterly oblivious to the world. This wasn’t happening. But you could feel the rough surface of the brown envelope, and you could still feel the agonizing stabs of white hot pain throughout your body. Glancing at Toji, you see him texting someone with an eager look on his face that screams: “I’m free.”.

Instantly, it dawns on you.

“Will she make you happy?” you asked, putting down the broom to look around for a pen but Toji pulls one he stole from the law firm office out of his pocket.

“She will,” he answers simply.

And you are indeed grateful that he is completely upfront about finding another while the two of you are married. It would have hurt much more, you silently remind yourself, if he had just upped and left without another word leaving you to wonder what went wrong between the two of you. This was Toji’s final act of mercy in your marriage, and he’s not opposed to honesty and truthfulness either. Not once did he try to change his phone’s lock-screen passcode, nor did he try to conceal the identity of the woman who was texting him every night while you slept fitfully next to him. It was almost as if he wanted you to find out, like he wanted you to know so you could back off yourself.

But if there’s one thing Toji loves about you, it’s your unending faithfulness to your promises, to your marriage vows, and your willingness to endure anything he threw at you. You never checked his phone, you never brought up his affair, you never got angry with him. You just kept silent, simply content with giving and giving…and giving while he milked you dry by taking, and taking and taking, tearing you to pieces bit by bit without hearing a single complaint fall from your lips.

You were a devoted wife, through and through.

And it bored the hell out of him, on top of your recent mishaps, he was done. Done with everything, and done with you.

“Okay.”

Come morning, he takes everything he owns with him and promptly proposes to the girl he’s been seeing for the past year. Two weeks later, your divorce is received by the Tokyo Family Court and is summarily approved and finalized. From that moment on, you and Toji went on your separate ways never to look back, you were each other’s yesterdays, and the love that existed between the two of you was nullified in favor of acquaintanceship…or so you thought.

“Y/N, I’m home!” Toji calls into the house as he comes back from your neighborhood’s pharmacy. You look up from the book you were reading, smiling ever so slightly at your husband who seemed to have a wonderful sparkle in his eyes. “Hey, kid,” he kisses the top of your head when he reaches your wheelchair.

“You seem happy,” you remarked positively.

“Well, for one, they replenished their stocks today and I managed to get you your steroids and painkillers so you’ll be able to sleep easy tonight,” Toji smiles, taking out the items from the pharmacy’s paper bag. “And I got you this neat memory foam cushion for your wheelchair.” He fluffs it up as a form of demonstration before placing it behind your back.

When he sees you smile, a sense of relief washes over Toji. You reach towards him, and he pulls you into an embrace. “Thank you,” you said, pure sincerity dripping from your voice. “For everything you do.”

“Anything for you.” He suddenly moves back and reaches into the tote bag you lended him. “Oh, and wait, before I forget, I have another surprise.”

You laughed airily. “Another surprise? Now, you’re just spoiling me!”

He pulls out a piece of paper from the tote bag and he places it in your hands as your eyes quickly scan over the document. Your breath hitches in your throat when you realize what it is. Did Toji really—? You couldn’t believe it. “A marriage pre-registration,” you said in awe. You read it again just in case to make sure that this wasn’t a figment of your sick body’s imagination, that this was real, that Toji genuinely wants to make everything right again. Your fingers skim over your typewritten names. “It has our names…we’re really—“ You can’t even finish your sentence without bursting into happy tears. “Are we—?”

Toji nods, gazing into your eyes, and as emerald and (E/C) clash for what seems to be an eternity lost in one another, he plants a kiss to your temple, coming up to embrace you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“We are. The Tokyo Family Court, as far as I know, will approve our remarriage once we file this. So, you have to get stronger, okay?” He’s begging you at this point, despite your rapidly deteriorating condition. “Strong enough to see me fix everything. Strong enough to be there on our second wedding, strong enough to say our vows again.”

Your hand comes up to stroke his cheek from behind, and he nuzzles into your neck at your tender touch.

“I will. I promise.”

But you never really get to say your vows. Not comprehensibly anyway.

“Babe, can you say that again?”

Toji crouches by your bedside as you look at him apologetically. You were causing him trouble and pain again which is the last thing that you want to give him especially when’s fought and worked so hard to care for you, to keep prolonging this borrowed time you’re on. “To-ji. Toji.” You gaze at him apprehensibly, not really believing you can do it without crumbling.

“Come on, babe, you can do it. Say my name, please…Toji. I’m Toji.”

“Toooji-“ you slurred sadly. At this point, your Multiple Sclerosis has reached its end stage and has taken…everything from you: your ability to walk, your ability to control your muscle spasms and other bodily functions…and now, coupled with an unexpected stroke, your ability to speak. And you and Toji know that time is almost up, with you having come to accept it, while your husband still held onto hope. Your fingers gently graze over his face as best as your spasms and tremors allow you, starting from his forehead to his eyes, his nose, his cheek and finally, his lips, as if you’re memorizing it one last time. “Lo-ove you-“

Toji sniffles, and your fingers instinctively catch his warm tears. “I love you,” he whispers brokenly. “I do. I love you.”

You feel yourself tearing up as you’re forced to watch your beloved cry. And the worst part? You can’t do a thing about it. “D-oon’t c-cry—‘m okaay. Promi-miise…e’everyything ‘ill be okaaay.”

“Y-yeah,” he chuckles, trying to crack a joke even as hope dwindles. “You’ve been nothing but a fucking champ this entire time, you know? I’m so proud of you. So…so…proud that you’re still here.” He strokes your hair as you tread between the realms of the conscious and the unconscious. “Do you wanna go out today? The weather’s shit though. You’ll probably catch your death out there.” At the mention of the word ‘death’, Toji stops, falling into an uncomfortable silence.

You smile weakly at him. “Tiiredd—“

“You’re no fun,” Toji gently flicks your nose and you scrunch it up in displeasure. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding back an entire waterfall of tears. He knows it’s today. It has to be. You woke up today without your usual ‘happy morning’ greeting, and you refused to drink anything, much less eat anything. “You tired? Any pain?”

You shake your head. You’re as comfortable as you can be for the first time in months. Hospice nurses say humans are built to live the same way they are built to die, no person in this world has ever had the uncanny privilege of being able to look up ‘How to die?’ on a quick Google search and actually find a Wikihow on the morbid subject matter, nor is there anyone else who can teach another how it’s done. It’s just something humans know how to do without a manual, deeply ingrained in the very fabric of human existence is the fear of death, the fear of what comes after, the fear of a nothingness that could follow after living such a vibrant life. Your life was short, barely spanning thirty years, but you lived well: you fell in love, you got hurt, but you fell together again. Now it all has to come to an end, Toji will just have to take care of the rest.

And you weren’t scared.

Or at least you can’t look scared, if you were to be more accurate, you have to look strong and ready to accept the cards you’ve been dealt with for Toji’s sake. When he feels your hand start to slacken, Toji intakes a sharp, shaky breath of sheer panic. “Not yet, Y/N. Please. Not yet.”

He climbs into bed with you, bringing you closer to this desperate man you call yours. There was no getting better anymore, there was no miracle he could hang onto, no deity he could beg for death to spare you, no pill bottle he could pray to. He knew that from the start. But what he witnessed these past months, you’ve been the braver one between the two of you, you knew how to make the most of the rhythm this cruel world gave you and you graciously took him along to dance to the last song of the evening with you.

“There’s still hope. Just keep your eyes open. Just keep them open.” He presses his lips to your forehead, his delusion getting the better of him. “We’ll just keep trying…you can’t leave. You have to stay. You have to.”

“Thaank yoou—“ you softly told your Toji, your voice shrinking in decibels as you become a little drowsy, sinking into the warmth of the requiem of a life well spent.

Toji listens to you, his lips pursed, intent on making this final act of love — a love that is strong enough to say goodbye — a memorable one. And should the afterlife exist, he wishes to send you off with a smile, with the reassurance that he’ll be alright even if that was far from happening.

“Toji.”

“I want you to be real. And I don’t care if we’ll live on borrowed time. Another extra second with you…is enough to last me my entire lifetime.”

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ickadori · 7 months

Text

“You’re my boyfriend, Zayne, not my doctor.”

You huff as he shakes out a multivitamin gummy into the palm of his hand to join the rest of your pills that you had been forgetting —neglecting— to take.

“Is it not a boyfriend’s duty to look after his girlfriend’s health? If so, I have no problem ending this relationship to reinstate you as my patient.” His eyes slide over to meet yours, and you huff again, this time louder than the last, and thrust your hand out so he can drop the pills and gummies into it. “Smart choice.”

He slides you a prepared glass of water, the condensation leaving a wet streak across the counter, and he wipes it up with a paper towel. Your fingers close around the glass as you go to take the first pill, only for his voice to make you freeze.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet? Taking those on an empty stomach will make you nauseous.” He’s moving towards the pantry before you can even answer.

You blink at his back as your thumb idly rubs at the white pill. “It will? Hm…” Maybe that’s why you had felt violently ill every time you took your medicine - you were a chronic breakfast-skipper. “No, I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Does homemade pancakes, eggs, and sausages sound fine to you?” Your mouth waters at the thought, and your stomach voices its approval with a low growl. “I’ll take as a yes.” His voice is amused as he turns his head to look at you over his shoulder, and you shoot a bashful smile his way before placing your pills a bit to the side so they’re out of the way.

“Do you even have time to make all that? You have a surgery this afternoon, don’t you?” A sudden wave of guilt comes crashing over you, and your eyebrows pull together as you watch him grab all the ingredients. Zayne took care of people at work all day, and nearly everyday, and now here he was taking care of you in the small slot of time he had to relax before being thrust back into work, and all because you’re adverse to taking a few pills.

“There’s plenty of time left before I have to head in and start preparing. Don’t worry.” He assures, and you prop your chin up on your fist with a quiet sigh, knowing it’s no use trying to convince him of anything different.

He works quickly yet efficiently as he prepares everything, his gaze drifting over to you every so often. Soon enough, your apartment is filled with the scent of a delicious smelling breakfast and a plate filled with food is being placed down in front of you along with a fork.

Zayne props his forearms on the marble of the island you’re sat at and nods towards your food. “Eat.”

“A please would be nice.”

“A thank you would be nice.”

“A kiss would be nice.”

“Would it?” A smile tugs at his lips, and you nod with a hum as you pick up your fork. “I think so, too. Perhaps I’ll give you one once your plate is empty and those pills are gone.”

“Pinky promise?” You hold your pinky out to him, and he gives a soft shake of his hair, black hair swishing as he lets out a soft chuckle and twines his finger with yours.

“You’re such a child sometimes.”

“I keep you young.” You cut off a section of your pancakes and stuff it into your mouth, the sweet taste of the syrup coating your tastebuds and making you sigh. “An yawt.” You say around a mouthful of food, and he raises a brow as he moves your glass of water closer to you, but not before using his evol to make it ice cold.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full - you’ll choke.”

You swallow before speaking, fork already moving to gather another bite.

“So? You’re a doctor, you can just give me the heimlich.” It’s his turn to sigh.

“Just eat your food.”

#zayne x reader #love and deep space x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #zayne ilu <3 and imy <3 come home

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keys-hellscape-1020 · 2 years

Text

5 times you took care of the 141st, and one time they took care of you

Happy (late) holidays everyone! I hope you enjoy this piece!

Platonic!141st x medic!reader

Warning: Canon typical violence, minor angst, hurt/comfort, medical inaccuracies, military inaccuracies, very minor gore, hospital type settings, minor illness, fainting, brief mentions of vomiting, cursing.

1st

“Need a medic stat!”

You rushed through the battle ground, attempting to make your way to the other side of it. This was made extremely difficult by the large chunks of rubble scattered about, oh and the fact they are at least a dozen people shooting at you.

“Stitch!!”

“Soap I’m on my way, apply pressure I’ll be there soon!” You panted, vaulting over some rubble and sliding to cover to prevent getting shot yourself.

The mission had gone to shit extremely quickly. You were just supposed to get the information and get out, stick together and move quickly. You all were not anticipating bombs being dropped on your heads from enemy aircrafts.

They had scattered you all quickly, as each of you attempted to avoid being hit. It seemed as that was their plan because as soon as you all were split up enemy soldiers surrounded you out of nowhere.

Price has called for an evac, but the lack of non blown up landmarks made it difficult to regroup.

You fired off a few shots into the smoke, praying they found their mark, and took off once more.

Going over and under rubble, left and right, in and out, it felt like you were never going to reach Soap.

Just as you were about to start violently cursing the gods for the situation you were in you saw Soap a few hundred yards off from you. To your surprise he looked to be in alright shape, the lump next to him however you couldn’t say the same for.

“Soap I have visual on you, what’s the situation?”

“The situation is Gaz is bloody shot!!”

Cursing under your breath you moved from your cover once more. Keeping low to the ground, more crawling than running at times, you finally made your way to Soap and Gaz.

Sliding in next to them you got to work. Looking Gaz over, you immediately started treating the biggest and most obvious problem, the bullet wound in his stomach.

Soap had tried his best to stop the bleeding, that much was clear from the soaked gauze packed into the wound, but with the need to return fire he couldn’t keep up with it.

You applied heavy pressure on it, praying that’s enough to keep him alive until he can get to a hospital.

“Price where the hell is that damn evac?!”

“3 minutes out, landing in what used to be the hospital parking lot. I’ve got Ghost with me what’s your status?”

“Me and Soap are alright, Gaz has been shot and is loosing blood fast he needs to get out of here asap!”

“We need to move!” Soap yells at you over his shoulder from where he’s returning fire at the enemy.

You act fast, harshly rubbing Gaz’s sternum to wake him up.

His eyes barely peak open, “Stitchy? What’s goin’ on?” He sounds drunk, which with how much blood he’s lost doesn’t surprise you.

“Hey, hey buddy, stay awake, your badly hurt we need to move.” You chirp, trying to keep your voice light despite the situation. “How you feelin’ bud? Can you talk to me?”

As you speak you rummage through your pocket, sighing in relief when you find what you were looking for, a stim shot and some pain relief.

Gaz had nodded off again in the brief time you weren’t speaking, and you lean in again to speak to him. “Gaz!! Come one buddy, keep your damn eyes open!”

“Stitch!” Soap calls from behind your back, the urgency in his voice can not be ignored.

“I know!” Deciding that you don’t have time to wake him up, you quickly stab the stim shot into his thigh.

That wakes up Gaz with a start. He flinches in pain, his eyes now wide open.

“Welcome back to the world buddy!” You shout at him, quickly injecting him with pain relief and tightening the sloppy bandage around his midsection one last time.

“Soap! Ready to move!” You call to him, hauling Gaz’s arm and part of his body, over your shoulder.

Soap leads the way, ducking behind rubble and returning fire when he can. You both move as quickly as you can, you would be lying if you said you weren’t struggling to keep up. Gaz was already fairly heavy, he also has all his gear on him which did not help your situation at all.

You were falling a bit behind Soap, but you kept hauling both you and Gaz towards him as fast as you could.

You were not going to let either of you die out here.

Finally you both reach the evac sight. Laying eyes on Price and Ghost you feel like you can breath again.

You run up next to where they’re positioned behind a large chunk of rubble. Laying Gaz down with his back to it you go to check his bandages again.

When you glance up to his face you notice that he’s awake. “How ya feelin’ bud?” You shout over the sound of gunfire, applying more pressure to his bleeding wound.

“Like shit.” He quips back.

You struggled to hear him over the sound of gunfire, but you were glad that he was conscious enough to talk to you and process what your saying.

Finally, fucking finally, your hear the sound of what might as well be the holy grail.

The heli lands about 20 yards away from you, cruising down to the ground, before it’s even landed Price is yelling orders.

“Stitch and Gaz move first, the rest of us will cover you from behind!”

You throw Gaz’s arm back over your shoulder and haul him onto his feet, thankfully he’s now awake enough that he can help you instead of you dragging him. Once you reach the heli you throw the top half of his body in, causing him to wince in pain.

“Sorry bud!” You shout over the noise of the chopper, pulling him the rest of the way in. You lean over him, securing him inside the chopper, then lifting up his shirt to check and make sure his bandages are still tight. Thankfully the bleeding has slowed down enough where there is minimal blood visibility through the bandage which makes you breath a sigh of relief.

You feel the heli taking off and you glance over your shoulder to make sure all your boys got onboard in one piece.

“Any other injuries I should know about?” You shout over the sound of the Heli.

“Your gonna have some if you don’t bloody sit down and secure yourself!” Price yells back at you.

You back off sitting yourself down next to Gaz. He was still hurt badly, but at least now he was as stable as you could get him.

All things said?

That was a shit show.

2nd

You hummed as you fluttered around the med bay busily. Moving from one spot to the other, carefully taking inventory with your trusty clipboard in hand.

You were truly in your element, everything was calm, orderly, and you were free to just do your job without any interruptions.

The door to the infirmary swung open, hitting the wall with a bang! In came Ghost, dragging a whining Soap behind him.

Ghost looked seriously pissed off, his eyebrows were noticeably furrowed under his balaclava and his shoulders were hunched. If you were to rely on context clues the only reason Soap was here was because of Ghost’s firm grip on his bicep.

“Can I help you?” You ask, face completely dead-pan.

Ghost doesn’t respond, just roughly pushes Soap towards you. Now that you have a better look at him you can see that his shoulder looks… wrong to say the least.

“What did you do this time?” You sigh, walking over to grab Soap by his ear.

“Owww” Soap whines “Sure! Pick on the injured person why don’t ya?”

“How do you always get injured at base but never on missions?” You taunt, pulling Soap over to the nearest available gurney.

You gesture for him to sit down on the bed, and when you turn around you notice Ghost, still standing where you left him.

“Either sit down or leave Ghost, there’s no lurking in my medical bay.” You say, grabbing what you need to treat Soap.

Returning to Soap you gently push him down on his non-injured shoulder. “Y’know if you wanted me like this you could’ve just asked.” Soap taunts with a wink, prompting you to sigh.

Thankfully he’s in a tank top or you would have to cut off his shirt, you know from personal experience with treating him that when you have to do that he makes plenty of comments.

“Alright, this is probably gonna hurt like a bitch, don’t punch me.” You say as you put Soaps arm in the proper position for realignment.

“Wouldn’t dream of it la- OW WHAT THE FUCK.”

“All done” you quip, pulling off your gloves. You look back over your shoulder to see Ghost has moved to the foot of the gurney.

“What were you two even doing?” You ask, putting your supplies away and getting different ones out.

“Fuckin” “Sparing” They say at the same time.

You should’ve know better than to ask.

3rd

You can’t believe this. You can’t believe your boys. You knew they could be stupid sometimes but this is next level!

Thankfully most of them had gotten away with minor injuries, and somehow you had gotten out without a scratch, despite not even knowing the plan before they decided to execute it.

Soap and Ghost had only bumps and bruises, somehow, considering they were in the thick of their stupid plan. Gaz had a few scrapes and a sprained ankle, but you patched him up then set him off with a crutch and a promise to go easy on it. And the captain? You don’t even know how he managed it considering he’s supposed to be the smart one, but he broke his leg.

So now you are in the med bay, essentially holding your own captain hostage (not like he could get very far if he did decide to run off).

He is not a good patient. None of your boys are. He complains about being there, says how he wants to leave and how he wishes he could do things for himself. You understand that, but the best thing for him at the moment is rest, and he seems adamant on not taking it.

“Stitch”

“If you ask me if you can leave again I’m smacking you.” You say while walking over to him.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way for me to go get food is there?” He asks, looking far to innocent for his own good. He’s planning something. You just know it.

“I’ll call one of the boys to bring you something up.” You quip, already walking away, intent on y’know, doing your job.

“Stitch” You hear him call as soon as you walk away.

“Yes sir?” You question, turning around to stare him dead in the eyes.

“How long until I get out of this hell hole?”

“Until your leg heals or you get put on leave.”

“Leave?” He sounds actually startled at that proposition, prompting you to walk closer to him.

“Just for a few months sir, until your leg heals.” You soothe. As quick as the startled look in his eyes appeared it was gone. Masked down under his cool captain facade.

“You can have a few months of uninterrupted down time with your husband. Doesn’t that sound nice?” You ask, walking over to stand next to him, setting your hand on the knee of his uninjured leg.

“Have you met yourselves? You all will get killed without me here!” He exclaims, running a hand through his beard in exasperation.

“You’re one to talk sir.” You say deadpan. “Trust me the boys will be fine. They will be better off without you for a few months than they will be if they see you constantly cooped up in here.”

“Stitch, nothing good can possibly come from me not being here!”

“Sir,” you quip as you sit on the side of his gurney, “you need to give them more credit. They’re smart, strong, soldiers, and if you order them to they’ll hold themselves together until you return.”

“You think they can’t behave unless their ordered?” Price smirks.

“What can I say, I know them to well.”

“Hard to argue with that.”

4th

You woke up to a thudding in your head.

Thud, thud, thud.

Thud, thud, knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

As you come to, your groggy self realizes that loud, obtrusive noise is not coming from within your head, but outside it. You go to answer the door, (tripping over your blankets on the floor in the process) and find Ghost standing behind it.

You realize with a start that he’s in civvies, and has replaced his balaclava with a simple black face mask. While this should’ve been expected, it still comes as a surprise to you. They look unnatural on him.

“Ghost? What are you doing here?” You ask, trying not to scream on account of it being 3 am.

He nudges you to the side, walking in so you can close the door, and it’s then that you notice that his black shirt is getting even darker with blood.

“Ghost, what the fuck.” You sigh, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards your couch. “Stay here, I’ll be right back with first aid.”

You run to the bathroom, fling open the cabinet under the sink to grab the first aid kit and run back.

“If you ran like that during missions we might have to cover you less.” Ghost muttered.

“Oh shut up, what did you even DO.” You ask, pulling up his shirt with a pad of gauze ready in your other hand to staunch the bleeding.

You find the culprit quickly, a long but shallow gash along his side. It would need stitches, but thankfully you could do that here.

“How’s it look doc?” He mumbles, barely legible.

“You’ll be fine after some stitches but how did you even do this? We’re on leave.” You question, absolutely exasperated. You all were on leave and you still couldn’t catch a break from your idiot boys.

His response is mearly to grunt and look away from you.

“Alright then, well I’ll go ahead and clean it up for you alright?” You mutter.

You go through the motions, this is something you’ve done a million times. Clean, antiseptic, stitches, bandage, done.

As your putting everything away you notice Ghost is staring at the floor, and something about him feels… off.

As you go to put the first aid kit away you nudge his foot with yours, “You feelin’ alright bud? You can stay the night if you need.”

“‘M fine” he mutters, still not making eye contact.

“Wow that was convincing.” You dead pan as you walk away from him to go put up your first aid kit.

When you return to his side you gently rest your hand on his shoulder and say, “Listen, I don’t know what happened but you can stay here as long as you need. I gave you all this address for emergencies after all.”

He eyes you, before reaching up to your hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze, “Thanks Stitch”.

“Anytime.”

5th

You are starting to believe you’ve done something to piss off the gods.

You have just gotten back from leave and already the rest of your task force is sick. It started with Soap, who had come back to base with it, except he insisted it was nothing and went about training like he normally does. Him refusing to rest like you told him to led to him getting Ghost sick, not a surprise with how much they… “hang out.”

Next was Gaz, who despite you telling him not to, was adamant about treating them. When he inevitably fell to the illness he went whining about it to Price, who despite his best efforts, still got it. You suspect if he hadn’t still been trying to get his leg back to what it was before he broke it he could’ve outran him.

And then there was you. The sole survivor.

For some reason all of them had decided to wallow in your room, something about Soap insisting it had “healing properties” because your a medic. You told him to get out. He didn’t listen.

Gaz had curled up in your bed, Price had taken the couch, Soap curled up in your arm chair, and Ghost took the rug.

You were going to do so much cleaning once you managed to get these fuckers out.

But for now, you had to be in medic mode. So you went in. Armed with a face mask, gloves, everything antiseptic you could get your hands on, you started your plan: get the sick bastards out of my room.

The first step was making them feel better, so you decided on a classic sick food; chicken noodle soup.

You pushed the door to your room open with your back, on account of you carrying a heavy tray with 4 bowls of soup.

“Hiya boys, how are you feeling?” You chirped, setting the tray down on your desk. “I brought dinner if your feeling up to it.”

Much to your amusement Soaps head immediately shot up at the promise of food. “What did ya bring?” He rasped, the poor thing had lost most of his voice when he got ill and he was only now starting to get it back.

“Chicken noodle soup, although I’m not sure the bastard who started this whole mess should get any.” You quipped, even though you were actively handing him a bowl.

“Thank ya kindly.” He mumbled as he took the bowl from you. As far as your boys went Soap was the closest to looking like his regular self. Yes he didn’t have much of a voice, and his energy was way down from normal, but he was the least pale, and obviously the one with the most appetite.

“Anybody else want any?” You asked, glancing about your room turned sick bay.

From the corner of your room you saw Price weakly raise his hand from the couch. “Geez dramatic much?” You snorted out a laugh while handing him his bowl.

