#maybe is something i come back to when i need comfort

[hanafubukki]

I can imagine Yuu feeling a tad bit heartbroken seeing Malleus's broken horns but mayb he explains to them,

"Don't mourn the power I lost so no need to shed your tears for me. Matter of fact, I ought to pay Shroud in kind for this. I can express joy without setting the world ablaze, I can cry without causing a blizzard, and I can finally get angry without causing an earthquake! I feel so free now! Plus, it's a horn. Much like with your hair, it'll grow back."

Hello Dorkus 💚🌺💞

The Malleus loosing his horn feels are still strong 😭💔

But he’s happy, so we’re happy. But in the end, he still got hurt and that guilt I can still see be there whether from family and/or friends.

Summary: Malleus eases your burden.

You keep looking at his horn. You can’t help it.

It shouldn’t have come to this. You knew it was for the best. Yet, just like the others, you couldn’t help the tinge of guilt whenever you saw Malleus’ broken horn.

“Am I a captive animal for you to stare at in such a way?”

You startle before shaking your head, “No! It’s not that at all.”

“I merely jest. Breaking the ice as Lilia would say. You seemed to have developed a fascination for my horns more so than my tail now. What fascinates you?”

You couldn’t look him in the eyes. How? How do you tell him? This guilt you have. Something that’s irrational but there anyways?

“You feel burdened by my broken horn.”

You look at him with widened eyes. The face before you is soft and understanding-it’s a look you haven’t ever seen on him before.

“You are not the only one to feel this way. Silver and Sebek have been skittish around me. They behave as if one mistake would lead to treasonous acts against me.”

He walks ahead of you before turning towards you. The sight before you leaves you breathless. The moon shines on him. Giving him an unearthly glow that only fae kind can exhibit-no, only he could present as his tail appears in a swirl and scales appear along his back.

The fae that stood before you was not a simple classmate of yours nor did he portray a prince. No, Malleus Draconia right now shone like a God descended from the heavens.

Did the damage to his horn mean he couldn’t hide his draconic features anymore? How could one who lost so much be able to stand in such a celestial form? When to others, he seemed to be a dragon dragged from the heavens and tamed?

“You do not need to feel burdened by the power I lost. Matter of fact, Shroud has provided me a boon.”

Malleus raised his face to the moon’s light as if seeking comfort from an old friend.

“For many years, all I have known is isolation. Numbness. I could never cry, laugh, or anger easily. To do so meant bringing harm to those around me.”

“It was,” Malleus hesitated, as if the words were new to him, “…difficult.”

When he turned towards you then, you are surprised to see his eyes worn despite his ethereal visage.

“What you humans take for granted, I was never allowed. But now?” Malleus chuckled, “Now I can be free to be who I am.”

Malleus offered his hand, beckoning you to lay yours on top of his, “Come, Child of Man, lay your worries to rest.”

He smirked at you, “Unless you prefer me when I’m dark and dreary?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that came out, “Pffft hahaha I prefer you however you want to be.”

You laid your hand on top of his, “I want you to be happy Tsunotaro.”

“I am.”

You smiled widely at him. The gleam in your eyes has his crinkling in return.

There’s the smile I adore from My Child of Man.

….I have no idea where that description about Malleus in the middle passages came from but *pokes at brain* brain do it more. I demand it. Lolol 😆💚💞 (randomly had inspiration for this and I ran lol)

Malleus the fae that you are 😭💞💙 You’ve been through so much but stayed kind despite it all. 🥺🥺

I hope you liked this Dorkus 💙💙💚💚🫂🫂

[cigsafterfics]

in the flesh

summary. you watch longingly as your boyfriend marks strangers with permanent inked lines—but you want something more than a tattoo. you want his initials carved in your skin.

pairing. erik campbell x fem!reader

wc. 3.03k

warnings. smut, piv sex, knife play, blood kink, playing with death (not recommended), degradation kink, petnames, jealous!bratty!reader with internalized misogyny tendencies uhh, dom!erik when he’s angry, spanking, fingering, slight dumbification? 18+ only minors do not interact.