“Don’t bully the ill Stitch.” Gaz huffs from your bed.

“Your in my room, I’ll bully as much as I please.” You huffed “Now do you want soup?”

You saw Gaz lift his head to look at the soup questioningly before shrugging and nodding yes.

Once you had one bowl of soup left you looked down at the dark puddle on your rug. “Ghost, dinner time.” You chirped.

“Leave me to my death.” He moaned back at you.

“Oh you’re hardly dying, here sit up and eat something you’ll feel better.” As you spoke you gently crouched down to him and started repeatedly poking him on the shoulder.

“What do you want you heathen” he muttered as he finally sat up, only to have a bowl of soup forced into his hands.

“Eat.” You said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care.”

Reluctantly Ghost pulled up his mask to his nose and began to eat his soup, with everyone fed you looked around to see if anyone was done.

Like you expected, Soap was already done and Gaz was about 2/3 of the way through his. Time for step 2, probably the hardest part: Medicine.

You walked over to your desk and looked through the bag you’d brought in with the tray. You were muttering curses under your breath when you finally found it. A bottle of NyQuil. Not only will it help their colds, it’ll also knock them out so you won’t have to deal with them! Win win! Looking over at Soap you decided he would be your first target.

Loading up a spoon with the liquid you carefully step over to Soap, trying to not set off any of his alarm bells.

“Can I take your bowl?” You ask him, making sure to have a normal tone that doesn’t give away your true intentions.

“Sure, thank ya.” He rasped handing you his bowl. Before he could fully take his hand off the bowl you whisked the bowl away and shoved the spoonful of medicine into his hand.

He stared at the spoon like it was poison, “Stitch, what IS this?” He questioned.

“Medicine.” You quipped back. “It’ll make you feel better. Maybe if you take it you can insist on training again to go infect more people.”

Soap let out a raspy groan, but despite his previous complaint he swallowed the medicine, making a comical face after tasting it, and handed the spoon back to you.

Your next, “victims” as you choose to call them, didn’t put up much of a fight.

Gaz didn’t complain once he realized you weren’t leaving him alone until he took it, and Price took it without a word. Overall, a pretty positive experience. Your next challenger however would be much more difficult.

You eye up Ghost, and decide at this point attempting to be stealthy is pointless, he’s already seen you carry out your plan, and thus you approach him with your ammo loaded spoon fearlessly.

“No.” He groans, voice muffled from how he’s laying face first in your rug.

“Ghost, it’ll make you feel better.” You try, but the mountain man simply acts as if he didn’t hear you. You start repeatedly nudging him with your foot, over and over and over again until finally he picks his head up to look at you.

You can’t see much of him because of the mask, but from what you can see his eyes are much more puffy and red than normal, and anyone could notice the subtle rasp to his voice that’s not normally there.

“You need to take the medicine.” You spoke calmly, like you were talking to a cranky toddler. “It’ll make you feel better. Plus everyone else already took theirs.”

“Well they’re weak.” He groaned, and yet he still snatched the spoon from you, shoved the medicine in his mouth, and then threw it back at you.

“Dramatic much.” You whispered to yourself, getting up to put everything away.

If there’s one thing you got from this experience it’s this:

You work with literal children.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1st

You felt like shit.

Not that you plan on letting that fact be known.

You’ve been attempting to put on some blush and concealer for the last 30 minutes in an attempt to make yourself look more alive. Your only responsibility today is a meeting to discuss your next mission so while it’s technically against dress code you don’t think anyone will notice, or if they do notice you doubt they will care.

Your body however seems to be stubbornly rebelling against your master plan to seem healthy. Your attempts to stand at your desk and put on makeup keep being thwarted as your head pounds any time you stand up and your vision blurs.

Despite your bodies valiant attempts to incapacitate you, you did manage to get your makeup on, put your clothes on, and get out the door.

Once you hobbled your way into the meeting room you saw that everyone was already there, as you took much longer than expected getting ready, which led to you being late.

“Damn Stitch you look… rough.” Gaz commented with a wince.

“Shut it.” You muttered, your voice already half gone.

When you woke up this morning you knew you were in for a hell of a week. You throat hurt like hell, and your voice was nearly gone. You kept coughing and sneezing and your head hurt horribly. All the same symptoms of what your boys had.

Despite your best efforts to get them out they had ended up staying for nearly a week. Soap left after about 2 days of rest, as he had it before the chaos started, but even with their ring leader gone the rest stayed put, with little signs of recovery. Due to this, your constant cleaning in between bouts of caring for them was futile, and 2 days after they recovered, it seems the inevitable happened. You caught it.

You sat with a thud in your normal seat next to Gaz, nodding at Price. “Sorry I’m late sir.” You grunted, barely able to get the words out.

“Are you feelin’ alright?” He asked, eyes narrowed at you suspiciously.

“Never better.” You lied.

Price was still eyeing you with suspicion, but he turned to begin the meeting anyway.

Nothing much of note happened during the meeting, except the fact that Gaz kept giving you looks of increasing concern, and every time you let out a muffled cough Ghost gave you a death stare. Soap looked at you more than Price for the whole meeting, despite him getting told off numerous times.

At the end of the meeting you moved to get up to retreat to your room, but as soon as you rose your head started spinning aggressively, the world blurred into one large mass of color, and then black.

You woke up with a start. Sitting up and immediately backing into the nearest corner you assessed your surroundings.

You were in your room, and the lack of light coming through the window let you know it was night. You must have slept a while as it was still morning when your meeting ended. Upon feeling a weight tighten on your waist you looked down and felt your cheeks grow warm.

Gaz was curled up right next to you, his arm wrapped around your waist. He was sleeping peacefully next to you, his body curled slightly. You thought it safe to assume he was curled around you until you shot up.

Looking around the room you saw the rest of your boys spread around. Ghost was lying peacefully on your rug (honestly you found his obsession with it a little concerning), with Soap half on top of him. Price was laying on your couch with his god-awful hat on his face, presumably to block out the nonexistent light.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a bout of violent coughing. Your lungs felt like stress balls as they were squeezed under the muscles of your chest, and in one violent motion you swung yourself out of bed and rushed towards the bathroom.

As you emptied your stomach contents into the toilet bowl you felt someone wipe away the sweat on your forehead and crouch down next to you.

“That’s it, get it all out.” You heard Soap mumble next to you.

As your stomach finished emptying itself and you spat into the toilet into an attempt to get the taste out of your mouth Soap gently leaned over to wipe your mouth for you.

You sat back on your haunches with your eyes closed, breathing heavily. You creaked your eyes when you heard multiple pairs of footsteps quickly approaching the door.

Ghost stood directly behind Soap, looking at you with poorly masked concern. Next to him, with a death grip on his elbow, was Gaz, who was not even trying to mask his concern at your state. Behind both of them peered Price, and while he displayed a glare on his face, you knew him well enough to know that was his way of showing concern.

“Respectfully Stitch, what the fuck?” Soap gently said next to you.

Instead of actually responding like all of your years of training and experience are screaming at you to do, your emotions take over and you start violently sobbing.

You feel miserable. You head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton, your throat is on fire, all your limbs feel weighed down with lead, you can’t even stay awake long enough to walk to your own room and now your emotional state is such shit your violently crying in front of all of your boys.

The first one to react is Soap, who instantly tightly pulls you into a hug. The next is Gaz, who rushed over to tackle you- gently! In a hug. Price awkwardly walked over to sling an arm around you as well, and Soap turned around to grab Ghost by his ankle and drag him in.

“I-I’m sorry.” You gasped out between sobs.

In response to your statement Soap and Gaz’s arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

Finally, Price spoke. “Alright crowding em’ isn’t gonna help anything. Soap make sure they brush their teeth then get them the fuck to bed. Ghost, grab the medicine they gave us and anything else that might help. Gaz make sure they have water and a Gatorade on their nightstand. I’m gonna run to medical and get them some anti-nausea medication.”

Hearing that your boys all scurried off to follow orders.

Soap carefully raised you up, and made sure you had steadied yourself against the counter before releasing you. He grabbed your toothbrush for you and put a generous amount of toothpaste on it. After he handed it to you and made sure you were good he started busying himself with anything he thought needed a bit of tidying around your bathroom. Which was apparently a lot.

As he worked he spoke lowly, “Gave us all quite a fright there. Thought you were hurt for a moment and rushed ya to the med bay. They told us you were just ill and had us bring ya to your room.”

You spat out your toothpaste and muttered between sniffles, “sorry.”

As you cleaned off your toothbrush and your mouth Soap approached you and pulled you in tight. “I know we annoy the hell out of you with our recklessness, but I don’t know what I would do without ya. You’re the glue that holds us all together, without ya’ we all would be dead 10 times over.”

As Soaps little speech ended someone cleared their throat behind you, prompting you to turn around.

There stood Gaz, leaning against the doorframe. “He’s right y’know.” He said softly, slowly approaching you. “We would fall apart without you. And if keeping you in good shape means tending to you while your vulnerable like you do for us so well, then we will do it happily.”

“Gaz, you all gonna make me cry again.” You sniffled, rubbing harshly at your eyes.

His eyes grew wide at that and quickly pulled you into another hug, “Please no.”

“Alright, alright. We need to get ‘em to bed. Let em’ rest and what not.” Soap said gently pulling you from Gaz.

“Right right.” And with that Gaz gently took your hand leading you towards your bed. Soap followed closely behind, keeping a hand on your shoulder the whole time, like he was scared you would fall over again (not that you can blame him).

As they settled you in Price came in through the door, carrying a bucket and a small pill in his other hand.

“Alright, this bucket is incase you get sick again.” He said, setting it down next to your nightstand. “And this pill is for your nausea.”

He handed you the pill and the glass of water Gaz had gotten for you earlier. As you took the pill Ghost finally walked over with the medicine he has taken way to long to find.

“Alright here ya go.” Ghost said, attempting to hand you the spoon once you took the pill.

You however, were apparently not sick enough to not cause problems on purpose as you leaned comically far away from the spoon.

When Ghost gave you a pointed look you simply shrugged and said “Revenge bitch.” Before grabbing the spoon and taking the medicine.

“Alright I think that’s everything.” Price started, “We’ll leave you alone now and let you rest. Come on boys.”

As they moved to leave something came over you, making you call out to them, “Wait, uh please wait. Can… can you all stay? Please?” As you spoke you curled up further into your blankets, attempting to hide yourself in them.

Soap was the first to react to your question. “Aww sure Stichey, of course we’ll stay!” He smirked, practically prancing over to you to playfully ruffle your hair.

You scoffed, already regretting your decision, and rolled over to face the wall muttering, “forget it.”

“No no no.” Gaz said, quickly walking over to you, making sure to give Soap a good smack on the back of his head on the way. “If you want us to stay we can stay. It’s the least we can do. Right?” At that last word he shot a pointed glare towards the other members of the 141st, who all made varying gestures of agreement.

With that figured out your boys all settled in. Gaz practically latched onto you, pulling you to his chest and tucking your head under his chin. Soap, feeling extremely left out, decided to snuggled into your back, wrapping his arms around your waist and nuzzling at the back of your neck. Soap waved Ghost over and with a sigh he slid his legs under everyone else’s and leaned half against Soap, half against the wall.

“Well looks like I can’t fit- what a shame,” Price began, only to have the back of his shirt grabbed by Gaz who proceeded to practically throw him over everyone onto Ghost, who promptly threw him off. He eventually settled in next to Ghost, half leaning on him, his legs fully intertwined with everyone else’s.

Once everyone was settled you felt incredibly comfortable. Your boys were all around you, and while yes, you still felt like shit, their heat and comfort more than made up for it.

The most important thing you got from this experience?

Your boys may be annoying sometimes, but there is nothing they wouldn’t do for you.

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 3 months

Text

Yandere Femboy Tenant x Landlord Reader (2)

Part 1

“This is your new life, my little landlord, now let me tell you about my rules!”

The sad thing about this situation is the betrayal for you

You’ve heard stories about squatters or terrible tenants that didn’t want to leave

But you were never aware you needed to worry about being abducted

And by this tenant no less

From your many other tenants who were bodybuilders, gang members, drug dealers

It was this one

The pretty femboy who was always late on rent

“What’s with that indignant look on your face? Mad you didn’t guess? That’s okay no one suspects just how much talent is behind my gorgeous face.”

You don’t know if you’d call a dedicated fanbase excuse me a cult a talent

Now in some foreign luxurious place, the only people surrounding you are Sora and the dedicated followers who have been commanded to keep you here

“Sora-sama is bestowing a gift upon you! Be grateful!”

“Sora-sama did say you would say these concerning things…but he was right your illness is severe.”

“No worries Sora-sama has taught us how to give your medication no worries! Now stand still!”

The medication you’re given ranges from alcohol, paralyzing serums, or aphrodisiacs depending on your behavior

Sora is very careful about where he’s affectionate with you

He knows very well which of his loyal little followers will not mind, the ones that may even begin to worship you

But he knows there are dangerous ones

Jealous ones that are perfect for when he demands they commit certain crimes or ultimately sacrifices–when he gets to that point

It takes a while to go that deep

But a near attack from a jealous follower is enough to trigger it

Before this, he’d vaguely recall how he first cried to his followers about an especially creepy fan and hearing from police how little of their remains could identified

Or how one of the fans got a little too forward making him actively cringe in front of his followers

That fan was never heard of or seen again

At the time his guilt was small but present

He didn’t kill those people…his fans did…besides they were the ones overstepping

It’s not that bad…right

But when you’re on the line that guilt dissipates

The tears he sheds when he caresses the bandage on your arm

Are ones of anger

He’s perfect, beautiful, kind, full of wisdom

So why was his love being tampered with

The world should and would be at his feet

With you–safely–at his side

But he can’t do this without you being in danger

So he’ll let his tears show to the most loyal, the most violent, the most dutiful

“They hurt me by hurting my (Y/n)! Do you like this?”

“NO!”

“Will you not protect me? Protect us?”

“Of course! “Will you kill for us?”

“YES!”

“Good. We’ll be waiting to see the results of your hunt. My beautiful little followers!”

“YES!”

It kind of takes him back when you do try to add some input

Not too long ago he remembers pleading with you about rent

Now it’s you pleading with him not to execute the unlucky group that tried to take your place

But just like you did with him he’s going to cruelly deny you

Well maybe he can be persuaded if you let him participate in an activity you’ve forbidden of him

“I might be willing to let them off with a loss of one limb if you let me do that one thing!”

“....”

“Come on! Aren’t you a benevolent compassionate partner to their king? Won’t you convince me not to punish them with my wrath?”

“Okay but only one time!”

“Yay! Wait for me to get my lingerie!”

He flips often between being at your whim to controlling every aspect of your life

But he has you for an example

Back then you were the landlord who caught his heart and kept him in line

So isn’t it just perfect that he do the same

#yandere x reader #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere x you #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere x darling #yandere male x reader #yandere femboy #yandere femboy tenant #yandere tenznt x landlord reader #yandere original character #yandere original characters #yandere femboy oc #yandere x gn reader #yandere x gender neutral reader

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solecize · 3 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (5)

ten years of being one and the same with jungkook as the country's it couple is the perfect disguise for the reality of a tumultuous relationship hidden behind the scenes.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: a ㅤㅤㅤ year of a death of a thousand cuts because, no matter what comes your way, saying goodbye is never an option. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: idol!jungkook/female idol!reader and fictional versions of various idols 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄. idol au, on-and-off relationship, angst, i swear there's fluff, fake dating, and themes of first love, growing up, struggles with fame, and marriage (ish) 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. portrayal of a toxic couple (implications of emotional abuse and control), both main characters are very flawed, violence, infidelity, foul language, substance use (illegal drugs) 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. based off of "you're losing me" by taylor swift. this is a fictional portrayal of real-life people that implement some aspects of real-life events. extra warning for violent acts in a relationship (throwing objects at the wall) ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤjoin the taglist here! ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤm.list | previous | next

stop, you're losin' me

i can't find a pulse

my heart won't start anymore

TOP HEADLINE TODAY: new kbs variety show announced - first mc revealed to be s.irens' novaㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ january 2017

the memories of bora bora stuck to you like maple syrup on your hands for years. it was a haunting notion to consider the trip the beginning of the end. you remember the way the golden sand stretched out across the water for what felt like forever, as it shimmered and sparkled under the relentless sun. you could hear jungkook’s laughter echoing in your ears like a melody of a song that looped in your head. the sharpest image of that week glared at you angrily - the first serious fight that you ever got into with your boyfriend.

it was a given that you and jungkook butted heads like any other long-term couple, but you found yourself stomping away to nayoung’s hotel room at the end of the third night with a bundle of clothes in your hands and tear-stained cheeks.

when she swung the door open, her heavy lids indicated that she was about to burst into a complaint about you waking her up. instead, nayoung’s eyes jolted open when they read the expression on your face.

“what happened?” she asked.

you fought a wail, making sure to shove any sort of crying down your throat because god knows you would never stop if you started. nayoung frowned and opened the door wider, gesturing for you to come in.

her room was always messy at the dorms and you weren’t shocked to find her hotel room in a similar state of disarray. however, it beat the way you trashed the room you’d been sharing with jungkook. clothes on the floor, random objects hurled at the wall, and even a lamp abandoned on the floor. the anger you felt was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. you admitted this to nayoung, who looked at you like you had two heads.

“yeah, we fought and i may have knocked some things over. . . “

your temperament was definitely an issue to be discussed, but in your eyes, there were more pressing problems to address. when nayoung made room for you to sit on the left side of the bed, you immediately tucked yourself under the covers and let a few tears stream down your face.

she frowned. “what were you guys fighting about?”

“jungkook thinks that i’m always too focused on work,” you explained, swiping at your face. “he said i don’t make enough time for him.”

at this point, you were four years into debut and permanently stuck in the fast lane. a few major events occurred in your career recently that changed the trajectory of your group’s popularity - the first being the departure of miseul. it was an unfortunate situation, as she requested the termination of her contract to go back to her hometown, where her grandmother was ill. the company then replaced her with a new girl, cara, who you did not get along with. there was no choice in the matter, though, and your group’s first comeback with the new lineup happened earlier that year.

another signficant dynamic change was nayoung’s quick rise to stardom as an actress. she’d starred in a drama that was one of the most popular of all time on mbc and as a result, grew in popularity that arguably surpassed your group. she had endorsements and jobs coming left and right, which was prioritized by your company over the group’s endeavours.

it was a bitter feeling, being overshadowed by both your own group mate and boyfriend, but you instead focused on working harder and taking on every project you could. even with bts’ growing status and schedules, you found yourself making less and less time for jungkook and his argument was that he always did more for the relationship than you did.

“focused on work? we’re literally on vacation.” nayoung sighed, coming into bed with you. “i’m glad you’re here, though, y/n. i feel like i haven’t seen you since we landed.”

agreeing to the bora bora trip was a reluctant decision, as it was originally just supposed to be a composition of your and jungkook’s friends. you only wanted to bring nayoung and sooah, until the latter convinced you to ask cara to tag along, since they didn’t want to leave her out. the trip was intended to be the time for you to bond with jungkook, but you were now put into a position to also bond with your group members, especially since things hadn’t really been the same with the girls since miseul left.

“nayoung, we’re still friends right?” you asked meekly, feeling pathetic even as you said it.

her shoulders dropped and she pulled you into an embrace. “of course we are! why would you say that?”

“ever since we stopped living with each other and since miseul left. . .” you trailed off, tearing away. “i feel like the group sees each other as just coworkers or something.”

you were now twenty years old and experiencing life independently. the same was said for your group mates, as you were all now off doing your own things and only reuniting once or twice a year for a comeback. at some point, you considered these girls sisters. now, those feelings felt miles away. even the bora bora trip felt forced.

“y/n,” nayoung’s tone grew serious. “i’m always going to be here for you.”

this would be the last time that s.irens would spend time together outside of work. sooah and nayoung’s relationship soured over the years to the point where they no longer spoke by 2020 - a result of merely growing up and growing out of childhood friendships. you also began building resentment against nayoung, who would become the country’s it girl in no time and stopped publicly acknowledging that she was in a girl group. you eventually no longer considered her a friend, deciding you did not want her arrogance in your life. miseul only texted you once a year to say happy birthday. this was the breakdown of the only support system you had.

when morning came after staying up until dawn with nayoung, you found yourself sneaking back into your and jungkook’s shared hotel room. you were surprised to see that he was not in bed, but felt a salty breeze stream in from the balcony.

you stepped forward and saw jungkook sitting down, eyes fixed on the aquamarine of the beach ahead. when you opened the door wider to let yourself out, he already knew it was you.

“i’m sorry, bug,” he immediately said, too ashamed to look at you.

you were convinced that it was your hothead that drove the majority of the argument and his apology made your heart sink. you were the one who threw things at the wall and spiralled without looking back. he shot back with his own words, but you knew that you were the one who started it.

without warning, you sat right beside jungkook and wrapped your arms around his back. you put your chin on his shoulder and he physically relaxed, as if he’d been carrying sandbags for days. you whispered an apology against his neck and held back tears.

“you’re right. i’ve been a horrible girlfriend.” you hated how bitter the words tasted. “i’m going to do my best to fix my work-life balance. you try so hard for me.”

TOP HEADLINE TODAY: the 2017 edition of the idol star ahtletic competition now filming in goyang!ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤjanuary 2017

you never felt at fault for your hot temper when jungkook’s jealous eye followed you like a lost puppy. it was just as much as a problem as your own shortcomings and it always felt like a battle of who’s more in the wrong between you two.

everyone looked forward to each year’s edition of the idol star athletic championsips, a kind break amidst the hustle and bustle of a regular schedule. some of the more active idols took the games quite seriously, but for you and the rest of s.irens, it was several days of filming that were ultimately far more chill than any of your regular promotional activities. coming off the bora bora trip, a little relay race was next to nothing in terms of effort.

your group’s event was the last of the day, which left you and nayoung wandering around the goyang gymnasium for the meantime. you were texting jungkook to see if he was also free, when nayoung was called over by some individuals.

it was in a tent area away from the view of the spectators and cameras, which you were grateful for at an event where fans watched idols like hawks.

“nayoung! and nova!”

exo’s leader was known in the community to be charming and well-spoken, which didn’t surprise you when you found yourself struck immediately. you’d seen him around and of course watched him on television and online, but you could now see up close just how different the aura of a top boy group was. beside him was his fellow group members and participants for the archery event later that day, who were sehun and chanyeol.

“y/n, this is junmyeon and sehun and chanyeol,” nayoung introduced, beaming. it seemed like her rise in popularity meant that she had begun rubbing elbows with a-list idols like exo.

you mirrored her smile. “nice to meet you all. y/n is fine, just call me that,” you insisted, as the three of you exchanged bows.

unlike your fellow group members, you didn’t find yourself to be much of a social butterfly. you hung out with them and your boyfriend - occasionally your boyfriend’s friends. yet, somehow, others knew you. sehun asked if you were doing archery again this year, which you weren’t. junmyeon complimented your group’s last release. chanyeol mentioned running into miseul at the airport the other day.

as the pleasantries were made, the floor rumbled with the roar of fans across the stands. in the middle of the arena, the rhythmic gymnastics event was set to begin and all eyes were trained on the competition. that is, all eyes except junmyeon’s, whose own eyes remained fixated on you. it was a foreign sensation to feel your heart leap.

“excited for the day ahead?” strained chanyeol, struggling to be heard over the mcs talking.

nayoung replied, “yeah! i think our group has a good shot at the relay event!”

that was false, since you knew sooah was prone to tripping and falling, but you kept that to yourself with a muffled snicker.

“it’s definitely going to be a long day. . .” sehun said, yawning.

nayoung blew some hair out of her face. “at least it’s only one day of filmng this year.”

you enjoyed participating in isac each year, as it was mostly fun and games, but it was stressful knowing that cameras were constantly on you. each day of filming felt like the equivalent of a week when you anticipated random fancams of you on the internet the next day, probably doing mundane things like saying hi to a member of exid.

junmyeon spoke, “it’s going to be a long day, but there’s a thing happening at kc lounge tonight after filming and a bunch of our team is going to be there. chanyeol reserved a whole section for us - you should come.” it took you a second to realize he was now boldly holding out his phone.

although the words were meant to address both you and nayoung, he was directly facing you and only looked at you when he asked. you were caught off guard, having trouble finding the words to respond. junmyeon’s eyes were soft and his smile was inviting - you weren’t an idiot. you knew when an invitation was beyond friendly. even nayoung was side-eying you, following the inquiry.

“uhm - “

“i’d love to see you there.” it was hard to miss the once over he gave you, as his boys let out a low whistle at his suaveness. you couldn't help but notice the pink tint spreading across your cheeks.

the attention felt nice. you’d never been approached so boldly by a senior idol before. and he was hot. you didn’t know what to say, except that you were lingering in this conversation for way too long than acceptable.

thankfully, the vibration of your own phone interrupted whatever sentence you were to form next. with a glance at the screen, the picture of you and jungkook stared back at you and you were left dumbfounded. why was he calling you in the middle of a live event?

you said, “sorry, i think i’m being called.”

nayoung nudged you, prompting you to turn around and see that jungkook was staring directly at you from a few tents away. his expression was stone-cold and eyes burned in your direction. realizing what it looked like to him with junmyeon basically asking for your number, you groaned.

“you think it’s safe for me to walk over there?” you muttered into nayoung’s ear, ignoring the curious stares of the three exo members in front of you. junmyeon had now slowly retracted his phone away, now also noticing jungkook looking your way.

nayoung looked around. “maybe if you walk behind the tents, up against the wall,” she suggested, not missing jungkook either.

it wasn’t too bad of timing either, since the competition was mid-event and most individuals were preoccupied with that. you wouldn’t have approached him in public otherwise.

junmyeon seemed to understand what was going on and he only offered a small smile. “well, let me know. we’re stuck here all day, anyway,” he chuckled.

you thanked him and excused yourself, following nayoung’s direction to discreetly make your way over to jungkook’s tent.

other than him, a few members of bts lingered around the tent, presumably warming up for their event later on in the day. well, that’s what you thought they were doing before, as they were now looking towards you and jungkook, probably witnessing the same interaction as your boyfriend. jungkook’s arms were folded across his chest when you approached and you were already not in the mood.

“meet me in that hall,” you said as quickly and loudly as you could, not wanting an audience.

you turned around without waiting for an answer and jungkook waited several beats before trailing behind, just in case. the two of you found yourselves in the tunnel leading into the main stadium area, which was thankfully empty.

you were surprised that jungkook’s fuse was triggered, as you two just shared a nice dinner date the night before with no issues. however, the more you thought about it, his jealousy issues were rising recently - from one wrong stare at a party by a monsta x member the other night to being asked out by a music producer that worked with s.irens. each interaction was met with rage.

“are you alright?” you questioned, once you were out of earshot and eyesight from anyone.

“were they being weird to you?” jungkook instantly replied, jaw clenched.

you furrowed your eyebrows. “what? no,” you said. “they were just being friendly - “

“you should stay away from exo, i wouldn’t trust a lot of those guys.”

“isn’t taehyung friends with some of them?” you dryly shot back, but he ignored your sentiment and continued ranting about how male idols weren’t to be trusted.

obviously, you and him both knew what he was actually annoyed about. you stood your ground, as you knew you didn’t do anything wrong. it was a harmless interaction and you didn’t expect the entire idol community to know that you and jungkook were dating - well, actually, you kind of did and it was a little bit weird to get the invite in such a flirtatious way, but you were not going to take part. it was shut down immediately, but here you were.

after another minute of jungkook going on about the interaction, you interrupted him by abruptly placing a kiss on his cheek. he froze.

“stop it. i’m fine. he was just being nice,” you sighed, looking around to make sure nobody was hiding in the shadows. “now, can we go back to our jobs, jungkook?”

though your boyfriend was normally quite relentless about these things, your words did snap him back to the reality in which you were putting your very careers at risk to even have this hushed conversations in the shadows. isac was all fun and games, but you were on the clock with cameras in every corner possible. your slight touch of affection seemed to also help, as jungkook visibly eased when you kissed him on the cheek.

he adjusted his sweatshirt and sighed. “alright. i’m sorry.”

and that was the end of that conversation, but another faded memory lost in the chaos of 2017.

TOP HEADLINE TODAY: the 2017 bts live trilogy episode III (final chapter): the wings tour to commence next weekㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤfebruary 2017

the bland eggshell walls of the bighit entertainment headquarters didn’t faze you. at the very beginning, it was unsettling just how hollow the corridors and nooks appeared to be, as if the surroundings belonged in a prison. you’d been in and out of the hallways over the past years, albeit often for very few reasons that were pleasant. though it was a huge maze, you memorized the path on floor seventeen.

upon hearing the loud ding and the metal doors sliding open with ease, you stepped onto the said floor with nothing less than pure anger bubbling in your veins. you clearly made your way up here — through traffic and past the security at the front desk who always mistook you for a crazed fan — with a purpose. you weren’t going to rest until you gave jeon jungkook a piece of your mind. releasing a long sigh, the employees who took a glance up and saw the infuriated expression on your face didn’t even bother stopping you. this had become routine.

the distinct voices of his group members, combined with one of the group’s tracks amplified through speakers and footsteps squeaking on the hardwood floors in immaculate unison, were enough to tell you that he was here.

“jeon jungkook.”

the chorus to ‘spring day’ came to a sudden halt. hoseok was the first person to take notice of you and stopped dancing when you appeared at the doorway. the others noticed fast and when jungkook finally looked up, someone had already stopped the music.

the look shared by his group mates seemed to read that they knew exactly what he was in trouble for. the prompt end of the music seemed to indicate so. a scared expression flashed on jungkook’s face upon reading your own stone-cold one.

last time this happened was when you found a pack of cigarettes in one of your boyfriend’s jackets, after he swore up and down to you that he was quitting nicotine. another time was because of him forgetting that you had a date that night. today, the rage running through your veins was due to something new.

jungkook visibly winced every time you said his full name aloud and here, he nearly shuddered at the sound. his head hung low, like a puppy. he knew what he did wrong this time.

“i’ll be right back,” you heard him mutter to namjoon who could only nod empathetically, arms folded across his chest as he observed the scene.

for jungkook’s sake, the group broke out into forced conversation to distract from the two of you. seokjin pretended to ask hoseok for help with the choreography and taehyung wanted to suddenly show the rest of the group a video on his phone. meanwhile, the youngest of the group wordlessly followed you out into the hallway.

“where were you last night?”

the question was immediate, not even waiting for jungkook to shut the door behind him. he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

jungkook asked, “did you really have to come all the way here to have this conversation with me?” exasperation laced his words like a bow, but you were unfazed.

“well, clearly i don’t know when and where you’re busy,” you shot back, “so i had no choice but to come here.”

he opened his mouth to speak again, but you cut him off by raising your phone to eye-level. on the screen was the private instagram of cha eunwoo, who posted several slides of content of cheonsa lounge in gangnam. the very first picture was him and jungkook, clutching a shot glass of dark liquor in one hand and a vape in another. upon scanning the screen, where you proceeded to move through the instagram post - one picture of jungkook posing with eunwoo and the bottle girls from the club and the next being jungkook holding a bottle of champagne - silence filled the air.

jungkook’s shoulders drop in defeat. “i’m sorry, it was a last minute thing - “

“how last minute?! i called you at ten last night, asking if we could have a movie night in,” you cut him off, “and you said you were feeling sick! you don’t look so sick in these photos, huh?”

“i was feeling sick, i swear!” he exclaimed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “the boys called me an hour after that and guilt-tripped me into coming - “

“oh, please.”

jungkook huffed. “i’m telling the truth!””

if you were being honest with yourself, it wasn’t a far-fetched idea that jungkook’s boys did, in fact, drag him out to the club the night before. regardless of that, you were more upset with the fact that he declined you, but said yes to his friends.

“is a night in with me too boring for you now?” you questioned, jaw clenched. “if you were going out, you could have at least asked me to come!”

“you don’t have to come out every time with me, y/n, i need time with my friends,” he replied and sighed once more.

this made you even more mad. “when did i say you can’t have time with your friends?!” you didn’t like the fact that jungkook was making you out to be such a control freak.

jungkook groaned. “i didn’t say that!”

nothing had been the same since the bora bora trip earlier that year. sure, you and jungkook fought like any other couple, but it was never this bad and this frequent. it was as if the fight in the hotel was the first domino to a cascade of falls. coupled with your increasingly exhausting schedules and other factors affecting your relationship, such as your career-driven mindset that was prioritized over everything and bts’ rise to international fame, it was only natural that you and jungkook would only drift farther apart.

yet, neither of you were ready to walk away. as you and jungkook continued your back and forth for several more minutes to come in the darkened hallway of bighit entertainment, you could hear the opening notes to spring day once more - his fellow members presumably giving up on waiting for him to return before resuming practice.

i miss you, was the opening line to spring day and it physically hurt your heart to listen to, as jungkook stood just a few feet away from you and still seemed so far away. the two of you gave each other the silent treatment for the next week after.

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for once, you and jungkook were not getting hazy heads amidst the lights of a nightclub or a packed party, but a charity ball. held at the spacious estate of a member of the family behind hyundai, it was a sight to behold and made jungkook forget that he was in the middle of seoul. he found himself in the back gardens, underneath a marble gazebo that overlooked the lush flowers and twinkling lights of the area. they shone like stars, string lights that hung all around the gardens, and jungkook wished he could share this sight with you.

things were fuzzy with you, but jungkook held out hope that you would be able to pick up the pieces and fix things soon. after a string of fights the past few months, you had finally reached your wits’ end. it was an imploding, inevitable time bomb that was going to set off sooner rather than later. you and jungkook were beginning to butt heads more than not and one random thursday night, it was d-day.

there weren’t too many places in the city that would be safe for even just a normal stroll with your boyfriend, which was an unfortunate truth that jungkook had to swallow for years on end. more than anything in the world, he wanted to flaunt you to the whole world to show everyone just how lucky he was. he was so in love with you and that was never going to change.

from the moment he met you, he was smitten with your beauty and the nail in the coffin was your addicting personality that he was so naturally in sync with. to have someone so incredibly bewitching as his best friend, all jungkook ever wanted to do was scream to the world that you were his girlfriend.

instead, your date nights since the turn of your early twenties consisted of outings like secluded nature walks, friends’ homes, long drives, and if you were careful, the corner store at night. maybe that was why jungkook loved enjoying the seoul nightlife with you - it was a safe space where you could be with each other and with each other, the most important thing other than pounding music and letting alcohol wash away your worries.

your last date was no different, as jungkook suggested to take a walk along the han river. you had no qualms about the suggestion - though, evaluating the place as a date wasn’t the catalyst to your agreement. you knew that there was a conversation to be had and you could have done in anywhere at that point. it’d been over two weeks since you last saw each other, as missed opportunities sipped from your fingers to sit jungkook down and have a talk about your relationship with him.

jungkook saw you from a mile away - it was hard not to when you were literally wearing one of his hoodies. even though it’d felt like forever since the dna promotions began taking over his life and you were off filming a drama, he could always spot you in a crowded room in just seconds. you were waiting by the water, looking off into the seoul night skyline. a black baseball cap hid most of your face and you were smoking a cigarette - a habit that you eventually picked up from jungkook, despite initially chewing him out for the unhealthy habit. you eventually decided that you were also too overworked to not have a vice.

on the other hand, jungkook had been cold turkey for a whole month. he’d grown disappointed of himself for giving in so often on ruining his health, especially as a singer. a frown tugged at his lips when he approached you, just as you were finishing up.

your eyes always brightened when you saw jungkook, but tonight, you saw something in his own that prevented it. offering a small smile, you walked closer up without a hint of a light in your eyes.

“hi kookie,” you whispered and pulled him into a tight embrace. jungkook always loved your scent - a strong cinnamon and vanilla smell that warmed his heart, even on breezy autumn nights like this one.

his face was in your hair, holding you just as tight, when he realized something. something odd.

jungkook stepped half a foot apart when the hug concluded, examining your features. “there’s something wrong, isn’t there?” he asked, as the anxiety came to settle in after you chose to hug him instead of kiss kim.

your lips pressed into a thin line and he knew. you insisted that you two hold hands during this walk, which he wanted to refuse, but eventually decided to remain quiet about it. hands clasped, you two began to stroll south of the river.

for a bit, you and jungkook bantered about how you stole his hoodie without him even realizing it. then, an uncomfortable silenced emerged, as you both could only listen to the light stream of the han and the passing cars nearby.

it was jungkook that said something first.

you let him speak freely because on any other day, it would be a battle marked by avoidance and stonewalling. jungkook had suddenly come to a stop in the middle of the path, after the silence became too grand for him. he reached his limit, too.

“we should take a break.”

things had been getting weird for a while now between the two of you. you were always fighting and when you weren't fighting, it was when jungkook was overseas, away on the wings tour.

that’s when your heart began racing. “a break? you want to separate?”

“we obviously can’t be together. this isn’t working out. we clash too much and we’re always screaming at each other and we’re risking our jobs and - fuck, i’m sorry.”

the rant was cut short when jungkook, after pacing back and forth as he spiralled with each word, paused in his tracks at the sight of tears streaming abundantly down your cheeks. he stopped and immediately felt the ball of anxiety at the bottom of his stomach transfigure into a heavy dread accentuated by guilt, weighing heavy on the inside. his chest began hurting and apologies fell from his lips, as he took you right back into his arms.

“i love you, i know it’s been hard, but we can’t break up,” you hiccuped in between each short breath, barely audible when your crying face was pressed up against jungkook’s chest. “do-do you really feel that way?”

jungkook rapidly shook his head, not even taking time to think about it. “no, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry!” he cooed, rocking you back and forth.

after a moment of just crying from the two of you, you were finally able to catch your breath and rubbed jungkook’s back, hoping it would help him catch his. his breathing eventually slowed back to normal.

“but, i think you’re right. . .” your voice suddenly emerged, barely above a whisper. “i don’t want to lose you. . .but we need space.”

“i’d do anything to save this relationship,” jungkook replied and the statement brought you an unknown feeling, spreading across your mind. “whatever you think is best. i can’t lose my best friend - let’s take some time and come back stronger.”

and that was the agreement. it had been just about a month since it happened and there was no progress since. your and jungkook’s schedules were busier than ever and it was only a coincidence that you both ended up at the same charity ball.

for the first time in a long time, seeing you felt like remnants of a far away memory - shattered glass pieces of your relationship dancing in the air that, if jungkook tried hard enough, could be grasped at and remembered. your hair was now blonde and made longer with extensions, brushing just above your tailbone. you wore a periwinkle evening dress, soft satin mirroring the chandeliers on the high ceilings and fanned out into a flattering mermaid tail shape. jungkook hadn’t seen you with such makeup before, as you wore a cherry red lip and a sharp cateye. you looked different. . .good, but different.

jungkook saw you in the foyer, mingling with some chaebols and looking bored. jungkook noticed that you came with sooah, presumably to represent s.irens or your company as a whole, but neither of you so much as looked at each other. jungkook grew worried that you were slowly isolating yourself from your friends. he was also worried that your bored eyes were instead tired eyes from such a hectic schedule.

there wasn’t any way that jungkook was going to get your attention in that moment, so he instead carried on with his night as normal. he greeted friends, looked for opportunities to network, and helped himself to the fine wine. after an hour, he wandered outside to get some fresh air. then, he looked out at the beauty of the gardens and thought of you, as he strolled down the cobblestone path with a glass of red in one hand.

he wasn’t sure how long he’d been pondering for under the gazebo, until he saw the time of his watch and realized that it was probably time for dinner to be served. jungkook sighed, stepping out of the gazebo to make his way back inside the manor, sneaking one more look at the calming moon and hoping to run into you at the party.

jungkook’s wishes were met sooner than expected, as he spotted you by a tucked away corner, smiling from ear to ear. he was taken aback to see the source of your giggling, being some guy he knew from the korean national football team. one of their best players, actually, as jungkook was quite a fan. he was one of the most popular athletes in the country, it was no surprise that he’d be brushing elbows with other a-listers at this charity ball. jungkook hand clenched into a fist, watching the two of you flirt away from everyone else.

throughout your years together, jungkook was always a bit of a possessive type. in the way you were far from perfect, he also understood his own flaws. i mean there was quite a lot, like anyone else - he was also bad at communicating his feelings, often shutting down, and cared a lot about appearances.

none of that mattered in this moment, as he began walking straight toward you.

in your defense, you genuinely believed that space meant that you were single. had you been the one to make a fuss about breaking up? yes, but. . .well, there was no but. it’d been years since you were able to prance around without the worries of a relationship and although you wanted jungkook back, it was admittedly freeing.

bae sejoon was the striker on the men’s national team and had been eying you since you walked into the estate. the two of you previously crossed paths at a lounge in gangnam a few months ago and now seeing that jungkook was not presently attached to your hip, he made the first move. it was hard to ignore - his coy smirk and athletic build that exuded masculinity. however, your only intentions were to simply ravel in the attention sejoon was willing to give to you.

as soon as you arrived to the event, sooah already left to go greet some of her model friends in the main dining room. she didn’t ask you to join - you’d been drifting apart since the beginning of the year and moving out of the dorns. meanwhile, you planned to politely mingle with other guests, given that you were technically here because of work - despite wanting nothing more but to lay low and keep to yourself.

“well, maybe we should go together. can’t believe you’ve never been to the best cafe in all of seoul.”

instead, you were batting your eyelashes at sejoon, who’d been going on about some french-style cafe that just opened up in the city. you didn’t think he was a particularly interesting guy, but he was cute. a cute distraction.

you said, “that sounds fun.”

except, sejoon didn’t know that you stopped drinking coffee two years ago. he didn’t know that you found little coffee shops pretentious and too hipster-y for your liking. you forced a smile.

jungkook always got you pastries straight from one particular bakery. he remembered your matcha order word for word. he made fun of coffee shops that tried too hard to be different with you. he. . . . he was now right in front of you?

you made it known to jungkook that you loved seeing him in all black. as the first kiss of autumn dawned upon seoul, he donned a long sleeve dress shirt and slacks. tailored and in the consistent shade of all black, the sight lit a fire in your stomach and you found yourself in a haze of how good he looked.

jungkook never hid how attracted he was to you, even after all these years of being together. he scanned your appearance from head to toe, licking his lips. it was as if there wasn’t a whole third person in your presence, as explicit images ran through both of your minds. it’d been so long since you saw each other and the tension in the air was like molasses.

“hi y/n,” jungkook greeted, not even looking sejoon’s way, until the other male cleared his throat. “am i interrupting something?” the glare jungkook sent sejoon was sharper than a blade.

sejoon rolled his eyes, already realizing his defeat. “yes, actually,” he replied.

your eyes remained trained on jungkook until that moment, where you had to physically shake it off.

“jungkook, you know sejoon,” you began reluctantly, noticing jungkook’s hard planted feet.

he only grunted in response, still not caring enough to say anything to sejoon and acknowledge him.

at this point, sejoon was over it. he looked at you and then at jungkook’s menacing figure, arms crossed and glare still fixed. it was as if you watched him calculating his odds during this conversation and decided there was no winning.

sejoon turned to you, a crease in between his eyebrows. “nice chatting with you,” he said and solemnly walked away.

you would have otherwise rolled your eyes at such a dramatic reaction if it weren’t for jungkook standing in front of you. everything about him was so mesmerizing, as the time away truly made the heart grow fonder. the smirk pressed against his lips showed that jungkook knew exactly what kind of effect he still had on you.

“i’ve missed you,” were the words that fell out of your mouth, almost instantly, and you wanted to kick yourself. how pathetic.

jungkook eyed you. “didn’t look like it just now,” he tried to be casual, but the sharpness in his voice was loud.

“still as jealous as ever, huh?”

your initial tactic was to play hard to get - even if you and jungkook had been together for years, it’d been so long since you could just flirt and tease him. it was a spark that’d been missing for quite some time now. a smile played mischievously on your lips.

truthfully, this was what jungkook needed. he was initially despondent upon your agreement to give each other space, sulking for several days until work got too busy to be dwelling on emotions. the time away and seeing you look at another man sparked something in him, too. his lids grew heavy.

he said, “so, this is what space means for you, huh?”

jungkook sounded as angry as he was hungry. it set him off, as his gaze lowered further and further down your body. on any day he would be ticked off, but his feelings of frustrations today instead felt warm and inviting. you froze when he stepped closer towards you, close enough that you could simply speak in secrets.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” was all that could come out of your mouth in a heavy breath, too mesmerized to make any further attempts at wit.

he was now just about nose to nose with you, but you couldn’t muster up the strength to meet his eyes.

“you’re nervous.”

“no, i’m not,” you said, edge in your voice.

lying right through your teeth wasn’t the best strategy when jungkook could see past it like glass. you were happy to flirt and dish it out, but being so close to jungkook so suddenly left you at a loss for words. you forgot where you were for a second and when you realized that the two of you were in public, your heart began beating like a butterfly’s wings. despite this, he was bold. he didn’t move an inch, willing to risk it all.

jungkook let out a low chuckle. “you won’t look me in the eye. you’re nervous, baby.”

“what do you want, jungkook?” you asked slowly.

his gaze trailed back to where sejoon walked off to. “what was all that about?” he said.

the answer was glaringly obvious to you, as jungkook innocently brushed a hair from your eyes and you resisted the urge to shudder at his touch. nothing in the world compared to this feeling.

“honestly?” you began, as identical smirks began to form on both of your faces. “nothing. nothing at all.”

that was all that needed to be said. jungkook, without tearing his eyes away from you, wordlessly took his phone out of his pocket and made a call. he licked his lips as he spoke and everything else in the world faded to grey. jungkook was a cascade of the colours of the rainbow, illuminating brighter and brighter like the sun until you were blinded from seeing anything else. he was a kaleidoscope that shone in front of you and you were emerging from a place with no light.

it took you a few moments to realize that jungkook was calling his driver. however, as far as he was concerned, the night wasn’t over - it was just getting started.

jungkook finally stepped away and you somehow felt so cold. “i’m going to leave out of the west wing doors. my car is there. leave out the east wing doors and walk around to meet me.” his directions were precise and somehow not commanding. tone soft and a gentle hand on the small of your back, it was the worst feeling of all.

familiarity. comfort. home.

all you could do was nod, your chest growing louder with excitement. both of your synergies were one and you both knew what idea came to mind. not much else needed to be said and there wasn’t a single part of you that could say no. his knowing smile was haunting.

after parting ways in opposite directions - as if a conversation didn’t even occur - you eventually ended up in the back of a limousine with jungkook.

time moved oddly in between those two moments, as the only thing you could think of was jungkook. it was an addiction no different than chips across a roulette layout or a cup of espresso at the same time everyday.

thankfully, the driver’s partition was already up when jungkook opened the door for you, because he immediately captured your lips before you could even sit down. like second nature, your fingers found themselves in the crown of his hair and his hand held your neck like a trophy. you both stumbled, now sat - at least he was. you were already straddling his lap. he tasted like red wine and you could have indulged for forever.

“mph, that’s what i fucking thought,” he mumbled against your lips and you took his as an opportunity to slide your tongue into his mouth.

his hands began hiking your previously eloquent gown up, enough that he could grip your thighs from underneath. your own hands found the buttons of his shirt, as the limousine began to speed off in what were probably going to be circles until jungkook told the driver to stop.

being in love was a vicious cycle that proved to be endless. this pattern would only continue from here on out. no matter how deep your passions for each other ran and no matter how addicting each others’ touches were, it only grew worse from here. more fights than lasted weeks to only be swept under the rug with a fuck and make up or a bottle of whiskey shared between you both. growing issues that were overlooked because that was your best friend.

your heart was no longer in it - it was trapped. all you could do was forget and forgive. all jungkook could do was beg and shower you with love. the night at the charity ball was one of many roots that eventually grew into deep seated resentment.

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385 notes · View notes

starogeorgina · 5 months

Text

𝐊𝐞𝐩𝐚

Paring: Daemon Targaryen × reader, Harwin Strong x reader, Criston Cole x reader

Warnings: Swearing, smut, child birth

1.03

You blink away unshed tears as you stare up at Ser Harwin; the look on his face was earth-shattering. No traces of anger or bitterness could be detected on his handsome face; the softness in his eyes made you feel nothing but guilt. You should never have believed the rumors, given into your husband's taunting or gone near Criston Cole.

You’re unaware that you’re crying until Harwin wipes them away with the pads of his thumb. “Prince Daemon told me your news; congratulations, princess.” He leans forward and kisses your forehead, and in a quiet voice, he says, “He also told me what he said to you. I wish I’d known sooner.”

Ser Harwin wasn’t a fool; he knew his beloved princess’s outburst of believing the rumors surrounding him and Princess Rhaenyra being true hadn’t come from thin air, but he had no idea Daemon was the one behind it. The Targaryen prince thrived in chaos, but after causing so much damage, the knight was grateful to be away from the keep for some time; otherwise, he might have done something to get himself executed.

“Do you forgive me?”

Harwin sighs, “There’s nothing to forgive. It was a misunderstanding.”

Pouting, you shake your head. “I should never have doubted you... henujagon īlva, valzȳrys.” (Leave us, husband.)

You wait until you hear Daemon leave; he didn’t need to be involved in your conversation, and you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist if he was within earshot. You take Harwin’s large hand in yours and say, “I love my husband; he’s the other half of me. Targaryens are made to burn together, but I love you too. I don’t know how to explain it; it’s a different kind of love. Since I was a girl, I always knew I’d marry Daemon, regardless of how I felt, but I chose to be with you. You make me feel safe and—”

“What is it you’re trying to tell me?” Harwin wipes away another fallen tear. “I’ve memorized each time you’ve confessed your love to me, which is how I know something is wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know whose baby this is. I forgot to drink moon tea after the last time we lay together.”

His blue eyes fill with tears. “Prince Daemon will be the father.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your heart aches a little when Harwin hugs you; he was a good man. A far better person than you, Daemon, or Criston. He wasn’t selfish, violent, or entitled. You only wish you’d never questioned his loyalty to begin with.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.”