The night isn’t getting younger yet Erik has to tend to another, hopefully last, customer who decided to go for a lower back tattoo as if it was a casual spur of the moment afterthought. Yeah, good luck not regretting that in the morning. Maybe you’re being too harsh with her in your head, but tattooing on the lower back region feels a little too intimate for comfort. Okay, you can’t pretend Erik hasn’t seen it all. He’s probably got tons of people, including women, bent over half naked before him every day to get their backs tatted.

That doesn't bother you one bit. However, it only makes you iffy if the girl starts innocently batting her lashes and flirts at your boyfriend who’s just trying to do his job. Many such fucking cases. Erik remains professionally affable and his naturally talkative self. He may tend to overshare, but he knows better than to entertain their annoyingly coquettish pander. Still, that doesn’t stop jealousy from consuming your guts. What can you say? She’s going to be the center of your boyfriend’s undivided attention for the next three hours or so. It doesn’t help that she’s pretty and about your age. Jealousy’s a perfectly justifiable reaction.

“First time?” Erik asks.

“Yeah, kinda scared.” The girl giggles.

You roll your eyes when Erik asks her to pull her pants down further, revealing more skin for him to work with all the while, giving you more reasons to resent this poor girl. “So, you get the gist. Tattoos hurt, they’re undoable—well, sort of. It’s important to me you know what you’re getting yourself into.” He explains with halfhearted concern. Erik then rolls up his sleeves to don his usual latex gloves.

See, he doesn’t need to do the sleeve rolling thing. It’s all to tease you because he knows how much you love his pale, inked and deliciously veiny forearms. He knows they’re worthy of showing off but you personally think they should be reserved for your viewing pleasure only. Not here, not when a girl with underlying motives to steal your boyfriend is around. She doesn’t deserve to see them.

Before you know it, you’re interjecting the scene and the book you’re reading suddenly isn’t that interesting anymore. “Babe, of course she knows what a tattoo is. Otherwise, she never would’ve gone the trouble to come all this way here and get a trashy tramp stamp.” You snap, immediately regretting how it came out. Too harsh. Even Erik stares at you with widened eyes, a silent look that screams what the hell?.

“I mean my boyfriend’s a professional. He manages to make bad tattoos look like works of fucking art. He’s like emo Michaelangelo and your rear’s the Sistine Chapel ceiling.” You quickly retract upon seeing your boyfriend’s reaction, you look at the girl on the table and force a fake smile at her expense.

“Hey, I wouldn’t go that far.” Erik says modestly, stifling a laugh while he sets up the needles and ink. Your ridiculous poetic analogy has charmed him.

However, the girl isn’t as amused. She shoots you a scrutinizing look over her shoulder instead. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

You open your mouth to reply with an unprompted retort but Erik is quick to step in before fire breaks loose. “She’s my girlfriend. Casual observer when I’m on the clock. She’s good company, usually...” Erik emphasizes the last word while he glances at you intently. Fine, you get the message. Sit pretty in the corner until closing time. Don’t fuck it up and push another customer into rage-reviewing the parlor again because you can’t keep your mouth shut. “When mercury isn’t in retrograde or whatever. You into that shit too?”

“Not a chance. Is she here to solely insult your customers because that’s like, not a good business model.” Tramp stamp girl sneers as Erik starts the mechanical needle. A long dragging buzz emits through the room. The metal music in the background grows more and more palpable as you shoot back daggers in return. “I literally compared your ass to the Sistine Chapel and you still think that’s an insult?”

Erik sighs sardonically when he realizes he has a situation to mediate. “Bet she appreciates that so much, baby.” He says before punching the first needle against the girl’s skin, causing her to groan in pain.