—

As the months passed, your body changed, and the gorgeous gowns you had made could no longer hide how large your bump had gotten. Rhaenyra often thought you were carrying more than one baby when your bump first started to swell, but now you were convinced she was right.

Daemon smooths his hand gently over the fabric of your dress, feeling the baby kick beneath. You were comfortable laying on your left side with multiple pillows fluffed around you to keep you in that position. Your husband lay behind you with his face nuzzling into the side of your neck.

“Have you spoken much with Ser Harwin?”

“No,” you say, feeling your lip tremble slightly. “Perhaps it is for the best; the less he is near during my pregnancy, the less people will talk.”

Daemon kisses your cheek. “The baby could look exactly like us, and the Greens would still gossip. I suspect the same will happen with Rhaenyra as soon as she has an heir.”

Your sister and her husband, Ser Laenor, had gone to visit various houses in the realm on behalf of your father, who was too ill to travel the distance himself. Although they had gone on dragonback, a large number of knights, including Ser Harwin, had been sent to protect them. When you confessed your antics with Cole to Ser Harwin, he was mad for a while but insisted he still wanted to be with you; he just needed some time.

“And what if the baby doesn’t look like us?” You knew no matter what, you’d love and protect your child fiercely, but you needed reassurance from Daemon. “I’ve been beyond foolish; I’ve given them the opportunity to make my child’s life miserable before they are even born.”

“I will cut out the tongues of anyone who dares question the legitimacy of our child. Any baby you have will be an extension of you; it would be impossible for me not to love them.” He rubs his hand along your stomach again. “This is my son or daughter growing inside you. Nothing anyone says will change that.”

—

“Princess, it’s time to push again.”

“I can’t! I can’t!” You sob, clutching onto the bed sheets tightly. The pain was overwhelming; you were convinced this is what dying felt like.

“Push!”

The midwives help guide you through the last few pushes until your daughter finally enters the room. She is placed on your chest, and you sob with happiness, “She’s perfect—oh fuck.”

Your daughter is quickly carried away to be cleaned up as the midwife pushes your legs open again. “Time to do this second time, princess.”

—

Daemon hums while gently rocking your daughter Daella to sleep, while your son Gaemon suckles at your breast. They were only a few hours old, but it already felt like you'd spent a lifetime loving them.

“Perhaps when you are feeling up to it, we can pick dragon eggs for the baby’s.”

You smile and say, “That would be nice.”

With Syrax having laid another clutch of dragon eggs, you were on your way to the dragon pit to pick one while being accompanied by your husband and sworn protector, but before you could leave the courtyard, your waters broke. Ser Harwin immediately picked you up and carried you back to your chambers, while Daemon sent for the maester and midwives.

“There, there,” Daemon says before gently placing your daughter into the crib next to your bed.

You smile down at her. Daella shares your pale complexion; her silver hair and the shade of her purple eyes were an exact match for yours. Gaemon got almost all his features from you, like his sister; his skin was pale and his hair silver, except his eyes were a dark brown.

“I think he’s had his feed,” you say when Gaemon stops feeding and his eyelids slowly start to close.

Daemon takes him from your arms so you can readjust your nightgown. He kisses the baby on the forehead. “They really are perfect.”

—

Sitting underneath the weirwood tree, you smile as Daella attempts to walk along one of the thick roots sticking out of the ground, with your loyal knight Ser Harwin right behind her, ready to catch her the second she slips. Gaemon lays back, his head resting against your legs, as you read a story about dragons out loud. Both eggs had hatched in the cradle, and your children were now getting to the age where they understood how powerful and magical dragons are.

“Careful, princess,” Harwin says softly. “Slow down before you fall.”

Daella grins up at the knight before jumping onto a different root. It wouldn’t be long before curiosity got the better of her, and she attempted to climb the tree.

When screeching comes from the distance, Gaemon points to the sky and says, “Mama, look! It’s kepa!”

You look up and see the Blood Wyrm flying in the direction of the dragonpit. Daemon always made a point of returning from dragon riding before supper time so he could dine with his family. When you lower your gaze from the sky, you are met with the cold gaze of Ser Criston Cole. You often notice the knight observing your son and daughter from a distance, but he makes no attempt to interact with them.

Although Cole would never admit it, you had a feeling he would risk his life for them just as Daemon and Harwin would.

—

Harwin takes one of the pebbled nipples into his mouth while you lean over him, your hands pressing against his chest. Daemon kisses the back of your neck, occasionally nipping at your sensitive skin with his teeth as he thrusts into you from behind. Over time, the three of you had come to an agreement that when the time came and you wished to have another baby, you and Harwin couldn’t fuck as you normally would, eliminating any chances of him getting you pregnant since you wouldn’t be drinking moon tea. But you still wanted to be intimate with Harwin, and your ever-devoted husband came up with an idea.

Daemon’s voice is cocky as he says, “So, Ser Harwin, how do you feel about our princess taking what she wants from us at the same time?”

Harwin grins. “Do you think you could take both of us?”

“Yes, I want you both.”

“Greedy girl!” Daemon smacks your ass.

Your heart races with anticipation at the thought of having both of them inside you at the same time. You're used to making love to them both, but this would feel different—more intimate, more primal. Harwin and Daemon had mutual respect for one another, but they mainly bonded over how much they loved your little family.

Your husband chuckles softly, his warm breath caressing your ear. “You’ll get what you desire, my love. I’ve bet you’ve thought about this plenty of times before, haven’t you?”

Feeling your cheeks heat up, you nod.

A princess desperate to feel her husband and lover fill her up at the same time.

Daemon slowly withdraws his shaft from your cunny, leaving you aching for more. He sits down on the bed beside Harwin, but before you have the chance to move over to his lap, the knight hooks his hands under your thighs and pulls you up until you are hovering over his face. Not wasting time, Harwin starts flicking at your sensitive clit with his tongue.

Daemon smirks as he listens to your whine. He had already ‘prepared’ both your holes before Harwin joined you in the bedchamber. After coming apart on Harwin’s lips, Daemon gently pulls the small cock-shaped object from your anus, then pulls you onto his lap so you are facing him, and slides his cock into your cunny again.

He leans back and pulls you down with him, gripping your shoulders and spreading them while Harwin readjusts himself behind you. The thought of having them both causes your clit to throb, “Please.”

Harwin guides his thick cock to where you’re aching for him. With a gentle nudge, he pushes past your resistance and enters your tight hole. You gasp as he fills you completely. The sensation of having them both inside you is foreign and exhilarating. Harwin begins to rock his hips gently, slowly pulling them out before pushing them back in again, while Daemon thrusts upwards at a harsher pace.

“How does it feel? Daemon asks, pinching your nipple between his fingers. “Good as you imagined?”

“So, so good.”

Your mind becomes hazy with pleasure when one of them starts rubbing fast circles on your clit. You come apart, squeezing both of them tightly. Harwin shoots his seed inside you, then Daemon follows shortly after, coating your cunny in his seed, which he will hopefully take.

The knight slowly pulls out, then brushes your sweaty hair out of your face and kisses you deeply. Daemon smirks, “Take your time catching your breath, my good knight, as we will be here all night.”

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thriftedtchotchkes · 1 year

Text

switching the positions

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: a collection of micro-fics chronicling the days of a very eventful week in the lives of you and joel miller (inspired by ariana grande's positions)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-outbreak, established relationship, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, unprotected piv, rough sex, oral (f&m receiving), 69ing, mutual/guided masturbation, edging, mild exhibitionism, consensual somnophilia, squirting, rimming, unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy kink, pregnant sex, panic attacks, mentions of parents, mentions of food

word count: 16.2k

moodboard by my sweet girl @cavillscurls ♡

a/n: whew, my pride and joy, a whole two months in the making. tysm to everyone who voted on the poll, and especially to @dinsdjrn for helping me tie this whole thing together and mya for listening to me yell about this for weeks. as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated!

SUNDAY

"Boy, I'm tryna meet your mama on a Sunday."

“She’s gonna hate me.”

“She’s not gonna hate you.”

Oh, you know this woman is going to hate you. It’s not that parents don’t like you. On the contrary, you actually get along great with people’s parents. Your friends’, your old roommate’s, your coworkers'—hell, even your own. It’s just that moms, specifically, can smell fear, and Joel’s mom is going to smell the terror wafting off of you from a mile away.

Not that it’s personal or anything. You’re pretty sure she’d hate anyone dating her baby boy. It’s like, a boy-mom thing. Still doesn’t make you feel any better about your boyfriend’s mom potentially hating you.

“Whose idea was this dinner again?” Because if it was Joel’s, then he can still reschedule or fake an illness or, better yet, call the whole thing off.

“Baby, you know it was hers,” he replies from his spot at the edge of the bed, where he’s been watching you pace the room and throw half the closet on the floor for the past hour. You shoot him an exasperated look.

“But did you have to say yes? Isn’t it kind of early for me to be meeting your mom anyway?”

He looks at you like you have ten heads, but you ignore him, debating two shirts in the mirror, then deciding they’re both terrible and adding them to the pile on the floor.

“It’s been a year and a half. If we wait any longer, she’ll be meetin’ you at the weddin’,” he sighs, running his hands frustratedly down his face. You pause your closet tornado to stare at him, wide-eyed, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m just sayin’, I think it’d be good for y’all to meet, is all.”

Good for who? Certainly not you. Honestly, this dinner could have serious repercussions for your relationship. It’s entirely possible she could convince him to break up with you after the night’s over. Or that you’re a bad role model and shouldn’t be allowed around Sarah anymore. Your stomach lurches violently at the thought. Then, it hits you—

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair enough—but have we thought about who’s gonna watch Sarah tonight? We can’t just leave her by herself, and I’m sure your mom would totally understand that,” you try to reason but, again, Joel’s not going for it.

“She’s 14 years old, I think she can handle a couple hours alone,” he deadpans. “Baby, c’mon, it’s not gonna be that bad. Please? Is it really too much to ask for the woman I love to meet my momma?”

You soften at that. Logically, you know he’s right and it’s not fair for you to keep giving him such a hard time. You’re also pre-judging someone really special to him, and now you feel like the shittiest girlfriend in the world.

“You’re right. I know you’re right—I’m sorry,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself. You’re not sure why you’re feeling so insecure about all this. “I just want her to like me, you know?”

He nods, lips quirking into a small smile, and pats his lap. You fall into his arms and he rocks you for a moment, kissing your hair, then your cheek. The anxiety’s starting to subside and you’re grateful for him, your sweet boyfriend who never asks you for anything. Your eyes meet his, and he leans in to kiss you softly, deeply, then pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I know ya do,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “And she will, alright? Just give her a chance like she’s givin’ you one.”

So, for Joel, you do. Turns out his mom is lovely and wonderful, just like her son, and now you have a lot to make up for.

MONDAY

"Then make a lotta love on a Monday."

It’s early and yet, somehow, you’re already awake and feeling like it’s going to be a good day. There’s no alarm clocks blaring, no feet stomping up and down the stairs. Just sweet, blissful sunlight, and it feels so good this morning. Warm and wet and, god, right there—please, keep going right there.

You reach out to feel its light against your hands and between your fingers, and it hums, sending sweet vibrations up your arms, all the way down to your thighs. Heat starts to bloom in your belly as the sun rises higher, burning hotter and hotter, and your fingers tense, tugging at its soft rays.

Everything feels so much wetter now, and there’s no way you’re not sweating right through your shirt and into the sheets. Even your underwear is soaked, your cunt pleasurably slick and dripping as you pant softly into your pillow.

Then, all of it suddenly intensifies and you’re enveloped by a wet, dextrous warmth that circles and circles, dipping into you, fucking into you, and suddenly, you’re so, so close—

And then you’re cumming with a loud sob, hips bucking with every spasm until something broad and strong splays across your stomach and pushes you back down into the sheets.

It's…you realize it’s Joel. Balmy and beautiful like the morning sun. He groans as you gush into his mouth, lapping up everything you give him, and you’re vaguely aware of the bed shifting under you as he grinds his hips into the mattress for relief.

“…B-baby? What—what’s going on…,” you slur sleepily, hands tugging harder at his hair as he continues to suckle your clit through the aftershocks. You whine at the oversensitivity, and he pulls off to press one last kiss to your heat before throwing the sheets off behind his head.

His eyes meet yours and, fuck, he looks wrecked. His hair is in complete disarray and his eyes are a little wild…and then there’s the giant tent in his boxers and that delicious wet spot that makes your mouth water. He doesn’t respond—just crawls up your body to crash his lips against yours, licking into your mouth, and all you can taste is yourself when his tongue brushes against yours.

You moan into his mouth as he grinds into your sensitive core, then parts from your lips just long enough to pull your sweat-soaked shirt up and over your head. The cool morning air feels like heaven against your feverish skin and, with the sheets gone, you can feel a cool breeze coming through the open window, amplified by the oscillating fan next to the bed.

Christ, he must be so pent up by now. Your brain is finally starting to clear from its post-sleep fog, and now you’re wondering how long he’s been between your legs, eating you out like you’re the heartiest breakfast he’s ever had in his life.

But that train of thought is quickly derailed when his lips find a new home around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth and circling his tongue around the nub until it hardens. The delicate skin feels especially tender, and you whimper quietly as the roughness of his beard scrapes against you. Your fingers thread back into his hair and you tug, urging him back up so you can feel his mouth on yours again.

“Joel, fuck me,” you murmur against his lips, and his breath hitches. “Wanna feel you—please.”

The sensitivity must’ve already subsided because your hips are steadily meeting his and you’re feeling so desperate to have him inside you. His cock feels heavy as he rubs himself against your slick cunt and, while the fabric provides the most incredible friction when it grazes your clit, you want him bare immediately.

“Now…ngh—now,” you whine, and you’re stunned he still has the patience to tease when he pulls away slightly to smirk down at you.

“Needy girl this morning, ain’t ya?” His voice is thick with sleep and so much desire, and it makes your still locked-down pussy clench painfully. “S’alright, baby, ‘m gonna give it to ya.”

Wrenching his boxers down, he grips under your legs to push both of your knees to your chest before nudging the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. He inches in just the tip and immediately lets out a whoosh of air.

“So fuckin’ tight, Jesus Christ,” he grits through his teeth, working himself in and out of you until he’s buried to the hilt, the coarse hair at the base of his cock brushing against you just right. He lingers for a brief moment, grinding into you deeply, languidly while you adjust to his girth.

"S'good. Feels good," you murmur, sighing contently. He's brushing that spot he can only reach when he fucks you like this, so you lock your ankles behind his back, silently telling him to stay. But it feels a little selfish, and you can feel how much he's holding back.

"Baby...I gotta move," he pants, trembling with the effort it's taking not to lengthen his thrusts. Pulling out slowly, he presses back into you deep enough to nudge that spot again, and your vision goes hazy. "Promise, I'll take care of ya—"

You moan in unison as you flutter around him, and he takes that as the go-ahead to continue, his cock reappearing wetter and shinier after every stroke. His skin is glistening, too, slick with sweat that runs down his temples and pools where your bodies connect.

The heat of him is addictive and it's everywhere—blooming in your chest, blazing between your legs, and igniting something fathomless inside you. But somehow, it's still not hot enough. You know he can give you more, your blindingly beautiful sun.

Wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders, you squeeze your thighs into his sides to pull him flush against your body, and you can feel his heartbeat pounding through his chest. The steady rhythm matches his thrusts perfectly, but he's groaning so sweetly in your ear that you have a feeling it won't for long.

You belatedly realize how hard you're clenching around him, suddenly so close to tumbling over the edge for the second time this morning, and he redoubles his efforts to follow you.

"L-like that, keep going just like that," you encourage between sharp exhales. "That—that's it."

He braces a hand next to your head on the pillow to stabilize himself, and you wrap your fingers around his wrist, grounding yourself to him. His eyes meet yours fondly before he buries his face into the crook of your neck to do the same, panting heavily against your skin.

Soft, brown curls tickle your cheek, and you turn your head to nose into his hair, breathing him in. He smells earthy like freshly-mown grass and sawdust, and it fills your lungs, surrounding you just when you need it the most.

You gasp in his air, hips swiveling into his desperately as you chase your release. He's slamming directly into that spot now, pushing your knees back into your chest to reach even deeper, but his thighs are starting to tense.

"'m not gonna last long," he admits breathily, all but folding you in half so he can brush his lips against yours. "S'too good...gonna make me cum so hard."

"Please...please, please." Fuck, you want to feel it. To feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up so good, so much. "Joel, cum—please cum."

So close, you're so close. Your soft sighs have evolved into something louder and higher-pitched. Too loud for this early in the morning, and enough to wake up the entire house if you're not careful.

Joel seals his mouth over yours, swallowing every noise that escapes your lips as he pounds into you with purpose, dragging against your walls, and it's...fuck, you're—

Gushing, sobbing as you cum, and he groans, long and drawn out, immediately following you over the edge. Releasing your legs, he digs his fingers into your hips to hold you in place, keeping his cock buried deep inside you as you milk him dry.

"Fuck me," he exhales shakily, pumping into you twice before pulling out and collapsing on top of you. "Good fuckin' morning."

A breathy laugh bubbles out of your chest, but you immediately cringe at the feeling of his cum leaking out of you and onto the sheets. You wedge a hand between your bodies, reaching down to swipe your thumb between your folds and procure a glob that you suck wetly into your mouth.

"Very good fuckin' morning," you smile cheekily at the look of awe on his face. He shakes his head, chuckling as he wraps you up in his arms and rolls you over onto your sides. His chest expands into you with a massive yawn, and you're helpless but to mirror him.

"How much time we got until the alarm?" he mutters sleepily, sounding like he could pass out at any moment. You're craning your head back to check when—

The damn thing starts blaring before you can even catch a glimpse of the time. Not that you need to now—it's 6 a.m., your mortal enemy. You glare at the clock like it personally offended you, and Joel only chuckles, pulling you back down with him.

"Snooze it," he murmurs, mouthing damply at your neck, his hands exploring your soft, bare skin. "We still got time."

You barely hear him, already lost in the feeling of his fingers skimming up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He leans over you to hit the button himself before returning to you, kissing you like you've both got all the time in the world.

Neither of you makes it to work on time.

TUESDAY

"Cookin' in the kitchen, and I'm in the bedroom."

The oven is broken. Probably. The stove, too. It’s really not your fault—all you did was turn some knobs and stand there, but for some reason, none of the burners are catching and the oven sure isn’t cooking this chicken like it’s supposed to.

You don't even like chicken but, for some ungodly reason, you've had a wicked craving for it lately. And Joel loves it, so. That explains why you’re in the kitchen, getting side-eyed by a very skeptical 14 year old, trying to cook a nice dinner for her very overworked father. It’s not going well.

“Did you hear it click when you tried turning it on?” Sarah asks patiently, and now it’s your turn to look skeptical.

“Uhh, the knob or the stove?” You eye the appliance dubiously like it’s doing whatever it’s doing on purpose. She laughs pointing to one of the burners.

“So, when you twist the knob, gas comes out of here,” she taps the grating around the burner, “and the clicking creates a spark that ignites the gas so it lights. Then, voila, you’ve got a working stove.”

“Oh,” you reply dumbly, looking back and forth between her and the stove until she finally gets the hint.

“Fine, fine. I can do it,” she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. And of course, the stupid thing works with zero issues when she does it. You give her a grateful smile before throwing the dirtiest glare you can muster at the oven.

“What do we do about that one? I guess I could try cooking the whole chicken in a big pan, but I can’t guarantee we won’t all die from food poisoning…,” you trail off, starting to feel a little useless.

It’s not like you’re completely inept in the kitchen. You can use a toaster or a microwave like a damn pro, and even the blender if you’re feeling especially adventurous, but you’ve never made a big meal like this before. Sarah likes to cook when you’re not ordering out, which admittedly is most of the time, so this was supposed to be something special for her, too.

“It’s the same general concept,” she says, still kind and patient as ever, squatting down to show you a different set of knobs. You observe her for a moment, missing the start of her explanation, because it’s times like these where you can see so much of Joel in her.

It’s that spark in her eyes when she gets to share bits of her well-earned knowledge. To use her expertise to teach someone something brand new. Joel gets the same look when he’s trying to teach you guitar. His eyes shine when you finally get a chord down, and he downright beams when you can finish an entire bar by yourself.

You must’ve zoned out for too long because she’s suddenly waving a hand in front of your face, smiling her dad’s sweet smile as she waits for your focus to return to the task at hand.

“Shit, I’m sorry. What did I miss?” you ask sheepishly. She nods to the oven, already lit and heating up to the required 400 degrees Fahrenheit for cooking baked chicken.

“All good! It’s set for whenever you’ve got the food prepped. You just have to wait for it to hit temperature—it’ll beep when it’s ready,” she says, walking around the kitchen island to grab her backpack.

…Wait. She’s leaving?

“Woah, wait, where are you going? You can’t leave yet,” you plead, still desperate for her help. “What if I burn the house down?”

“You’re not gonna burn down the house,” she snorts, already at the door tugging on her sneakers. “Just remember to turn off the burners and you’ll be fine. And save me some food!… Unless everyone gets sick, then maybe don’t.”

You shoot her a look of absolute betrayal, and she laughs, opening the front door and waving over her shoulder.

“See ya later! Good luck, I believe in you!”

And then she’s gone, and you’re left alone with your misery and a bunch of random ingredients you still have to magically make into a meal.

You slump against the counter, lamenting the loss of your sous chef until the oven beeps, scaring the shit out of you. Oh, great. You’ve barely even started seasoning the chicken. It can’t be that hard, right?

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing in front of a very peppery-looking raw chicken—which is officially disgusting again, you changed your mind—wishing you had just ordered Boston Market and lied about making it yourself. Lesson learned for next time. Like there’ll be a next time.

Well, at least no one can say you didn’t try. You throw a bunch of mixed vegetables into the bottom of the pan like the recipe says and pop it in the oven, setting the timer for 40 minutes and hoping for the best.

Glancing at the clock above the sink, you realize you’re cutting it close on time. You told Joel to be home by eight, which means he’ll probably actually get here at nine, and it’s already 7:30. Yikes. Time flies when you’re trying not to fuck up a dinner that was doomed from the start.

The last piece of the puzzle is thankfully the easiest. Now, mashed potatoes are definitely something you can make. Boiling water? Piece of cake. Pouring in the instant flakes from the box and adding butter? Done and done.

There’s no way anyone’ll be able to tell you didn’t make them from scratch unless they check the trash and, anyways, the instant stuff is better. You’ll go down with that ship.

Now for the pièce de résistance: the perfect evening attire. A cute, 50s-era apron you thrifted two weeks ago that’ll go over the teeny, tiny Victoria’s Secret lingerie set you’ve been hiding in the back of the closet.

Joel will probably think it’s hilarious, once he stops drooling. Hopefully you’ll even make it to dinner, otherwise, the stress of this entire afternoon was a totally moot point. But he’ll have to be a good boy and finish his food before he can have dessert—apple pie you definitely didn’t make, and you laid out on his bed like the best fucking treat he’ll ever taste.

You end up with enough time to take the chicken and veggies out of the oven—the meat thermometer tells you it’s cooked through and that’s good enough for you—and stir up the mashed potatoes before you have to head upstairs to get everything else ready. So far, surprisingly, so good.

You’re in the middle of patting yourself on the back for a job well-done, with time to spare, when you hear the front door open. At eight fucking thirty. This would be the one day Joel gets home early and, by the sounds of dishware and cutlery clinking around downstairs, he’s already discovered your big surprise.

“Baby, you up there?” he calls up the stairs. “What’s all this?”

Well. Guess it’s showtime. You finish tying the apron around your waist before giving yourself one last once over in the mirror. Everything fits perfectly, just like you knew it would, and the food’s done, for better or worse. So there’s no need to be nervous, right? It’s just Joel. Your Joel. He’d love it no matter what, even if it all ends up being total shit.

Taking a steadying breath, you head down the stairs, letting your appearance serve as his answer. The apron rubs scratchily against your skin, a reminder of how naked you actually are underneath, and you let your confidence in Joel’s inevitably wanton reaction make you brave.

And he doesn’t disappoint. His eyes rove over you greedily, from the pout of your lips to the tiniest slip of your nipple peeking over your bra, all the way down to the soft, bare skin of your legs. Yeah, no need to be nervous at all.

“Just a little surprise I cooked up,” you smirk a little deviously as you reach the bottom of the stairs. He’s on you in a second, hands exploring your body eagerly, impatiently, as he leans in to kiss you, but he’s halted by a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh. Can’t have dessert yet. There’s a whole meal waiting for you—I made your favorite.”

He chuckles, gingerly pressing a kiss to your finger instead before leading you backward into the kitchen.

“Well, let’s get started then. I’m starvin’,” he says, looking hungrier than you’ve ever seen him. You return his gaze, suddenly feeling ravenous yourself.

“Good. It’s dinner time.”

WEDNESDAY

"Wrist icicle, ride dick bicycle."

Spin class sucks.

There’s really no need for the music to be this loud. And it’s bad. They say it’s supposed to amp you up for rigorous exercise, but it’s just giving you a headache.

It’s also about a thousand degrees in here, and you’d be leaving a massive pool of sweat on this seat if you were even allowed to sit on it. The whole concept of spinning makes no sense, and you’re starting to think it’s actually just a dance class on stationary bikes because no one in their right mind would ever ride a bicycle like this.

It’s embarrassing, for starters, and you’re surrounded by hot people that are way better at it than you are. You didn’t even know you could gyrate on a fucking bike until today, and they all somehow make it look sexy. Like they’re legitimately having a great time. Having fun.

But not you. The music might honestly be doing you a favor by drowning out your pathetic attempts to breathe. You’re starting to get a little lightheaded and feel like you’re about to be sick.

No workout is worth this. You can’t even pretend to follow the instructor’s directions, because you can barely hear her over the speakers. She probably can't even hear herself, yelling into the void of shitty EDM remixes, and expecting everyone to pick it up. If you’d known this was just some fucked up version of leg day, you would’ve skipped it.

There's no sneaking out early, either. You took the bus and Joel won’t be here to pick you up for at least another half hour. Honestly, you'd rather walk home and let that be your exercise for the day, but unless you plan on jogging along the highway, you're shit out of luck.

The beat abruptly picks back up, startling you out of your personal pity party, and then everyone's asses are in the air again, hips swiveling so perfectly in sync that it has to be choreographed. You're getting the hang of it now that you're realizing the routine just repeats itself, but it still feels mildly exploitative.

It doesn't help that your class is starting to draw in a crowd, likely attracted by all of the revealing athletic wear on display. At least you got that memo. Whoever had the bright idea to put a huge glass wall at the back of the room was either a genius or a pervert. Probably both, depending on who you ask.

Once the hardest section of the choreography passes, you look behind you to check the time, praying more than you think has passed, but you're sorely disappointed. And the crowd outside's only gotten bigger.

Don't these assholes have anything better to do than stand there drooling over a spin class? You continue to glare at them over your shoulder through the next part of the song, looking a little ridiculous grinding into your seat as you silently tell them all off.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch one of them off to the side laughing, but when you turn to send an even harsher look in their direction, you realize you recognize him.

What a dick. If you'd known he was going to be this early, you definitely would've snuck out and waited outside instead of becoming another piece of eye candy for a bunch of gym rats.

Joel looks a little too pleased with himself, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like he’s enjoying the view as much as the rest of those creeps. Well, if he wants a show, then you’ll give him one. Now that you’ve gotten the movements down, you can put all of your energy into making him wish there wasn’t an entire glass wall separating him from you.

That one, grueling section of the song loops back around, and this time you put your all into it, arching like you’re supposed to, swiveling your hips into the seat with all of the muscle control you’ve got. Your shorts ride up your ass at the change in movement, probably giving you a wicked camel toe, but you let them. You can only imagine the look on Joel’s face now.

The song starts to wind down, finally coming to a stop, and you lower yourself back onto the seat, panting with the exertion of the past 45 minutes. Turning back around, you notice the crowd has mostly dispersed, save for a few stragglers and Joel, who’s panting almost as hard as you are.

Your eyes drop to his pants, and you quirk an eyebrow. His breathing’s not the only thing that’s hard. He looks a little wrecked and, suddenly, this whole workout thing feels like it might’ve been worth it after all.

You hop off the bike and retrieve your duffel from the back of the room, teasingly flicking the glass in front of his face before exiting with the rest of the class.

"Ready to go?" you ask brightly, still feeling high off the endorphin rush. He doesn't respond, looking a little dazed as he watches a droplet of sweat run down your neck, past your collarbone, and right between your breasts. "You doing alright there, bud?"

You laugh, enjoying your revenge a little too much, reveling in the way his jaw tenses and the muscles in his neck twitch angrily. It’s about to be a very interesting ride home—or it would’ve been if you’d made it that far.

On the way out, you pass an out-of-order men’s room, and he yanks you inside, locking the door behind you.

It's a little surprising he's this pent up after the night you had, especially with the sheer amount of sex you’ve been having lately—not that you're complaining. But what's even more surprising is that he's choosing right now to rectify it, basically in public where anyone could overhear or walk in on you. It's...really out of character for him. You thought he'd at least make it to the car.

“Joel, what the—,” you yelp as he lifts you up by the waist to settle you on the edge of a sink. It's clear his patience has completely run out because, within seconds, he's dropping to his knees, burying his face in your heat. "—fuck."

Your legs immediately try to close around his head, but he forces them back open with enough strength to overextend your already abused hamstrings. It shouldn't feel as good as it does, but the pain, combined with his blunt nails biting into your thighs, sends delicious jolts right to your core.

You exhale shakily, burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks a damp patch into your shorts, just slightly lower than where you need him. Your hips buck, urging him higher, but he doesn't allow that either, shoving them back down onto the hard porcelain beneath you.

Should've known it wouldn't be that easy. He's handling you aggressively, rougher than you would've expected, and that's when you realize he's mad.

"Bet ya thought that was real funny, teasin' me like that," he growls into your clothed pussy, licking up the seam to swirl wet circles where your clit throbs under too many layers. "Don't feel very nice, does it?"

His eyes meet yours as he sucks a little harder, and you whimper, tugging at his hair in a silent plea for him to take your shorts off and eat you out the way you both want him to. But he's going to drag this out and you know it.

Joel loves a little payback and has the patience of a saint unless he's pushed past his limit. To your detriment, you shoved him over that line with the stunt you pulled earlier, so now you'll have to convince him it's in his best interest to let it go.

Switching tactics, you tempt him with what he could have if he just gave in. Your fingers dip beneath your waistband, and you sigh as you slick them up against your folds before dipping them inside. You're already soaked, and so tight, even around two of your own fingers, and you tell him as much.

"No, it doesn't feel nice...but I know something that will," you pump your fingers in and out of yourself, the muted sound of wet squelching reaching your ears. "Hear that?—," you gasp, hips lifting off the sink as you accidentally graze something spongey and sensitive, "—t-that's all for you."

And it works like a charm. Your shorts and underwear are pulled off in a single, hard tug, his tongue fucking into you before you can even fully inhale, and you choke out a strangled moan instead. He eats you out like a man starved, his nose nudging your clit with every dip of his tongue, and it feels so potent, you practically see stars.

Your combined slick and his saliva are starting to leak over the edge of the sink but he catches every drop, and the way he slurps you up makes your cheeks burn. Joel's a lot of things when he's between your legs—enthusiastic, generous, and a little sloppy, but he's never wasteful.

Two thick fingers prod at your entrance, and then he's pressing them into you, the slide snug, but easy with how wet you are for him. Finally, finally, you can feel your orgasm building, and you're sent reeling when his tongue fucks into you between his fingers, filling you up—it's...yes, right there—

But he abruptly pulls his mouth away, still not done making you pay.

"Damn right, it's all for me. Ya think those jackasses watching you weren't thinkin' about this?" he growls, his fingers slowing to leisurely stroke your walls as if they weren't about to throw you over the edge a moment ago. "Think they could make you feel this good? Make you cum like I do?"

Your pussy flutters pathetically around him, and the false look of sympathy he gives you makes you want to cry out of sheer frustration.

"Gonna need an answer if you want me to keep goin'," he drawls, still close enough that you can feel his breath, hot against your cunt.

You bite down on your bottom lip, just hard enough to momentarily distract yourself from the aching between your legs so you can respond, but you're taking too long. His fingers have all but stopped, so you panic.

"Fuck those assholes. Fuck all of them," you grit through your teeth. He quirks an eyebrow, marginally picking up the pace of his fingers.

"Fuck 'em, huh? That what you wanna do?" He's teasing you, and even though it's obvious, you fall right into his trap, anyway. Blanching, you shake your head furiously.

"N-no—no, no, no. Just you, only wanna fuck you," you gasp, frantically trying to convince him of something you both already know to be true without a shadow of a doubt. It's honestly impressive that he can work you like this and, even more so, that he's the only one that can.

"S'okay, I know...I know. This right here—," he gives your clit a few kitten licks, the pads of his fingertips rubbing that perfect spot inside you, "—s'mine."

Then, he's burying his face back between your legs, redoubling his efforts, and it's so fucking sloppy. Wet and hot, and hungry, as if edging you has the same effect on him.

You feel him groan into you as you start to tighten around his fingers, loud enough that his chest rumbles with it, sending sweet vibrations up your thighs. The sound of his belt jingling, then hitting the floor vaguely makes it past the blood rushing in your ears, but his broad shoulders and head bobbing between your legs are blocking your view.

All you can see or hear is the frantic movement of his arm, his hand working up and down his cock, and the sound of skin slapping on skin. Fuck, that's—so hot, you're so close. So fucking close—

But he's got one last edge left in him.

You're throbbing so violently that for a second you're terrified he ruined your orgasm, but no, you're still teetering on the cusp, thighs quaking so hard, you can’t believe you haven’t crushed his head between them already. At this point, the smallest touch, even the tiniest puff of air would send you hurtling over.

He's still jerking himself off, sounding delirious as he separates his mouth from you to speak.

"Need to hear ya s-say it...," he pants, and you cry out, angrily reaching down to roughly shove his face back into you, but he resists. Spurred on by your reaction, he only fucks into his fist faster. “Nobody else gets to taste ya like I do…do they? Say it. Say it and I'll…ngh—let you cum,” he moans lowly, possessively.

Joel sounds completely gone. You never could've imagined dry humping a fucking stationary bike would set him off like this, or that a bunch of dumb muscleheads would make him this jealous. He's so lost in it, in you.

But the way he's looking up at you right now—it's like he really does need you to do this for him. To tell him that it’s just him, and it’ll only ever be him. It’s the truth. No one else has ever made you feel the way he does, with his mouth and hands, or his heart, and they never will again.

You whine, shaking your head pleadingly, ready to tell him whatever he wants to hear. Anything for him to put his mouth back on you again.

"T-they don't—no one else gets to, but you...only you," you keen as he seals his lips around your clit, all of his fears and insecurities finally soothed. Your head tips back, the feeling of his hot tongue laving over the sensitive bundle of nerves and his thick fingers—three of them, now—dragging against your walls exactly what you need.

You cum frighteningly quickly, your orgasm so powerful and overwhelming that you start to black out. Your eyes squeeze shut, and then it’s all just pleasure—the tension in all of your limbs slowly bleeds out with every spasm of your cunt, and something wet…so wet, splashes against your inner thighs.

Joel groans louder than you think you’ve ever heard him, the sound practically punched out of his chest as he licks broader lines up your pussy, sucking and slurping, and what…what is that? Why the fuck are you so wet? He—did Joel cum on you, and you didn’t even notice?

But that’s impossible because now his body’s completely seizing up, the hand around his cock stilling as he spurts thick ropes of cum across the bathroom floor. Or at least that’s the image your brain conjures up, unable to see it for yourself.

Your vision’s only just beginning to return to you, and you immediately look down to see what actually happened...and fuck. It was you. Joel’s head is resting on your thigh, nuzzling into your soft, very damp skin, and he's looking up at you in awe.

“Shit, baby…,” he pants, chest heaving, cock still twitching in his hand. "Ain't ever seen you do that before."

You blink blearily, lips parting as you take him in. He's a goddamn mess. His face and beard are soaked, and his shirt is splattered with what you can only assume is your release. You fucking squirted? In a dirty gym bathroom?

"What the fuck?" you mumble, still dazed and a little in disbelief at how your first, and probably last, trip to the gym went. You shake your head, clearing up the brain fog enough to quickly process the past two hours, and now you're in shock. "Joel, what the fuck?" you ask again incredulously.

He has the nerve to look sheepish where he's still happily nestled between your legs post-orgasm, and you bop the top of his head with your palm, eyeing him expectantly.

"Wanna explain what all of that was?"

"Look—," he starts, lips quirking down into that little frown you know so well. "If you'd've heard the shit those fuckers were sayin' about ya. Probably would've said worse if I hadn't told 'em to fuck off before they got into some real trouble."

"Wait, you were the reason they all took off? Joel," you laugh because suddenly it all makes sense.

You just learned the hard way that a grumpy, jealous Joel means getting edged until you black out. Pretty good knowledge to have for future reference, to be honest. Now that you're not sobbing with his head between your legs, it all seems so silly.

"What, did ya expect me to just stand there and let 'em talk about fuckin' my girl right in front of me?"

"I mean, no, but...I dunno, maybe just take the compliment next time and don't threaten a group of scary, muscular men," you chuckle fondly, cupping his wet cheeks in your hands. "Okay? It basically just means you have a hot girlfriend. Congratulations!"

But he only grumbles in response, still pouting like a child. You bend down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, and he sighs, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

"What if, when we get home, I show you some of the techniques I learned in my class?" you murmur into his hair. He tilts his head back, eyeing you skeptically.

"Baby, we don't have a stationary bike," he says, brows furrowed in confusion. You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes dropping to his lap.

"That's okay. We won't need one."

THURSDAY

"You can't imagine what I'm 'bout to say. You really wanna know? You'll have to wait. (It's a surprise, surprise.)"

Blue, blue, blue. Just do it, just be blue! It's a great color—the best color, maybe even your favorite color.

You keep chanting at it, loudly and in your head, but the plastic stick doesn't seem to appreciate your encouragement. It just stares back at you, blank and unhelpful.

How much longer do the instructions say you have to wait? One to three minutes, that's it? It feels like it's already been two hours, but it's actually only been...30 seconds. What the fuck.

Maybe if you shake it, it'll develop faster. It's basically like a polaroid, right? And Outkast has never steered you wrong, so. You lean over from where you're still sitting on the toilet, pants around your ankles, to test your theory but it's too late.

It already has an answer for you. ...Wait, what? Both of the lines are blue. So...does that mean you're extra not pregnant? You snatch up the pamphlet again, actually reading through the directions this time, and your stomach drops. Pink was never even an option.

Two blue lines. Pregnant.

You knew this week was going a little too well.

Those random bouts of nausea, the weird cravings, the fucking breast tenderness. They didn't need to mean anything. They shouldn't have meant anything.

Fuck. Fuck. What are you supposed to do now? You're way too young to have a baby. Well. Okay, that's a massive lie, but still, you're definitely not ready to have one. Or to be…pregnant. You shudder at the thought.

Swollen ankles, morning sickness, mood swings. You’re already a walking rollercoaster of emotions, and your back hurts from just existing. No, you can’t do this.

It's not about the finances, either. You and Joel both have steady jobs and could make it work if you wanted to, but do you want to? Will he? He’s not your husband, not even your fiancée, so there’s no reason for him to stick around. It’s not his burden.

There's just too many unanswered questions. And Joel's already someone's dad. He did the whole baby thing by himself and got it right the first around.

Sarah's perfect—fuck, what is Sarah going to think? Stupid, this was so stupid. You thought you were being so careful. Sure, Joel cums inside you basically every time you have sex, but that's totally beside the point.

You take those dumb little pills at the same time every day, just like you're supposed to. Except…when’s the last time you had a period? Did you even get it last month? The month before?

Shit, that wedding—when was that wedding? Your coworker’s, the rich one who decided to have a fucking destination wedding in Hawaii a couple months ago. It was decadent. You and Joel were super drunk the entire time and fucked like rabbits for three days straight.

Fuck.

Don't cry. Do not cry. Joel will probably be back from picking Sarah up from soccer practice any minute, so you need to hold it together. Maybe you just won’t tell them, at least not until you’ve had more time to process everything and decide what you’re going to do.

But, god, you wear your emotions on your sleeve, and even more so on your face. They’ll know something’s off the second they look at you, and you won’t be able to talk yourself out of it. You’ve always been a shit liar.

Tears start to fall without your permission. You slump slowly to the floor, pants still around your ankles, and curl up into a ball, willing it all to go away—the tiny clump of cells growing inside your belly and the regret of being so careless, of letting yourself get caught up in a serious relationship in the first place. This isn’t something you can just wish away. It’s life-changing and nothing will ever be the same again. Was it really worth it?

No, no. Of course, it was. Snap out of it.

If only it were that easy. Sobs wrack your entire body, and you can barely hear yourself choking on them, unable to hold them in anymore. Your eyes squeeze shut as you desperately try to block out your reality, but it seeps up your nose and into your mouth, salty and unignorable.

Blood rushes in your ears and you realize belatedly that you’re starting to hyperventilate, but you can’t stop. You’re drawing in too much air all at once and it’s making your vision go fuzzy. It’s all just too much. Anger, sadness, and fear consume you until you’re screaming with it, desperate to expel it from your body any way you can.

So, you don’t hear the front door opening or Joel and Sarah running up the stairs, completely panic-stricken.

Joel reaches the ensuite bathroom first and all but breaks down the door, but he’s met with the sight of your half-naked body in a heap on the floor. Immediately, he turns to block Sarah from getting in.

“Hey, hey—no,” he says firmly, wrapping her up in his arms to keep her from seeing past him. “You’re not goin’ in there. Ya gotta give us some time, alright?”

She looks up at him, scared and visibly shaken.

“What if—do you think she’s okay in there? Was she hurt…d-did you see her?” she asks softly, eyes wet. “Can I see her?”

“Not right now, kiddo,” he mumbles, kicking the bathroom door shut behind him before leading her out of his room and into the hallway. “‘m sorry.”

The crestfallen look on Sarah’s face is the last thing he sees before he closes the door on her. But he has to ignore how badly it feels to keep her away from you, at least until he can figure out what the hell is wrong and how he’s going to fix it.

Your cries have quieted since earlier, but not nearly enough to ease Joel's fears. He can still hear you through the door, hiccuping softly, and opens it gently this time, entering slowly as if he's trying not to spook a scared animal.

It doesn't work as well as he'd hoped. Your head shoots up, a small gasp escaping your lips as you dizzily pull your pants back up.

"Easy there, s'okay. Baby, s'just me, don't worry," he murmurs, dropping to his knees on the floor next to you, but you flinch away. You can only imagine the hurt in his eyes, and the mental image tugs at your heart. "I need ya to tell me what happened. Did ya hurt yourself?"

Yeah, you could say that.

You shake your head, the only thing you're capable of doing in the state you're in. Trying to speak would be useless after all the screaming you just did and you can't bear to look him in the eye.

"Hey, talk to me. If somethin's the matter, I need to know, 'specially if we gotta get you to the hospital," he says, reaching out to touch you.

His hand grazes your shoulder, and your body jerks so viscerally that you slam your knees into the bottom of the sink. You let out a tiny whimper of pain right as you hear something small and plastic hit the ground next to you.

Oh, no. Shit. You desperately try to kick the test out of reach, to cover it with your body—anything to keep him from seeing it—but his fingers wrap around it before you get the chance. He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth and you feel your whole world shattering.

That's it, then. Even just a glance at those two blue lines will have immediately told Joel all he needs to know. Now he'll leave and he'd have every right. This is all your fault.

Your cheeks are wet again, but this time you can't bring yourself to care. Turning away from him, you curl back into a ball, ignoring the angry throbbing in your knees as you wait for him to yell or throw the test, or finally get up and walk out.

But he doesn't. Instead, you hear him delicately set the test back on the sink and then he lays down behind you on the floor, wrapping his arms around you and pulling your back into his chest.

His heartbeat is fast. It's racing against you and, yet, somehow his breathing is still so calm. The calm before the storm, you're sure of it. You tense, anticipation sitting heavily on your chest and lungs, and he can feel it.

His lips press into the back of your neck and even though the action is so tender and so Joel, you still can’t convince yourself that maybe you’ve misjudged this entire situation. Or that you’ve misjudged him.

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades. It hasn’t escaped your notice that he isn’t calling you baby anymore. You can’t tell if that’s for your benefit or his. "Tell me what you're thinkin'."

Time feels like it's moving in slow motion. You really don't mean to ignore him…it’s just that you’re not thinking anything. Lying there in his arms, your mind goes blank, giving in to the white noise of his heartbeat syncopating your own fragile rhythm.

But somehow he seems to understand you completely, filling the silence himself. His voice lulls you into a false sense of security, or…no. No, that’s not right. It’s real. His security, his safety, is real and reliable, proven and palpable.

“Listen to me—I need ya to hear this, alright? I want whatever you want and if ya don’t want this, we’re not doin’ it,” he says firmly, like he means it with every fiber of his being. You do hear him. But your heart and mind are still rebelling, begging you to see their own senseless logic. Joel won’t stop until he convinces them, too.

“But if ya do…if—,” his voice trails off, cracking almost imperceptibly. At least, to anyone else but you. “—if ya wanna do this with me, then ‘m with ya. Every step of the way, ‘m with ya.”

Then, for the first time since those blue lines appeared in your life, you feel peace. And it's all him. He’s given you a choice—one you knew you always had, but never thought to factor him into. You didn’t think you deserved to involve him. But he does. He deserves that choice, too.

The floodgates open and soon you’re sobbing uncontrollably again, but this time it feels cathartic. Like he’s freed you from a prison of your own making. You find your voice, wet and shaky.

“Joel, I’m scared,” you weep, turning in his arms to finally meet his eyes. And there they are. Brown and beautiful and clear, unclouded by fear and regret, and you let them make you brave. For him and your tiny clump of cells.

“What if I can’t do this? What—I…,” you hiccup through the disjointed thought, “—if I give up…if it’s just too hard...”

“S’why there’s two of us,” he bends down to murmur soothingly into your cheek, lips brushing against the corner of your own. “But ya can’t push me away anymore. If we do this, then we do it together,” and that lances straight through your heart, obliterating all doubt and setting your decision in stone.

Together. You’re in this together.

“Okay,” you croak, sniffling as he wipes away your tears. You repeat it, clearer this time. “Okay.”

FRIDAY

"You might think I'm crazy, the way I've been cravin'. If I put it quite plainly, just gimme them babies."

Doctors' offices have no business being as scary as they are. Bare and sterile, and not an ounce of color to be found anywhere but those creepy posters of in-depth diagrams of the human body. Gross.

You fight the urge to turn around and head straight back to the truck but, as if he can sense your plan to make a run for it, Joel places both hands on your shoulders and leads you toward the reception desk.

“C’mon, we got this,” he says quietly in your ear, likely reassuring both of you. “We go in, they tell us you ’n the baby are healthy, then we get out.”

You grimace. The baby. That’s still so weird. There’s literally a tiny being growing inside you, eating your food, and sitting on your fucking bladder. It’s like that thing in Alien that bursts out of people’s chests.

Great. Well, that’s officially off the list for movie night later, which Joel promised you'd have if you got your check-up without trying to escape. Technically, you’re doing great so far. And it’s an extremely tempting offer.

Movie nights at the Miller house usually include a trip to 7/11 for popcorn, soda, and a box of your favorite candy. Those annoying cravings you’re just now realizing are because you’re pregnant would be extremely satiated by that.

You’ll also get to curl up on the couch with Joel all night in a childless house because Sarah's staying at a friend’s. Win-win. But first, you have to make it through this check-up.

Everything up until you’re inside the actual examination room isn’t actually so bad. The receptionist is nice enough, even though you can tell she deals with a lot of first-time moms by the way she treats you with baby gloves, and the wait time is less than 10 minutes.

Yeah, you’ve totally got this. Or at least you did until the doctor shows up with an ultrasound machine and lifts your shirt to squeeze that freezing cold goop all over your stomach. You look up at Joel, scared and a little bewildered, and he takes your hand in his, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. The screen lights up with what you assume is a real-time view of the inside of your belly and, after that, it’s all sort of a blur.

Six weeks. They tell you that you’re already six weeks pregnant, so you definitely conceived at that dumb wedding. At least you’ve got a story to tell. You’re also entering that fun stage where your nausea’s mostly cleared up, but now you’ll either be super tired or super horny at any given time.

You try not to laugh when you feel Joel’s hand subtly twitch in yours. Of course, he perks up at that. Honestly, you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t going to enjoy it, too. Immensely.

Then, comes the big one. The entire point of this doctor’s visit, and the reason you and Joel are gripping each other so tight, you’re cutting off the other’s circulation. But it’s good news. Luckily, it's all good news.

Your tiny clump of cells is healthy, you’re healthy, and you can go home now, equipped with all of that very calming knowledge. One day, you’re going to have to stop calling them a clump, but you’ve decided today is not that day.

“Told ya it wouldn’t be so bad,” he teases as you walk out to the truck, still hand-in-hand.

But his eyes betray his tone. There’s a seriousness to his joy, and you can see it so clearly in the way he’s looking at you like you’ve given him the greatest gift in the world. It makes you feel warm and…important. Loved. He continues, his voice tinged with something a little softer.

“Thank you…for goin’, I mean. S’good to know that everythin’s alright. That you’re alright.”

You stop next to the car, meeting his gaze with what you hope is the same amount of love and affection you see, and throw your arms around his neck.

“Thanks for taking me, and just…being here. Like, really being here, not just showing up so you can say you did,” you say earnestly, and he leans down to kiss you, his arms wrapping around you to pull you close.

“‘Course, baby. Don't have to thank me for that,” he mumbles against your lips.

Not ready to separate from him, you deepen the kiss, running your tongue along his bottom lip until he opens for you and licking into his mouth freely. He groans as you press him into the side of the truck, his hands trailing down your sides to grip the plush of your ass through your jeans.

You can feel him starting to stiffen against your belly and that carnal hunger the doctor warned you about takes over, the need to feel more, more of him overwhelming you. He’s just so solid everywhere.

Your fingers skim underneath his shirt to feel his stomach flexing beneath your palms, and you roll your hips into his, gasping into his mouth at the friction. You’re so caught up in his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, that you don’t hear the group of people passing by on the other side of the truck.

But Joel does. He begrudgingly pulls away from you, hard as a rock and panting heavily. You whine at the loss, and he twitches against you in response.

“C’mon, baby, I’m not fuckin’ you in a goddamn Planned Parenthood parkin’ lot,” he chuckles, leading you to the passenger’s side of the car. He smacks your ass when you resist, and you shoot him a wounded glare. “Uh-uh, none’a that. ‘m takin’ you home. Owe ya a movie, don’t I?”

You perk up at the mention of his promise from earlier.

“You sure do. And candy, and popcorn, and soda,” you list off, easily distracted by the prospect of shitty junk food. You bounce into the car, shifting the seat to recline as far as it’ll go. “What are we watching?”

“Whatever you want, baby."

Well, he did say he’d give you whatever you wanted. And for a while, it was the movie—you’d even picked out your favorite. But you only manage to get about 20 minutes in before Joel's arm around your shoulder and chest under your cheek become an unignorable distraction.

Now, you want something else.

You don't bother teasing or playing coy, not when he’s so solidly pressed against you, just begging to be had. Your body rises and falls with every breath he takes, and it’s so visceral, being close enough to touch and taste him, and yet not doing either.

His neck looks especially delicious under the faint, fluorescent lighting of the TV, and your lips press wetly into the underside of his jaw, sucking delicately as your tongue darts out to taste him. His breath hitches, but he shows no other signs of being affected at all.

Taking that as your cue to up the ante, you drop your hand onto his lap to tug at his belt, but he catches you before you can make any progress. You tilt your head back to look up at him, brows furrowed in confusion, but he just smirks, eyes still locked on the TV screen.

"You wanted a movie, didn't ya? Thought ya loved this one," he says teasingly. "You can wait a couple hours—I know ya can."

Yeah, you can, but that doesn't mean you want to. He was so into it in the parking lot, so what happened between then and now? You didn't think he liked this movie that much, but apparently you were mistaken.

Settling back into his side, you try to shift your focus back to the movie, but then the hand on your shoulder starts to play with your hair. His fingers graze your neck, and you're back to squeezing your thighs together in frustration.

He has to be doing this on purpose. Riling you up so much that once the movie’s finally over, you’ll be putty in his hands. Well, two can play that game. If he won't let you touch him, then you'll just have to touch yourself.

Your eyes flutter closed as you run your fingers down your belly, slipping your hand beneath the waistband of your shorts to drag your fingers up and down your slick folds. God, you didn't realize you were already so wet. You gasp softly as you trail upward toward your clit, but Joel's voice startles you out of your reverie.

"Should ya be doin' that right now?"

There's a tinge of warning to his voice, and it burns hot in your veins. You open your eyes slowly and he's finally looking at you, his attention drawn to your fingers still moving under the fabric.

"Well, you weren't gonna. What, are you—," your middle finger brushes against that sensitive bundle of nerves and you bite back a whine, "—you...ngh—gonna stop me?"

The hand that was gently stroking your hair shifts back to firmly grip the back of your neck, squeezing just hard enough to make your fingers stutter. He leans in, his voice dangerously low in your ear.

"No, I'll let ya keep goin'. But you're gonna do exactly what I tell ya to, ya got that?" he murmurs, watching as your hips begin to swivel into your own sweet friction. "'n if you're good for me...," he trails off, eyes dropping down to where he's slowly jerking off his hardening cock through his jeans. "...I'll give ya this. We got a deal?"

You want him inside you so badly, you almost say yes before he's even done talking, but then you have a wicked thought. A counteroffer, of sorts.

"I'll take your deal. But—," you start with a devilish smile, and he raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue. "Only if you touch yourself, too. Want you to fuck your hand like you're fucking me."

"Deal," he says without hesitation.

"Deal," you smirk, removing your hand from your pussy for him to shake, your fingers sticky and glistening.

He takes your proffered hand but, instead of shaking, he wraps his lips around your slick digits, sucking you off each one and groaning at your taste. What you wouldn't give to have that tongue in your mouth. Or buried in your cunt. Pulling off with a lewd pop, he nods at your lap.

"Take your fuckin' pants off. Now."

Shit, he doesn't have to tell you twice. You quickly shimmy out of your shorts and underwear, and wait for his next instructions. You'll be a good girl for him. The best girl he's ever had and ever will.

"Spread 'em. Show me how wet you are for me," he mumbles, kicking your legs apart.

You spread them as wide as you can. The cool night breeze filtering in through the open window meets your center, and you're suddenly aware of how much wetter you've gotten since you started. It almost makes your mouth water. You don't think you've ever been this turned on by your own body in your life.

Slick coats your thighs, seeping into the couch, and he looks pleased. You can see he wants to touch you just as badly as you want to touch yourself. Your knee bumps into his thigh and he hooks your leg over his, holding you open.

"Shit, would'ja look at that," he breathes out in awe. "Prettiest pussy I've ever seen."

Your cunt visibly clenches at the praise and he hisses in a breath through his teeth, resting his hand on your thigh so he can lean over your body. He lingers for a moment like he's admiring you laid out for him like this, but then moves a little closer and spits a thick glob of saliva right onto your clit.

Your jaw drops, a loud gasp torn from your chest when he grabs your hand, using your fingers to gather it up and swirl it around your swollen nub. Shit, if he keeps going like this, you're going to cum and fast.

Dropping your head back onto his shoulder, you rock into your fingers, slipping through the mess he's made of your pussy, and your body starts to feel like a rubber band about to snap.

"Wanna taste you so fuckin' bad. Fuck you on my tongue 'til you're nice 'n ready for me," he growls, pressing your fingers harder onto your clit. "S'that what you want? Wanna cum in my mouth?"

You turn to bury your head into the crook of his neck, nodding frantically as you cry into the soothing warmth of his skin. You're going to cum. Fuck, fuck, you're going to cum. Your eyes start to roll back as you feel it crescendo, and then—

Then, he releases your hand, cruelly and unapologetically.

"Not yet, baby. We both gotta be patient, don't we?" he teases you again, and your eyes snap open.

What the fuck. No, you're not letting him edge you again. It was fun and all at the gym, but you're way too far gone to be playing games right now.

And how isn't he a total wreck? Both of his hands are on you, even though that wasn't part of the deal, so he can't be taking care of himself.

Your eyes drop down to his lap, and wow. This man has more willpower than you ever could've imagined. He's so hard, you can see the tip of his cock peeking out above the waistband of his pants. And it's leaking everywhere, twitching and angrily dribbling precum all over the fabric.

He looks...so fucking good like this. Fuck, you want him so bad. But that means getting back on track, and it's obviously on you to make that happen. Clearly, he's more affected by all of this than he made it seem.

"Joel, please, just tell me what to do," you plead. You'll beg if you have to. Whatever it takes for you to finally get what you want.

"Alright, alright," he concedes, taking sympathy on you, likely reaching his limit himself. "'m gonna let you make yourself feel good, baby. Don't'chu worry."

"Great," you grit through your teeth. "Then start by taking your fucking pants off."

He chuckles at his words thrown back at him, but listens, regardless. His boxers and jeans are pulled off in two hard tugs, and his cock bounces against his stomach, thick and wet, and unfairly far from your aching pussy. The hand on your neck moves to gently caress the side of your cheek.

"Gonna start nice 'n slow, ya got that?" he says, biting back a groan as he wraps his fingers around his neglected cock. He starts to pump himself, and more precum leaks out. "Watch me."

But it didn't need to be said. You're already enraptured by the way he strokes himself, slow and steady, swiping his thumb over the head on every upstroke. He's panting softly, trying to keep his hips from jerking up into his fist, but you can see how much effort it's taking not to.

"C'mon, baby. Gimme one finger—your middle finger, all the way in," he commands, his voice as tight as his grip.

You tear your eyes away from him while you run your fingers through your folds, still slick with his saliva and your own desire, and then sink your finger into yourself knuckle by knuckle. It doesn't feel like much, and you both know it, but at least it's something.

"Now, follow me," he says, watching your hand as intently as you're watching his.

You rock your finger in and out slowly, just like he said. Because you're his good girl and good girls do what they're told. It’s already a sticky mess, your finger creamier with every thrust, and he groans out his appreciation.

"Good girl. Add another one. Not too fast, now."

Finally, you get some real relief. Slipping your index finger in alongside your middle finger, you feel that little bit of stretch you've been aching for and you can't help but whimper.

His lips part, brows furrowing as his hand speeds up. His eyes are locked on where your sopping cunt is sucking in your fingers greedily and, fuck, he's even more of a mess now. Sweat dripping from his temples, chest heaving with the effort of holding himself back.

So hot. So fucking hot. It's scorching, the way your cunt feels around your fingers as you fuck into yourself a little faster. They're rubbing your walls just right, your palm grazing your clit after every stroke, and his hyper-focused gaze makes it all feel that much better. You want to hear him say it again. For him to tell you how well you’re doing.

"—ngh...i-is this good?" you whine, knowing how pathetic you sound, but forgetting to care.

"Perfect, baby. You're perfect," he rasps, unable to keep his hips from snapping up into his fist as the sweet sounds of your wet squelching reach his ears. "So fuckin' good for me."

Preening hard at his praise, you push a little too deep into yourself and graze something mind-numbing that almost hurts with how good it feels. You cry out, curling your fingers into it again and again as you bury your face back into his neck. His arm tightens around your shoulder and he leans over to press his lips soothingly against your forehead.

"That's it, baby, just like that. Doin' so well," he groans, lips brushing against your skin. His strokes are frantic now and you know he can’t last much longer. "Need ya to gimme one more. Just one—last one, promise. Then I'll give ya whatever you want."

Nodding quickly, face still cushioned against his shoulder, you add your ring finger, and fucking hell, you’re so full. You stretch your fingers apart, pumping them in and out the best you can, and they drag against that spot—every spot—with how tight you are. But somehow it’s not enough. It’s not Joel’s cock, so it’ll never be enough.

Everything’s drowned out except for the wet sounds of skin on skin, and Joel’s voice, still just above your brow, talking you through your almost painful pleasure. He’s panting, whispering tender words that you can’t hear so much as feel with those soft, perfect lips.

“…tell me when you’re close, baby. Can’t feel ya, gonna need you to use your words,” he barely chokes out, staving off his orgasm, waiting for you.

It’s already close, but you’re only teetering, stuck in a constant loop of almost there, and need more. You can’t reach where you need to, but Joel can. So easily and all you have to do is ask. He said he’d give you whatever you wanted.

But you didn’t realize he was already at his limit, and you don’t get the chance to tell him before he’s babbling, delirious with the need to cum.

"'m sorry—fuck, 'm sorry. Need...to—ngh, fuck, need to cum inside you...fill you up...," he moans, and he sounds upset like he can’t help himself, not anymore.

Abruptly, so much quicker than you can fully process, your fingers are yanked out of your cunt and replaced by his cock, and the thrust is so harsh, he hits exactly where you need him to without even trying. The whine building in your chest erupts as a wail as you immediately lock down around him, sending him over the edge with you.

Full. God, how can you feel this full? You’re so unbelievably aware of him cumming inside you and there’s so much, he’s already leaking out of you. And he almost seems angry about it. Your hips are roughly tilted up so he’s fucking down into you, eyes unfocused, and snarling like a wild animal.

And still so mouthy.

“You got no idea how good ya look right now. Fuckin’ glowin’,” he all but slurs, drunk on the idea of keeping his seed inside you. “S’that my baby in you, makin’ ya glow like that?”

"Oh...oh, god, fuck, Joel,” you whimper, your aftershocks still milking him dry. “Christ, y-you trying to knock me up twice?"

It’s like that alone makes him redouble his efforts. You’ve never seen him like this before, but you like it. Something primal in you wants this as badly as he does.

"Fuck yeah, baby, gonna pump you full'a twins."

Holy shit. You’re not sure if you’re still cumming or if you just came again, but you feel an entirely new rush of pleasure and he hisses out a breath through his teeth like he can feel it. Not long after, sensitivity starts to set in for both of you and he stills, seated deeply inside you, chest heaving and eyes shut tight.

His hands squeeze where they’ve been aggressively gripping your thighs before he reluctantly pulls out, but he keeps your hips tilted up as he drops to sit between your legs on the cushion below.

“There a reason I can’t lay down like a normal person?” you laugh, wiggling in his grasp. “Joel, come on, put me down. I’m already pregnant.”

“Just gimme a minute,” he mumbles, suddenly sounding so solemn. He turns his head from where it's resting on the side of your knee to kiss your damp skin. “Didn’t know I was knockin’ you up the first time, just…lemme have this, alright?”

Your eyes soften. How this man can be such a sap after fucking you like that is beyond comprehension, but if he wants this, then you’ll let him have his moment. It’s kind of sweet, anyway.

“Okay,” you reach up to brush your fingertips along his cheek. It's incredible, really, all of the things you see in Joel's eyes right now. That in this single, fleeting gaze, you can see forever. "Put a baby in me.”

SATURDAY

"Can you stay up all night? Fuck me 'til the daylight. 34, 35."

You’re convinced Joel tastes especially good in the mornings. There’s a hint of sweat to his skin, so naturally bitter and heady, maybe even a little tangy. It’s fucking delicious.

And he’s always hard in the morning. His cock is the perfect alarm clock, always reliable and super effective, whether it’s pulsing against your thigh or rutting into your ass. It’s your favorite way to wake up, but there’s usually not enough time to enjoy it to the fullest.

Not with work and Sarah, even Tommy showing up for breakfast unannounced. But it’s Saturday, which means you can keep your lips wrapped around him for as long as you want, make him cum as many times as you want, and taste him to your heart’s content.

He probably won’t even wake up, at least not right away. Joel sleeps like the dead, especially on the weekends, and it’s been a long week. Even now, as you suck the tip into your wet, very eager mouth and swallow him down halfway, he barely stirs.

That’s more than okay with you. You’d be happy to lie in bed, head pillowed on his stomach, keeping his cock warm between your lips while you wait. Relishing how fucking good he tastes and how your jaw pleasantly aches as you adjust to accommodate his girth.

But, soon enough, your jaw isn’t the only thing aching. The slick mess you’re making in your underwear right now is getting hard to ignore, but you don’t want to let him go. He’s velvety smooth against your tongue, dribbling salty precum down your throat, and his unconscious body is starting to respond to you more and more with each passing moment. This is your favorite part.

He lets out a soft grunt, twitching into the inside of your cheek, and your efforts become a little more concentrated and a lot more obvious. You try to forget about your soaked underwear and the pleasurable whoosh in your belly in favor of sucking a little harder, letting saliva pool in your mouth as you slurp loudly around the head.

His hips jerk up, surprising you enough to gag you, and that only makes your mouth and pussy wetter, the heat building in your core almost unbearable now. The moan that escapes you sends a drawn-out series of vibrations straight down to his balls that pulls even more noise from him, and your head steadily shifts with the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

He's starting to rut into your mouth, whimpering, and yet somehow still asleep, and it makes you feel powerful to have full control over him like this. To command his pleasure without any interruption or intervention, making him fall apart entirely at your mercy. You kind of hope you can get him to cum like this, to be his alarm clock for once.

Turns out only half of your wish is granted, but you don't realize it until Joel's fingers are threading into your hair and abruptly tugging you off. He's definitely awake now, but he also definitely didn't cum. Bummer. You try sucking him back into your mouth, but he tugs you harder even as his hips chase you.

"Joel, what—?" you glare up at him, but upon seeing him, you feel a little bad for your reaction. He looks so sleepy, still a little dazed from his unconventional wake-up call, blinking blearily like he's doing his best to stay awake. Your expression softens.

"Sorry, got a little carried away," you murmur sheepishly. "But, um, you taste really good, so if you wanna go back to sleep, I can just keep—"

You're cut off by a hand trailing down your body, following the curve of your ass to dip inside you. He smears the moisture around your entrance, pushing two fingers into you, then pulling out to hold them up to his face. You watch him, enraptured by the way he inspects your wetness, how it strings between his middle and ring fingers.

Then, he surprises you even further by sucking them into his mouth, his eyes rolling back as he groans around them before slipping them out totally clean. His cock jerks next to your face and you belatedly realize you're drooling.

"Fuck, so do you." He's fully awake now, eyes clear, but dark. Hungry.

"Huh?" you ask dumbly.

"Ya taste really good," he mumbles, his voice low and so sexy, still thick with sleep. You feel your cheeks heat up. Oh.

"C'mere, baby," he tells you, patting his chest. You crawl up his body and lean up to kiss him, assuming he wants you to taste yourself in his mouth, but he stops you. "Other way, sweetheart."

Your brows furrow in confusion as you try to work out exactly what he's asking for. Even though you've been awake and riling him up for what feels like hours, your brain clearly hasn't caught up yet. His eyes are unreadable, fingers tense at his sides. Like he's just itching for you to understand.

"Need you to figure this out—know you can do it," he rasps needily. "C'mon, smart girl, what do I want?"

And then it hits you. He's not asking you to sit on his chest, not really. He wants you to sit on his face. Needs you to. Sprawled out on your hands and knees where his spit-slick cock would be just within reach, bobbing temptingly with every breath he takes.

God, you want to. The idea of Joel fucking you with his tongue while he's fucking into your mouth makes you clench so hard it hurts. You bite your lip, meeting his expectant gaze.

Okay. Okay, you can definitely do that. Especially when he looks so...eager. It also has the double advantage of combining mind-blowing sex with a well-rounded breakfast. You have a feeling you'll both be full after this.

"Just so I have this straight—," you splay your fingers across his stomach, trailing down to wrap tightly around his length and tug upward until a single, perfect bead of precum leaks from his slit, "—you still want my mouth here."

Your eyes stay locked on his as you bend down to lick it off, lingering to suckle the tip and tease your tongue just under the ridge. When he doesn't immediately tug you off, you take him deeper, preening at his harsh intake of breath.

You don't want to press your luck, but he tastes fucking incredible, somehow even better than he did earlier. Maybe it's the way he's watching you, captivated and attuned to your every movement.

He’s already starting to buck into you, shallowly, now an active participant in his own pleasure. His knuckles are nearly white with how hard he’s fisting the sheets, teeth gritting as he fights the urge to rush you.

But his patience is wearing thin. Just a few thrusts later, he tugs you off with what feels like dwindling restraint, and your dazed, glassy eyes don't do much to help.

You look wrecked, and you know it. Lips swollen and slick with saliva, your lashes wet with unshed tears from the effort of taking him. He reaches out to trace your bottom lip with his thumb, hissing when you catch the tip between your teeth.

“Yeah...ngh—yeah, keep doin' that. Suckin' me just like that," he breathes raggedly. "And sit that pretty pussy right here—"

Then, without warning, he's suddenly manhandling you into position, throwing your leg over his head, and maneuvering you until you can feel him panting heavily against your cunt.

“Down, baby, let's go. Wanna taste ya. Now.”

Blunt nails dig into your skin and your hips stutter, dipping low enough for your clit to brush his bottom lip. It’s enough for him to get a taste of you. For him to finally snap and decide he’s done waiting.

Joel yanks you onto his face, licking a wide stripe from your clit to your entrance, his tongue immediately finding a home in your pussy. The motion knocks you off balance and you fall forward, his cock just inches from your mouth.

Bracing a hand on his stomach, you wrap your other around him and he groans throatily in response, the sound deep and muffled as he licks into you with increased fervor. And his noises only grow in volume, vibrating against your folds and sending jolt after jolt into your very sensitive bundle of nerves.

His mouth feels so fucking hot, and the coarseness of his beard burns, making it hard to concentrate on what you’re desperately trying to accomplish. You’re already panting, hiccuped breaths puffing teasingly and cruelly against him until he’s pulsing in your grip.

The promise of him throbbing just like that down your throat makes you focus just long enough to take him back into your mouth, intent on sucking him down as far as your body will let you. But, by now, any sense of self-control he might’ve had before is totally gone. His hips buck clean off the mattress at the tightness of your lips around him, and he all but chokes you with the force of it, the size of him.

And, fuck, you love it. The way his stomach tenses, his thighs trembling beneath you. You can’t tell where your body ends and his begins, not when he’s fucking into you every single way he can. His tongue spears into you and your pussy rhythmically squeezes him every time his cock grazes the back of your throat.

You’re audibly gagging around him and it’s filthy as hell, but you can tell how much it’s turning him on. Christ, can you tell. Maybe you were genuinely worried you’d suffocate him at first but, now, you probably couldn’t stop yourself from grinding into his face even if you tried. And that's exactly what he wants.

"...Harder—mmph, c'mon, baby," you feel him groan into your cunt, urging your hips even lower. "—ride me harder, harder."

How—he...fuck, he's...? Everywhere. He's everywhere. You struggle to do what he told you, to use him for your mounting pleasure, but it doesn't fucking matter anymore. You're helpless but to let him do whatever he wants to you.

Joel’s devouring you. Roughly grabbing your ass, moaning pathetically into you as he pulls your cheeks apart for better access. It’s almost like you can feel him swelling between your lips, and you try to pull up for just a second of respite.

But, then, he abruptly shifts. His mouth lowers to suck gently, yet fleetingly on your clit twice, then he licks a wide stripe back up to your entrance. Except, he doesn’t stop there. Instead, he continues his path up, gathering your wetness as he goes, and swirls his tongue around your other hole before sucking hard. And it sends you reeling.

Jesus fucking Christ, that’s new. Fuck, and it’s—so...so good. It’s indescribable, how he feels right now. How he sounds—slurping you up, whimpering desperately like he’ll cum at any moment.

And he’s loud, drawn-out moans escaping from so deep within his chest, they climb their way from that tight ring of muscle straight up your spine, where you can vaguely feel his arm snaking around you to claw at your back. You can’t think anymore—you’re done thinking.

Now, it’s just him trapping you in place, the three fingers he’s suddenly pumping into your spasming pussy, and his cock, now abandoned and leaking on his stomach. It’s so much, bordering on too much, and you can’t hold yourself up anymore.

Your head drops unceremoniously onto the puddle of precum and it smears across your cheek as his hips urgently roll into nothing. But you don’t even notice. Not even when your eyes roll back and you start to babble deliriously, your orgasm building quickly in a place between your legs you can’t even begin to explain.

“Joel…JoelJoelJoel—I…you…,” you slam a hand down on the mattress as your thighs start to quake violently. “…cumming—‘m cumming, fuck—fuck.”

It doesn’t just crash over you, it rocks you to your core. Everything below your waist locks down, squeezing his fingers so tight, you swear you can feel each individual knuckle. Your jaw drops, parting around what feels like a silent scream, but you can’t be totally sure because soon, Joel is groaning so gutturally, you can’t focus on anything else.

At least, until he cums completely untouched right into your face. And he cums hard. Thick spurts cover your lips and chin, landing haphazardly on your cheek, and your tongue darts out to taste him, salty and sated and perfect. Exactly what you've been waiting for.

His thighs tense intermittently, a few more drops dribbling out of his slit, and you crane your neck, letting your tongue flutter over his head. As it pulses weakly against your lips, Joel gasps out your name, burying his face in your swollen pussy again.

Lazily, you swivel your hips into his mouth despite the extreme overstimulation, hiccuping soft moans and nearly succumbing to the easy pleasure. He gently caresses your clit, enveloping you with a dextrous warmth that simultaneously makes you jolt and crave the sensation.

Neither of you want to stop. Truthfully, you'd let him do this to you all day, drawing orgasm after orgasm from each other the way you have been all week. But exhaustion's starting to set in and you're not sure your body can physically take any more.

Joel slaps your ass and you huff out a soft laugh, deciding it's time to separate so you can get cozy with him again. The perfect end to your surprisingly athletic, lazy Saturday morning in bed.

“You gonna stop anytime soon, or do you just live there now?” you pant teasingly, grimacing as you slowly lift your head off his stomach.

Shit, you’re a mess. You’re practically stuck to him, his cum drying on his stomach and your face, and you can feel the stickiness of his saliva mixed with your juices dripping between your legs. His hand trails from your ass down to your inner thigh, painting mindless patterns on your sullied skin.

"Sure don't seem like ya want me to stop," he chuckles tiredly, managing to suck your clit chastely one last time before you jerk your hips away.

His head finally drops onto the pillow below him, and he lets out a disgruntled whine when you toss your leg over his head, plopping down on the bed beside him.

"Yeah, well, one of us has to have a little self-control or we're not leaving this bed today. And you, uh, look like you could use some tidying up,” you snort, scratching your fingertips against his already crusting beard. He mimics the motion on your leg, and you swat his hand away, rolling your eyes fondly.

It would be disgusting if it were literally anyone else but Joel but, here in this bed—your bed—it feels so natural. Like it’s totally normal that you’d be covered in each other’s releases, having a silly conversation on a Saturday morning as if you’ve done this all your lives.

“Might wanna look in the mirror, baby. I’d be more’n happy to keep lookin’ at ya like this, but—,” he leans up to wipe a streak of cum off your bottom lip. His hand lingers, cupping your damp cheek, and you instinctively lean into his touch. “—you probably need more cleanin’ up than I do.”

You eye each other for a few seconds, taking in how truly disgusting you both are, before bursting into fits of laughter. You’re smiling so hard, your skin tugs under his drying release and that makes you laugh even harder.

“Alright, alright, filthy girl,” he jokes, wiping a stray tear from his eye. “Lay down, I’ll take care of ya.”

He sits up and slowly slides off the bed, yanking your legs out from under you as he goes. Still giggling, you flop onto the damp, cotton sheets with an oomph and immediately take the opportunity to stretch out your sore limbs. You nuzzle into your pillow with a soft mewl, practically purring as you try to soak up the warm morning rays streaming through the gaps in the curtains.

You glance over at Joel as you continue to nest like a gigantic cat, but he's already watching you, paused in the doorway to the bathroom. His eyes rove appreciatively down your naked body and you observe him quietly, deciding you'll let him stare for as long as he wants to. There's no rush. Sure, you're still a mess and probably have the worst bedhead imaginable, but despite it all, he makes you feel beautiful.

When he returns with a cool, damp washcloth a few minutes later, he's much cleaner and you're only a little bummed that the evidence of your explosive morning is gone. He's gentle and attentive as he wipes the remaining streaks off your cheeks and chin, and bends down to kiss you once your face is officially cum-free.

Okay, maybe you lied earlier. This is your favorite part. Joel taking care of you, choosing to express his affection through his actions and touch. You sigh into his mouth, melting into the first real kiss you've shared since waking up, and it takes his tongue tangling with yours for you to realize he tastes minty. He's always so delicious.

Trailing further down, he wipes his release off your stomach, pressing his lips to each freshly-cleaned inch of skin, and then crawls between your legs to wash away the mess he made of your thighs. Your eyes start to flutter closed at the repetitive shift in sensation, his hands lulling you to sleep, until the washcloth hits the floor with a dull splat.

Well, that was over way too soon. But you quickly forgive the horrible transgression once his warm, welcome body sinks into the bed next to you, and his tousled head of hair and beard nuzzle into your stomach.

He mouths at your skin, his lips pressing sweetly around your belly button, and it tickles, making you laugh as you thread your fingers through his curls and scratch his scalp affectionately.

After a moment of comfortable silence, his hand splays warm and broad next to his head. His expression shifts and he looks unexpectedly pensive. Uncertainty creeps into your chest before you can logic it away, even though you know without a doubt that he wants this. His lips begin to move against your stomach and it takes a second for you to realize he's saying something, almost too quietly for you to hear. But when it finally registers, all of that fear completely fades away.

"Hey there, kiddo. It's me, your daddy," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin as soothing as his words. He has the tiniest smile on his face, and it's growing wider by the second. "We're all so excited to meet ya. Me, your momma, your big sister, your uncle...we already love ya so damn much."

The room starts to blur into a wash of colors and figures, and shit, you're crying. But how could you not be? He's...talking to your tiny clump of cells. To your baby—who can't possibly be bigger than a pumpkin seed—with so much adoration, it makes your chest ache.

You're trying so hard not to tremble or sniffle or breathe too heavily so you don't startle him, but that doesn't exactly work out. A few stray tears make their way up your nose, and you snort around your next inhale. Classic, clumsy you.

Joel's head shoots up like he's been caught and his cheeks flush that beautiful shade of burgundy you love so much. You don't want him to stop, but he looks so embarrassed like he thinks he's done something wrong. That couldn't be further from the truth.

"I'm just emotional from the hormones, it's totally fine. I'm totally fine," you give him a reassuring, watery grin. "Keep going. I think they like the sound of daddy's voice."

He chuckles and reaches up to wipe your tears away, gently cradling your face in his hand before he slides it back down to your belly. He continues where he left off, just like you asked, but you have a sneaking suspicion he would've anyway. Joel's just one of those men who was born to be a dad. It comes as naturally to him as breathing.

“Heard that? That's your momma, kiddo. She's....well. She's somethin' else. Strongest, most lovin', person I've ever known and fuckin' sharp as a tack," he smiles up at you, eyes crinkling and bright as the goddamn sun. "And she's beautiful. She even sounds beautiful, don't she? Hopin' you'll come out just like her."

You scoff affectionately, shaking your head as you share a look that tells you he knows exactly what you're thinking. If this baby pops out without his brown eyes and curls, you're going to be so pissed. You teasingly tug his hair, willing him to take it back, but he won't. If your baby's getting anything from the two of you, it's stubbornness.

Then, before you can blink, there's a sudden tone shift. His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together, and he turns his head so he's speaking directly into your belly. An exchange just between a father and his child.

"Wanna know a secret? S'just between you and me, though, alright? Don't go tellin' your momma," he says nosing into your soft skin, his voice barely above a whisper. You watch him curiously, squeezing his hand to get his attention, but his focus remains on your stomach. "'m gonna ask your momma to marry me. Think she'll say yes?"

Your heart stops and it feels like all of the air's been sucked out of the room. That's—fuck...that's one hell of a secret to share with your baby. You can't even imagine the kind of trouble they're going to get up to if they're already keeping secrets like that.

His eyes flit up to meet yours, but they're not questioning or expectant. He isn't wondering what your answer will be. He just looks peaceful. Blanketed in an easy calm because he already knows what you're going to say. Of course, he does.

Propping his chin on your hip, Joel quietly observes your reaction while he strokes the back of your hand with the rough pad of his thumb. You wonder what he sees on your face and in your body language right now because you're positive it's not the elation or excessive joy anyone else would expect.

You're not squealing or jumping up and down, or whatever newly engaged people usually do. No, that blanket of easy calm is more than big enough for both of you, and it feels safe and warm, just like you always knew this moment would.

And you wouldn't want it any other way. Lying here together after possibly the most eventful week of your lives, filled with so much sex and love and family, and deciding that you want to keep doing this together, over and over. Forever.

You guide his hand up to your lips, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to his palm, before placing it over your racing heart. That tiny smile returns to his face and he crawls up your body so he can kiss you properly, conveying his love better than words ever could.

It's still way too early for your baby to kick or give their daddy any sort of sign that they heard his question, but you're sure they wouldn't mind if you answered for them. It's a no-brainer, anyway.

"Yeah, I do."

thanks for reading! 💕

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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abbyromanoff · 11 months

Text

YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MINE

PAIRINGS: Wanda Maximoff x reader

WORD COUNT: 2,475

WARNINGS: angst, cheating, divorce, depression, fluff, mind manipulation, the hex being created, pregnancy, kinda dark, think that’s all :)

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN!!

Wanda hummed as the flavors hit her taste buds, her eyes directed at you as she smiled warmly.

“How do you like the dinner, sweetheart?” You grinned beneath the fork inside your mouth, instantly returning your lips back to a thin line when her eyes left you.

“Well, I hope you’d like it, I spent many hours prepping this.” She chuckled, giving your hand a squeeze from across the table. You still didn’t utter a word, she was growing concerned.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You shrugged, nervously playing with your food as you bit the inside of your cheek, a habit you started and failed to stop, much to Wanda’s liking.

“C’mon, you can talk to me, that’s what I’m here for.” You looked up, noticing her intense gaze that showed she knew exactly what you were going to say.

“You still haven’t signed the papers.” Her body tensed, her eyes shutting as she sighed. Her hand balled into a tight fist as she continued to eat. She could see you were lacking the ring on your finger, the sight making her want to crawl into a corner and cry her eyes out. There was no way out of this, she realized, so she had to make one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“My fucking God, Wanda,” You slammed your hands down, standing as you paced urgently. She refused to look, instead finding her meal all the more interesting.

“You’re pathetic, you know that? You can’t sign some fucking papers, really? This marriage has been ruined the moment you slept with that tramp.” The realization made her throat tighten, tears nearly ready to spill from her loopy eyes.

“I told you it was a mistake, it meant nothing-”

“That doesn’t stop the fact that it happened, Wanda! Do you think it’s easy for me to have to live here daily? To see you and constantly be reminded of what you did? I worked so hard to even convince myself I was worthy of you, and you go and do this?” She cowered down, wiping her hands on the small cloth in her lap while you stared at her, nostrils flared and eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m sorry-”

“Sorry doesn’t fix what you did-”

“God, will you let me fucking speak?” She yelled, growing frustrated with the constant interruption. You didn’t refute, instead placing your hands on your hips as you waited for her voice to return.

“I told you, I was drunk and she looked so much like you. We were fighting, I was upset, you were too, so I went out and got wasted to the point I could barely walk. I saw her there and I…I let her take me home, but when I woke up I- I realized what I did and I knew I fucked up.”

“Yeah, you did.” You already heard the story before, the same one that haunted you in your dreams. You imagined someone else being able to hear the moans she promised were only for you, it made you violently ill.

“I made a promise to you, and I plan to keep it. I will never, and I mean never, touch a drink again. I won’t even look in another woman’s direction because I don’t need to when I have my wife right in front of me. My perfect, breathtaking, loving wife that I care for so much.” She wrapped her arms around your waist as she dropped to her knees, placing her forehead against your thigh.

“Please, baby, I don’t know how many times I have to apologize before you forgive me, but I’ll continue to tell you for the rest of my life.” She placed small kisses against the covered skin, feeling the warmth that you supplied, the same warmth that brought her comfort at night. Now it brought her shame and guilt, but she’d rather carry that burden for the rest of her life than lose you for even a moment.

“I don’t want to have to be reminded of what you did for the rest of my life, Wanda. I’m constantly having someone down my ear telling me how terrible you are, and how I should never forgive you. For fucks sake, even our friends have told me to leave you! How am I going to look them in the eye again knowing all they see is someone who’s too gullible to even leave their cheating wife?” You sobbed, and the look on your face only brought misery to the woman. You seemed so lost, so exhausted, and she was the cause.

“I know, I know, and none of this is fair to you, and I’m so sorry I caused this-”

“Stop saying sorry. Please, I can’t do this.” You begged, your voice cracking as you drew more emotions.

“But I mean it! I never want you to feel like I don’t want you because I want you more than anything. I need you, Y/N, I need you in my life.” It was true, she didn’t know how to properly function without you. You were the only one who kept her going, you were the one who held her when she felt like she couldn’t stand. When she was ready to give up, she had you holding her back. Without you, she’d be nothing.

“You say you need me, but you don’t consider what I need. And what I need is for you to let me go, and sign the papers.” You wanted to give in, to fall into her embrace and let her make it up to you. But you couldn’t, your mind would never let you forget the scene you walked in on. And maybe you’d still remember it vividly without her, but at least you wouldn’t have to be in the exact place it happened with the person who did it. At least you could move on and find someone who wouldn’t hurt you like this, intoxicated or not.

“No- no, I won’t do it.” Tear stains painted your shirt from where her head rested, you knew you’d have to throw this out sooner than later.

“Wanda, please, just do it.” You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to ignore her pleas.

“But-”

“I’m begging you, Wanda. If you truly loved me, you’d want me to be happy.” She rushed towards you when you tried to escape her tight hold.

“You’re happier with me-”

“I can’t be happy with you, not when I can’t stop thinking about what you did. It ruined me, Wands, and it continues to haunt me every breathing moment.” The nickname brought a crack to her rotting heart. Her body felt like it was decaying the more you pulled away and the more she tried to hold on.

“You’re going to sign the papers. And then I’ll be gone. This is best for the both of us, you’ll learn to live without me.” She felt as though she was going to be sick, why were you still denying her? She couldn’t let you go. No, she couldn’t.

You leaned down to her level, moving the hair that covered her face out of the way. You cupped her cheeks, smiling sadly as her sobs caused her hands to shake lightly. She reached out hopefully, copying your action and bringing herself closer.

“Can I- can I have one last kiss, at least?” You looked down, sighing as you shook your head before returning her gaze.

“If I kiss you, I don’t think either of us will be able to stop.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?” You chuckled, and it felt like music to her ears. She smiled warmly, even though her chest tightened and her breath cut short.

“I love you, Wanda, I always will. Maybe we were just never meant to be, and that’s okay. But if I don’t let you go now, I’ll never be able to be happy.” But you could’ve been meant to be, she realized. You could’ve been the best, most loving couple. Your kids would’ve grown up in a healthy, safe household full of love. But that all came to an end when that night left her hopeless, she pleaded with God constantly to rid her actions but they were never heard.

“I love you too, Y/N, and I want you to be happy, I just wish I could’ve been the reason.”

“You were.” The past tense was what caused her body to crash into yours. She lost all control as your arms brought her a sense of comfort she lacked for so long.

“I’m sorry I failed you.”

In a few months, the divorce was being settled and you officially moved out. You had been staying with a friend for some time, and she was more than happy to help you out. She had been in a similar situation before, so it was clear what she had to do when she saw you standing on her front porch. Wanda thought she would be able to see you when you would gather your stuff from her place, but a multitude of your friends went instead, all of them giving glares to the older woman as she refused to look at the empty home. It seemed wrong without your stuff here, and all she had were pictures of the two of you that she couldn’t remove.

She felt hopeless as time progressed, and the lack of messages or calls from you only made time move slower. Every day felt like a decade as she failed to execute basic human needs. She often struggled to get out of bed or brush her teeth, and now it’s been two days since she last showered. She wondered how you were, she hoped you weren’t in such a horrid state like herself. But a part of her also hoped you were, just so she knew you still cared.

Eventually, it all became too much. She hadn’t slept in her bed in over a year, the constant reminder that another laid where you once were disgusted her. The couch had become her home, but even the couch seemed to shame her. Her favorite movies didn’t feel the same without you laughing with her. The sitcoms she loved so much now annoyed her; she had changed completely, and it was all her fault.

She couldn’t hold it back anymore, she broke. Her small, empty home in the town of Westview became full once again. She didn’t know what happened. One moment she was sobbing uncontrollably while huddling close to the stuffed animal she had won for you on your first date, then the plain walls filled with hope. Her heart slowly gained a beat, and her hands felt warm again. She stood in front of a door, her fist finding the wood and creating a small knock.

“It’s open!” She heard, and she stopped in her tracks. It was you, it was your angelic voice that was slowly fading from her mind. She gulped fearfully before twisting the knob, letting her legs take control as she stepped forward.

“Love, you’re home!” You greeted with a smile, turning to face her as Wanda’s eyes fell on the toddler being held in your arms. She had the same hair as Wanda, and while it wasn’t easy to spot from so far away, she could see her green, piercing eyes looking back at her. The child giggled and pointed her chubby finger her way, causing a smile to break out on her face.

“Everything alright, sweetie?” You asked when she didn’t move, her mouth agape and her hands nearly releasing the briefcase she held.

“Yes…everything is just perfect, my love.” She mustered out, rushing towards your figure and embracing you in a tight hold. The replica of her was left with a small kiss to her forehead before she took her into her arms, blowing raspberries on her exposed tummy. Alana giggled again, and it felt like Wanda’s ear would explode. She felt like she was dreaming, only this wasn’t the nightmare she fought with every night. No, this time you were here to cure her.

“Momma!” She heard from a distance, seeing a young boy running to greet her. He hugged her leg tightly, causing Wanda to stumble before she leaned down, ruffling his hair before she gave him a small side hug, the baby in her arms restricting her from embracing him as much as she wanted to.

“Hey, kiddo! How was your day?”

“It was amazing! Me, Mommy, and Alana made dinner!” She gasped, showing her appreciation towards the excited boy before he ran off to the kitchen as she requested. He was still too young to carry his little sister, so she continued to do so.

“And hello to you, my sweet baby.” Wanda placed a small kiss against your stomach, placing her hand against the bump and rubbing her thumb in small, soothing circles.

“Have they been giving you any trouble today?” She asked, resulting in a small sigh from your end.

“They’ve been kicking all day. I swear, if they’re not professional soccer players, I don’t know what else they’ll do.” Wanda laughed before leaving multiple pecks to your lips, grasping your hand in hers before leading you to the kitchen.

“Well, it’s only a few more months until they’ll be out of you, I know you can do it.” You stopped in your tracks, eyeing her and causing the taller woman to stall. Nobody wanted to see you angry, especially when you were pregnant.

“First of all, I don’t see you carrying two demons in your stomach, so I’d shut up if I were you. And, second of all, this is the third time I’m doing this, you are no longer allowed to go without a condom.” She placed her hand on her chest as if she was offended and you grinned, leaving a kiss on her cheek before walking through the kitchen door where your son laid out all the dishes for you four. You thanked him before he climbed onto his seat, still finding himself to be too short for the chairs you had. Wanda placed your daughter in the high chair before taking the seat next to her. You noticed her smiling large, her eyes being filled with more joy than usual.

“What’s got you all happy?” She admired the scene in front of her, Pietro Jr and Alana sitting peacefully, both of them sharing the genes she was blessed with. Her partner, smiling back at her while they carried her twins, she couldn’t have asked for anything more.

“Oh, nothing, I’m just thinking about how lucky I am to have all of you.” You blushed, tilting your head slightly as you bit your lip.

“Well, that’s never going to change, sweetheart.” ‘I’ll make sure of it’, she thought.

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6ix9inewiturmom · 6 months

Text

Rated R (pt 2)

Summary: Y/N and matt try out their sexual fantasies

Warnings: SMUTTY SMUT SMUT, P in V, Unprotected sex (do not try this at home), orgasm denial, squirting, cream pie, multiple orgasms, oral (male and female receiving), Dom!Matt, Sub!Reader, dumbification, ‘sir’ kink, choking, slapping, OVERALL FILTHY

A/N: THANK YOU GUYS FOR THE SUPPORT ON THE FIRST PART!! this is my first attempt at writing smut sooo i just hope you love this :)

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••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“don’t make me say it again Y/N strip” matt says as his eyes darken and fill of lust. i’ve never seen this side of matt before but i have to say i absolutely love this side of him.

i take off my shirt and pants leaving me in nothing but my black bra with lace and a little bow at the front that pushes my breast up in the right way and my matching black underwear, i look up at matt as he’s eyeing my figure up and down before breaking the silence “god you’re sexy…” i smiled at his compliment before he grabbed me by my waist and threw me on the bed letting a small yelp escape my lips, as he smiled devilishly and lustfully he ripped my bra off breaking the clasps in the back, “matt” i wined “that was my favorite bra” i drug out the last word “ill buy another one Y/N” he said sternly before ripping off my black lacey thong and another yelp escaping my lips.

Matt wasted no time placing his tongue flat and licking a strip up my soaking wet pussy and a loud moan ripping from my mouth echoing through the room. “nope be a good girl and keep quiet for me yeah? can you do that” he said mumbling into my pussy while continuing to eat me out i nodded trying to get my words together but matt always lives up to his nickname ‘matt the munch’ he was eating me like his last meal. “awwww has my little slut gone dumb already? i haven’t even fucked you and you’re dumb from my mouth” i moan as a response “oh u like being called a slut, use your words sweet girl” he smirks. i swallow before answering “Yes matt” as my back arches, matt uses his hand to press my hips down to the bed before lifting his head up “from now on it’s yes sir or i stop” he snarls. i’ve never seen or heard him talk to me this way before but his words make me wetter then i have been before. “y-y-yes sir” i stutter out. “good fucking girl” he mutters out before sucking harshly on my sensitive clit and adding not 1 but 2 fingers into my needy hole.

within a few minutes i’m a moaning mess, my legs are trembling from pleasure and i’m moaning and on the verge of tears. “i can’t get enough of this sweet pretty pussy…it’s all fucking mine” he growls before dipping his head back in and sucking harsher on my clit while violently shoving his ring and middle finger into me at a constant pace “Who’s pussy is this” he snarls into my pussy “mph- i-it’s” i can’t even speak from my brain being fogged by the amount of pleasure im receiving from matt’s mouth and lengthy fingers “your so dumb on my fingers” he chuckles before i knew it his fingers were in me even faster, a pornographic moan left my lips at his actions “who’s pussy is this Y/N” he grabs my throat while maintaining a constant pace.

“y-yours” i strain out

he smiles “My good girl.. you listen so well to me”

i moan in response as my legs began to tremble harder then they have before. matt chuckles before taunting me “is my cumslut close?” all i can do is moan and nod “nu uh none of that, use ur words” he spits “y-yes sir.. so close” he laughs “aww too bad ur not cumming” i wine in response as my legs began to give me away and let him know how close i really am “are you cumming” he growls while looking lustfully with those beautiful blue eyes “n-no s-sir” i stutter out

Slap

i moan at his rough yet gentle slap against my cheek “Are you cumming Y/N?”

i wine and moan before slowly and raspy answering “n-n-no”

Slap

another firm but gentle slap on my cheek “beg for it”

“mph- p-please sir… please”

he chuckles “harder. beg me harder” while using his thumb to toy at my sensitive bud

a loud pornographic moan escapes my lips “ple- please let me cum.. s-s-so close”

“cum” was all he had to say before i completely let go and squirted on his arm, his hand, our shared bed, anything in the way was absolutely soaked

as i rode out my high matt let out soft praises such as ‘that’s it’ ‘you’re doing amazing’. when i came i came HARD and it was euphoric

“i’m not done with you” my eyes widen and he smirked at my response

“w-what” i said with a rasp in my voice “t-too s-sensitive.. i-i can’t take it”

he smiles “you can and you will.. butterfly is your safe word.. use it wisely..understand me?”

i nodded but that wasn’t enough

Slap

“i said.. understand?”

“y-yes sir” i smiled at his harshness, i know it’s the wrong time to say this but fuck.. i absolutely love this side of matt… it was a completely different side of him but i was absolutely enjoying every single second of it.

he flipped me over by my waist so my head was in the pillow and my ass was in the air with my back arched, i softly hummed in response. matt took his shirt and pants off along with his underwear in one swift motion and started slowly stroking his cock with his hand. i slowly looked over at him, his cock was red and throbbing, needing to be touched with its leaking pre-cum, obviously he caught me staring at his throbbing cock.

“on second thought, get on ur knees right now” he smirked

i nodded and got off the bed and walked towards his direction and was immediately greeted by matt who forcefully brought me to my knees infront of his cock.

“suck” was the only thing that left his mouth before i opened my mouth and kitty licked his throbbing and aching tip letting a groan out from him “stop that and use that pretty mouth of yours to please me instead of teasing me” i continued to kitty lick his tip while licking from his base to his tip which didn’t seem to make him happy as he grabbed my head and pushed it to where my nose was touching his pelvis and making me gag and a long loud groan left his lips “mm i’m gonna cum down ur slutty throat” i moan around his cock using the vibrations to create more pleasure for matt, as now he’s a groaning mess as i’m bobbing my head up and down his thick cock.

“j-just like that” he groans out

i continue my work and occasionally deep throating his entire cock down my throat sticking my tongue out a little to create a deeper feel.

“mmph im so close Y/N”

i hallow my cheeks and bob my head around the tip of his cock using my hand to twist and go up and down on the base and the parts that don’t fit in my mouth for a few minutes before a long moan and slight whimper comes out of his mouth and his warm cum shoots down my throat.

he helps me up before throwing me back on the bed with my feed dangling off the bed with my ass in the air and face in the mattress, and before i knew it he toys with my clit using the tip of his cock causing my hips to jerk forward.

“ooo so the slut likes her little sensitive clit being played with” he teases

“please fuck me” i plead

“hm? what’s that” matt says obviously playing dumb

“please fuck me.. i need ur cock deep in me please”

he rams it into me no time to adjust to his size or girth immediately bottoming out leaving me speechless.

“mmm fuck ur pussy was made for me eh?” he groans thrusting his hips deep and hard into me kissing my cervix and touching my G-spot all at the same time causing my eyes to roll back and a loud moan escaping my lips which was muffled by the mattress.

he grabs a wad of my hair and pulling me up to his chest while still absolutely destroying my pussy before a growling in my ear “say this pussy was made for me..” he starts “feel me filling you up so fucking good” i moan louder almost screaming at this point “i-it w-was m-made for you” another moan spilling out of my lips as he thrusts almost deeper in me.

he pushes my body back down and pressing my face into the mattress leaving me a moaning mess.

“such a fucking slut for me huh? you like being used like a fuck toy? my personal fuck toy? you like that?” he thrust became faster and harder at the same time. the sounds spilling out of me louder then i can control, i can’t even answer with my eyes in the back of my head and my mouth wide open with moans escaping my lips

“is my little cock whore dumb on my cock? hm? can’t even speak?” screams and cry’s of pleasure leak out of my mouth as i’m approaching another orgasm.

“are you close baby?” his voice softens in my ear as he begins to attack my neck with dark hickies

i nod “y-yes yes yes.. p-please let me cum”

he hums “go on come on my cock baby, you can do it”

he thrusts as hard and deep as he can as i squirted all over his cock and again he’s still thrusting in me

“give me one more baby, you can do it” he says in almost a whisper in my ear before flipping me over with my legs on his shoulders and leaning over me looking down at me with his eyes glued to mine and occasionally looking down at my red pussy from how many times i’ve came undone to him tonight.

he presses his hand on my lower stomach causing me to roll my eyes back and tears start forming in my eyes as i become overstimulated.

“can you feel me right here baby?” he growls down at me. i can’t answer him without stuttering, im trying to speak but the only thing leaving my lips are moans

Slap

a soft yet gentle slap against my cheek once again.

“i asked you a question.. answer it” he snarls

“y-yes!” i scream out in pleasure

“mmm fuck i’m gonna cum so deep in your fucking tight pussy” he groans out

leaving me a moaning mess beneath him he grabs my face forcing me to look at him

“look at me when i cum in you.. we’re gonna cum together okay?” his voice softens

i moan in response but still softly and harshly answer “y-yes”

his thrusts become sloppy and harder as he gets closer to his high and i get closer to mine i become more louder lifting my back off the bed trying to maintain eye contact with matt.

“cum” he says in a harsh but soft voice i came undone beneath him as i squirted again all over his cock and all over the bed as he groans and releases in me while slowly pulling out trying not to hurt me as i collapse on the bed with him next to me as he turns to look at me with soft blue eyes.

“i wasn’t too harsh on you was i?” he states with a soft yet gentle tone

i smile “absolutely not.. i loved that.. and i love you”

“i love you more Y/N/N” he starts “now lets go get a bath going and we’ll come back and cuddle”

he picks me up bridal style to run us a bath as he carefully sits me down he gets right behind me kissing my neck softly

“you know if you woulda just asked i woulda done that a long time ago..” he chuckles softly

i smile while leaning against his back “i’m sorry i waited so long i just know how gentle you are with me so i didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable about being so aggressive with me”

he rubs his hand up and down my arm “i know but not gonna lie i enjoyed that a lot.. i mean a LOT” he smiles down at me

“considering my legs are still trembling i can say i didn’t just enjoy it.. i absolutely loved that matt” i softly say with a smile plastered on my lips

he kisses my cheek “from now on anything you wanna try i will not hesitate to try it”

“deal” i say with a smile kissing his soft lips

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A/N pt 2- SOOO HOW DID WE LIKE THIS? i got a little carried away.. BUT THIS WAS SM FUN TO WRITE!!! i’m cooking up a chris version for this maybe.. 🤫🤫🤫

#Spotify #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #the sturniolo triplets #matthew sturniolo

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imtryingbuck · 8 months

Text

Fifteen

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky comes from a well respected family, he falls in love with a girl who prefers the simple things in life. Follow their journey through the years.

Word count: 4,736

Warnings: fluff, angst, heavy use of pet names. Bucky and y/n argue and that’s a warning in itself. Brock rumlow, Bucky being a bad friend. Swearing. Bullying.

A/N: No description of reader other than she has curly hair.

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Like every morning she waited outside for Bucky, Steve and Sam to arrive so they could all walk to school together. Y/n was so excited when she found out that she was going to be going to school with her two friends, though she was a year below them.

Sam was the boys’ friend first and when he was introduced to Y/n he instantly became her friend, throwing his arm around her he winked at her causing the girl to blush. Bucky wasn’t happy.

Sighing she checked her watch, the same one Bucky had brought her for her birthday last year, they was late.

She didn’t want to be in trouble for being late so she decided to head off on her own, as she pulled her bag further up her shoulder she kept her head down whilst walking the streets.

“Y/n! Y/n slow down!” Sam’s booming voice came from behind her.

“I can’t I’m going to be late!” She shouted back to him.

“H-hold on, Jesus woman you’re making me run today aren’t you?”

Feeling his arms wrap themselves around her waist she comes to a halt. “Where’s Ducky?”

“Ah he, never mind. Steve hurry up!”

“Sam where is he? Is he ill? Oh god he is isn’t he?”

“No Sugar he’s not, he’s just not walking with us this morning”

“Hey Y/n/n” Steve panted as he pulls his friend into a hug.

“Hi Stevie where’s Ducky?”

“With Dot”

“Dude!” Sam scolded.

“Wh-who’s Dot?”

“His girlfriend” Steve admits rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry”

“H-he has a girlfriend? Oh”

She couldn’t understand why her heart hurt at hearing that.

“If it makes you feel any better, me and Sam don’t like her”

“I want to go to school now”

Throughout her lessons she couldn’t find it in herself to concentrate, he had a girlfriend and didn’t tell her - why didn’t he tell her? Was she pretty? Did she know who she was? Was they going to be friends still?

“-Y/n!”

“Huh? Sorry Sir”

“Class is over…go”

“Right sorry Sir, see you tomorrow”

Shoving all her things into her school bag she heads down to wait outside the cafeteria for the boys to show. Like that morning she checks her watch and sighing, they’re late.

Her stomach growled and giving up waiting for them to show she heads into the cafeteria when she comes to a stop.

They were already there, sat at the table that was unofficially reserved for the four of them.

Her eyes watered at seeing a brunette sat in her place, next to her Ducky. She watched as he threw his arm around her and pulled her into him just like he always did to her. She watched as Sam and Steve laugh about something the girl said.

“Ow, I’m sorry” she stutters out after she’s pushed over.

“Move out of the way freak” Brock. The schools bully. Or as Y/n called him behind his back ‘Brock the rock’ no it wasn’t a compliment at his muscles but an insult, Brock rhymed with rock and rocks where dumb just like Brock.

“I-I’m sorry” she stutters as she tries to move out of the way.

“Aw you going to cry you little freak?” He says loudly catching everyone’s attention.

“N-no-“

“I think she is Brock” laughed Jack, another bully who followed Brock wherever he went.

“The little freak is going to cry!” Brock boomed causing her to flinch.

He takes it one step further by pushing her in to Jack who then shoves her away violently back to Brock, back and forth she was pushed between the two.

Y/n’s frantic eyes met Bucky’s who had been watching the whole thing along with everyone else. She nearly burst out crying when all he did was look down.

“Looks like your little boyfriend isn’t coming to the rescue this time freak” Brock whispers as he clutches her shirt tightly in his grip just before pushing her roughly onto the ground.

She waits until Brock and his lackeys leave before standing up, looking up towards the table she’s normally sat at with her friends her heart breaks when she sees the back of Bucky’s head and Steve and Sam looking down at their food.

Running out of the cafeteria she runs to the bathroom where she locks herself away until the loud shrill of the bell goes off.

Throughout the day she was glad she didn’t see any of the boys or Brock and Jack as she moved from one class to the next. Stuck in her own mind she couldn’t understand why neither one of her friends stuck up for her like they’ve done before whenever Brock was acting tough now that Tony had left school.

Were they my friends now? Why didn’t Bucky tell me he had a girlfriend? Why didn’t Steve and Sam stick up for me?

They were some of the many questions that swirled around her head as her last teacher Mr Levinson droned on.

When the bell rang throughout the school she took her time in packing her things, waiting for everyone to leave.

“Y/n?”

“Yes sir?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes sir, why?”

“Well you’re normally the first one out of the class” he chuckles.

“Oh. No everything’s okay sir” she smiled up at him as she brought the strap of her bag up her arm.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow remember you’ve got me for two periods”

“I know sir, I’ll see you tomorrow” waving bye to her favourite teacher she walks out of the class, slowly walking to the entrance. Like Mr Levinson said she was normally the first one out of class, and normally she was running through the halls to wait outside for the boys to arrive so they could head to the sweet shop on the corner of Main Street but today she was in no rush, no rush in seeing the spot she always waited at to being empty.

As she stepped out of the doors she felt stupid for hoping that they would have waited for her, they hadn’t.

As she walked past the sweet shop she heard Sam’s loud laughter filter through the gap in the door, her heart pounding loudly in her chest as she saw Sam, Steve and Bucky all laughing in the store, she swore her heart broke when she saw Bucky grab ahold of the brunettes hand from lunch and pulling her to place his lips to hers. Y/n brought her fingers to her lips softly touching them wondering how the girl in the store felt kissing Bucky.

Shaking her head and wiping her tears she walks off before any of them sees her.

“Hello angel-angel what’s wrong?” Howard asks when she walks in and straight pass him without saying hello or telling him how her day went, or better yet without her handing him her packet full to the brim of sweets so he could pick one - or if she was letting him feel cheeky two - out.

“Nothing dad I’m going to do my homework”

“Angel come here, or don’t I’ll just follow you” he mutters following her upstairs and into her room.

“Dad, please I just want to do my homework and go to sleep”

“Not until you tell me what’s happened? You’re not normally back yet, is Lloyds closed?”

“No. I-I just really need to get this homework done”

“Where’s the boys?”

“I-dad please”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on? You seem to forget angel I know you and I know something is wrong, so spill”

“Duc-Bucky has a girlfriend…”

“Oh…oh. I’m sorry angel”

“It’s okay, I just don’t have any friends anymore” she shrugs, looking at the photograph she had hanging up on her wall. Her, Bucky, Sam and Steve standing in front of the stall at the fair ground, Bucky’s arm wrapped around her waist as her hand was on his chest. All four of them smiling widely at the camera as Maria takes the photo.

“Of course you’ll still have friends angel, the boys will still be your friends”

“No they won’t. Steve and Sam were friends with Bucky before they were my friends”

“Bucky’s still you friend darling just because he has a girlfriend doesn’t mean shit-don’t tell your mother I just swore in front of you”

“I won’t” she giggles.

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

She hadn’t found the courage to tell her parents about the bullying or how bad it was, knowing how they would react she didn’t want to make it any worse than it already was.

“No dad everything’s okay I promise”

“Okay…well tomorrow is Friday and you know what that means don’t you? That’ll prove that the boys are still your friends”

Shortly after Howard leaves so she could start her homework. Not that she does it.

Friday, tomorrow is Friday. Every weekend her, Steve and Sam heads to Bucky’s house for a sleepover. Was she still invited? Was Bucky’s girlfriend going to be there?

Her head pounded and her eyes stung so she climbed into bed falling asleep as her stomach growled in hunger it only then occurred to her that she hadn’t ate anything since breakfast, it didn’t stop her from falling into a restless sleep.

The next morning she moved along with the motions. Getting dressed, brushing her hair and teeth, eating breakfast, she puts her shoes on pressing a kiss to her parents their cheeks she says her goodbyes.

She hesitates outside whether she should wait for the boys to show or not she finally forces her legs to move, she wasn’t going to be waiting on them. Not anymore.

“Oi freak!” Brock shouted as he walks across the road to where she was, she carried on walking keeping her head down.

“Freak don’t ignore him” Jack says.

She felt hands on her back before she was shoved down on to the ground scraping her hands and her knees. “W-what do you want?”

“Your lunch”

“No”

“What?” Don’t ask her Brock she’s just as shocked as you at her sticking up for herself.

“I said no, are you deaf?” Shut up shut up shut up her brain screams at her.

“Funny, don’t worry freak you’re going to regret this” Brock says before picking her bag up and throwing it over a fence.

Watching the pair walk off she stands up and looks down at her knees, great they’re bleeding. Opening the gate she walks over to the door and knocks, waiting patiently she waits for the owner to open up.

“Hello?”

“Hi Sir, my bag got thrown over your fence could I please get it?”

“Sure…”

“It’s over that fence” she points at the wooden fence that leads to the backyard she assumes.

“Oh, yeah sure hold on I’ll get the key” he walks back inside and returns quickly with the key “are you okay?”

“Yes Sir, are you?”

“I’m fine but I’m talking about your knees and hands, they’re bleeding”.

“Bullies Sir”

“Oh, nasty little parasites aren’t they?”

“Yes Sir” she giggles “thank you Sir” she says as he hands over her bag back to her.

“You’re welcome and hey listen don’t let them get to you okay? It will get better soon I can promise you that”

“H-how do you know?”

“I was bullied when I was at school but here I am owning a business that continues to grow even long after I’ve retired” he smiles softly.

“Wow, I-I don’t know why they pick on me I’ve never done anything wrong to them”

“Because they see the potential in you and they are scared because they haven’t gotten any so they spend their time and energy trying to bring you down”

“Oh, well I wish they would stop”

“They will you just have to wait them out”

“Thank you Sir, I best get going I’m…crap I’m late”

“Go go, and call me Stan”

“Y/n, bye Mr Stan”

“Well it’s actually Mr Lee but go your late” the older man chuckles.

“I’m going I’m going” she laughs waving at him.

Practically running to school she runs to her class “I’m sorry Miss”

“It’s okay Y/n just make sure it doesn’t happen again”

“It won’t Miss I promise”

Ms Ford was an older teacher who taught maths whether it’s because of her age or because of how long she had been teaching for she simply didn’t care if you was late or not, as long as you didn’t cause any trouble then it was fine.

When the bell rang signalling for it to be lunch she slowly moved towards the bathroom so she could eat, on her way there she saw two of Brock’s friends walking towards her before she had a chance to do anything they grabbed her arms and dragged her backwards, leading her into the cafeteria.

No one blinks an eye or tries to help her out.

She’s shoved onto her knees in front of Brock, she shifts and in the corner of her eye she sees Bucky, Steve and Sam all staring.

“This little freak had the balls to talk back to me this morning and well I can’t let that happen” he told everyone. “Stand the freak up”

She’s roughly pulled up by her arms “did you all know that her dad killed her mom? Or that this little freak was in an orphanage?” He laughs.

“Shut up Brock” she says, mentally slapping herself for talking back.

“Ooh the freak speaks once again. Hey Bucky doesn’t this dog belong to you?” She’s spun around so she has no choice but to look at him, who once again just stares down.

“No? Not going to say anything? Wow some friend you are” Brock chuckles. “Hey guys want to see what she’s hiding under her shirt? My mom was a nurse who had to touch this freak”

Y/n’s eyes widen and she starts to struggle against the hold that the two boys had on her arms. “No no no Brock I’m sorry I’m sorry you don’t have to do this! I’m sorry”

Ignoring her pleads he just smirks at her “hold her steady boys”

“Brock stop!” Steve says shakily from the table.

“Shut up or your next. Stop struggling freak”

“Please s-stop! Please-D-Ducky help! No no no no no please no” she screams out as Brock rips her shirt off leaving her scarred back exposed to nearly the whole school.

“Disgusting isn’t it?” Brock laughs.

The murmurs and laughters are drowned out by the roaring of blood filling her ears, the moment she’s dropped to the ground she wraps her hands over her chest and runs out of the cafeteria and out of the school. Her vision was blurred as she ran faster than she’s ever ran before.

“Y/n-oh my lord, come here darling” an older voice says that she recognised from earlier.

“M-m-Mr Stan”

“I’m not going to hurt you, I’m going to put my coat around you okay?” As soon as the material was around her she collapsed into his arms.

“Darling le-let’s get you into the car and I’ll take you home okay?”

Everything moves in a blur, she doesn’t even realise that Mr Stan pulls up to her house or that he’s knocking on the door talking to her father or that her father comes rushing out of the house.

“Angel, angel come here”

“D-Dada” she cries clinging to him.

Howard lifts her out of the car and takes her into the house calling out for Maria who comes out of the kitchen. He takes her upstairs to her room where he lays her gently on the bed his heart breaking at the way she still clings on to him.

Leaving Maria to help Y/n get dressed and clean her injuries up he heads down the stairs to where Stan was still waiting.

“Come with me Stan” leading the older man into his office “what happened?”

“I met her this morning when she knocked on my door a bully had thrown her bag over my fence, we spoke a little before she left for school”

“A bully? Y/n’s being bullied?”

“So she says Sir”

“Howard, you know this Stan. Anyway carry on”

“Well I was driving home when she ran out into the road clutching…covering her chest. Her top half was naked. I got out and put my coat around her and brought her home”

“D-Did she say anything?”

“No, she just cried”

“Thank you for bringing her home Stan, here here’s some money” Howard pulls out a huge wad of money from the draw of his desk.

“Howard, I don’t want your money son. She’s a sweet girl who doesn’t deserve half of the shit she’s gone through”

“Yo-you know?”

“Well…yes. She was in the newspapers. Just make sure she’s okay for me, I’ll see myself out goodbye Howard”

“Y/n, angel please talk to us” Howard pleads as he sits next to Maria on Y/ns bed.

“I-it doesn’t matter”

“Of course it does sweetie, we need to deal with this” Maria speaks softly.

“I’m a freak! My back is disgusting. I-I should of died when my real dad tried to kill me”

Taken back by her confession Maria clutches her chest with shaky hands, Howard stutters trying to find the right words.

“A-Angel you don’t mean that”

“I do. I’m tired of being bullied, I’ve tried dad to make friends I have I swear but nobody wants to be friends with a freak. I don’t get why they call me names or steal my lunch or push me into things. I hate going to school. I hate Sam. I hate Steve. An-and I hate James. I hate my life, I wish I was dead” a shuddering breath leaves her lips as her whole body trembles.

She didn’t mean to tell them about the bullying or about how she hated her friends because even though they didn’t talk to her or stick up for her she didn’t hate them, they were her only friends.

She definitely didn’t mean to tell them how she wished she was dead.

“Y/n Stark you take that back!” Maria scolds.

“No! And let’s be honest mom the only reason you two adopted me was out of pity and because George probably asked you too just so James could keep me around” her voice raised and shook, mentally scolding herself for saying that because now she had to sit there and watch as the tears gathered in her mommas eyes.

“Is-is that what you really think?”

“It wasn’t pity that we felt when we adopted you Y/n, it was because I genuinely believed that you had a very special place in our family and I still believe that even after all these years. George never asked us to take you in.” Howard speaks.

“I-I-oh momma I’m so sorry! Dada I swear I didn’t mean it” she cries her eyes bouncing from one parent to the next.

“Angel, it’s okay. Oh sweetheart come here” Howard opens his arms waiting for his daughter to climb into them, rubbing his hand up and down her back not flinching or feeling disgusted when he feels the scars under her shirt.

“I’m sorry” she repeats over and over.

“Sweetheart we love you and just because you’re not biologically ours doesn’t make a difference, you are our daughter through and through” Maria says softly wiping the tears that fall onto her cheeks.

“I-I don’t want to go to school anymore momma please don’t make me go back”

“We’ll talk about it later okay? Get some sleep and we’ll talk about everything” Maria promises watching as she nods and climbs back into bed.

A few hours later after Maria had managed to calm down Howard who was quite literally on a war path there was a knock on the door, Maria walked over to the door opening it she saw Sam and Steve standing there with sheepish looks on their faces.

“What are you two doing here?”

“W-we want to see Y/n, is-is she okay?”

“She is now. Where is James?”

“With Dot…”

“Charming. I don’t think Y/n will want to see you tonight, please leave”

“Miss Maria we’re really sorry, please tell Y/n that.”

“I will do. Goodbye boys”

Watching as the boys walk away with their tails in between their legs she shakes her head, she hates turning them away but when it comes to her daughter she’ll do everything to protect her, even if it’s from her friends.

The next day Y/n woke with a pounding headache, the memories of what she had said to her parents made her stomach hurt. She hated herself for making her mom cry, seeing the hurt flash in her parents eyes made her want to burst out crying.

She never wanted her parents to find out that she was being bullied afraid it made her look weak, made her look like she needed them to save her again. She wanted to be strong just like Tony, be the social butterfly just like her brother instead of being social outcast that she was.

Y/n had tried to fit in she really did, she tried to be someone that she wasn’t. She found it hard to be around the other girls who were interested in make up, the latest fashion and boys, none of them things she cared about.

Okay maybe she was interested in boys she noticed them obviously, especially one in particular. Bucky.

But sadly that didn’t matter anymore, not now that he had a girlfriend.

Y/n preferred the simpler things that life had to offer, she never cared for all pretty dresses her mom would get her or all of the expensive things her dad would give her. She preferred getting mud all over her, climbing trees, talking to the animals she encountered. Her hair was always messy and nine out of ten times her hair would have leaves tangled in it. Her clothes would have grass stains on them from where she would either roll around in the grass or from where she would kneel down getting closer to the insects she came upon.

She never truly understood why the other kids called her a freak, maybe she was but that didn’t matter right? She had a heart and feelings and she was just the same as everyone else.

“Angel, James is here to see you” Howard knocks on her bedroom door pulling her out of her trance.

Might as well as get this over and done with.

“Let him in dad”

“I’m just downstairs if you need me angel”

“Okay”

She sits up so she’s leaning against the headboard, twisting her ring that her dad had gotten her when she had gotten an A on a test. She watches as the door handle goes down a little bit and the door comes open revealing her Ducky.

“Hi Bun-Y/n” he says shyly as he shuffles in to the room, his eyes roaming everywhere other than on her.

“Hi”

“H-how are you feeling?”

“You’re joking right?” She scoffs.

“I-I’m sorry about yesterday, I should of done something to stop Brock”

“But you didn’t and I was humiliated in front of the whole entire school.”

“I know. Y-you didn’t come to mine last night and when I found out that Sam and Steve was turned away by your mom I kind of gotten worried”

“You expected me to show up after none of you said anything to stop Brock? After you didn’t wait for me at lunch or how you and the boys went to Lloyds without me?”

Rubbing the back of his neck he shifted on the spot “well yeah, we’re friends Bu-Y/n”

“You can’t even say the name you gave me when you was seven. Why is that?”

“Dot doesn’t like it”

“Dot being your girlfriend?”

“Yeah…”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had one?”

“Be-because I didn’t want you to get jealous”

“You thought I would get jealous?”

“Well yeah, you are aren’t you?”

“Give me a second, just wait there” she says as she stands up on shaky legs, moving around him she heads downstairs to the living room where her parents sat “momma, dada can I please swear? I won’t do it again I promise”

“Of course princess” Howard grins before Maria could say anything.

She runs back upstairs and walks around Bucky who still stands there. “Are you fucking out of your mind? You honestly thought I was jealous? I would have been happy for you!”

“Did you just ask your parents if you could swear?” Bucky grins finding it amusing.

“Don’t grin at me Ducky, I swear to God I will hit you!”

“You can’t call me that anymore Y/n, Dot hates it especially after you called it me yesterday”

“Fuck Dot! I’ve been your friend since I was six years old Ducky! You want me to be different with you now that you have a girlfriend?”

“Bunny-shit Y/n. Please just stop calling me it okay it’s embarrassing, we’re to old now to keep calling each other them silly nicknames”

“I-we-what? Duc-“

“Y/n.”

“Fine. James are you really going to be choosing her someone you’ve been dating for all of five minutes over me? Someone you’ve know for years?”

“Yes.”

“W-what?”

“I’m choosing her over you.”

“A-are we no longer friends?”

“Will you grow up and stop acting like a freak?” He says instantly slamming his mouth shut, regret seeping into his veins when he sees her the pain flash across her eyes.

“What did you just call me?”

“I-I didn’t mean it-“

“What did you just call me James”

“Bun-“

“I’m not going to fucking ask again James!”

“A freak” he gulps.

“Fuck you. Get the fuck out of my house and out of my fucking life!”

“Bun-“

“You’re not allowed to call me that anymore, remember? Your bitch of a girlfriend won’t like it oh and we’re not fucking friends anymore! Now leave!”

“Don’t call Dot a-“

“She’s a bitch. A big fat stinking bitch! And guess what James, so are you.”

“Brock’s right, you are a freak. A freak with no friends. And guess what Y/n, I never wanted to be your friend I just felt sorry for you. Your father beat you and killed your mother so of course I felt sorry for you, did you really think I wanted to be friends with you? News flash I didn’t!” He shouts, once he calmed down from his outburst he struggles to breathe “Y/n I’m-I’m sor-“

“I hate you. If you don’t leave right now I’ll get my dad up here, I’m not joking James. Get out I hate you so much I can’t believe I actually thought I loved you. Now fuck off.”

“I-I’m sorry”

“Shove your sorry up your arse and fuck right off bye bye”

She turns her back on him and waiting until she heard him leave, she had always thought that he became her friend because he felt sorry for her but she didn’t want to believe it, now she knew the truth she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Hearing the front door shut she burst out crying, she fell to her knees clutching her chest. She felt her heart had been ripped out of her chest and stomped on a million times.

“Oh my sweet baby, it’s okay I’ve got you” Maria hold her daughter as she breaks down.

“M-Momma it hurts”

“I know it does sweetheart. Let it all out baby”

“I-I don’t want to be here anymore momma”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to go to a private school like you and dada said befo-before I went to school with them”

Maria looks over at Howard who stands at the doorway with his jaw clenched so tightly that Maria thought he was going to shatter his teeth.

“Are you sure angel?”

“Yes I’m sure dada, please I won’t ask for anything else ever again!”

“I’ll set it up angel”

Bucky had no idea that when he woke up that morning that he was going to lose his best friend but he only had himself to blame.

He had lost the most important person in his life all because he fucked up.

He had said the most vilest things to her which was not in any way true.

He had lost his Bunny.

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