You recognize the sarcasm in Erik’s tone. You deflate slightly. “You’re supposed to side with me.”

“I am. But don’t you think you’re being a little… distracting right now maybe?” Erik replies not bothering to look at you as his eyes zeroes in on the ink work… and her ass.

Oh. Okay. You scoff bitterly in disbelief before admitting defeat. So you did the favor by sitting quietly in the corner, secretly sulking, while attempting to finish a chapter in the book but the words only flew over your head.

You find a way to distract yourself by manning the music as you watch your boyfriend masterfully do his craft. Two hours pass by excruciatingly long but you’re just glad that it’s over when the girl finally hops off the chair and Erik instructs her about aftercare and obligatorily reminds her to like and subscribe in a comically deadpan tone before she leaves.

You join him in closing up, wiping the glass counters and putting bottles of chemicals back in the storage cabinets. Erik is unusually quiet throughout. You take it that he’s exhausted, but you’re not going to let what happened slip easily. You’re famously known for not letting things go and Erik is aware of that. “I think it’s unfair you get to tattoo and look at her ass for two fucking hours.”

Erik huffs, shaking his head. “I kinda have to…”

You walk towards the chair he’s busily cleaning. “I’m just wondering when it's gonna to be my turn.” You smile innocently as you sit on it. Erik tilts his head, slightly bewildered at what you’re implying. A small smirk tugs the corner of lips, “You want me to tattoo you? But you told me repeatedly you’d rather drink that bottle of rubbing alcohol than get a tattoo.”

“You’re right, but maybe I want something more painful than a tattoo.” You say, your lips drawing closer to his but only enough for your hot breath to touch his skin.

Erik is using all his power not to pull you then and there and kiss you sloppily. “I’m listening...” He says, his voice going lower.

You pull yourself away, biting your lip when anxiety finally strikes you. You’ve debated for so long whether or not it is appropriate to bring it up, considering your boyfriend’s trauma. You feel your heart pounding against your chest as you’re about to spill him your shameful fantasy. “You know the knife you got when death came after you… the one you always carry everywhere. I can’t stop thinking about the idea of you using it on me.”

The cat’s out of the bag and you can only hope Erik receives it with open arms. He pauses, surprised by your words before raising his eyebrows. Your boyfriend looks intrigued more than anything. “I’m totally expecting something else, but this is welcomed.”

Relief and that familiar feeling of excitement takes over you.

“So let me get this straight, you want me to play with my knife on you? Is that what you want, you little freak?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, smiling sheepishly at your own request. You’re suddenly shy when Erik’s gaze lingers on you with lust-drunken eyes. “Death isn’t in control anymore. You are. But I understand if you feel uncomfortable, we can ju-“

“No, no, babe. What the fuck? I think you woke up something in me that I didn’t even know existed. This is some spiritual awakening.” One thing about you is that you never fail to amaze Erik with your curiosities.

“I want you to mark me. Claim me as your own. Put a brat like me in her place—” Erik pushes you on the chair, his breath has noticeably gotten heavy as you watch the skull on his stomach rise up and down. “Sit down, when I come back I better see you without your clothes on you fucking slut.”

You strip off your top and jeans easily. When your arms reach behind to unclasp your bra, Erik comes back almost as if on cue, a sharp fixed blade in hand. Your breath hitches at the sight of the knife, the lamp light casting a glint on its sharp edges. “Stop. Let me get this off for you. ‘S not like you need it anyway.” He commands, deftly flipping the knife between his fingers. You lay back down and let Erik do the work. He secures you on the chair, him on top of you. You are now literally under his mercy.

Erik drags the tip of the knife down your chest, the blade only grazing at your skin lightly. He’s one push of the knife away from drawing a nasty wound. You sigh, feeling yourself getting wetter in your panties at the thought of Erik toying with your safety—with death. He could stab you to your death any moment, but he chooses not to. It’s messed up but that somehow drives you over to the fucking edge. With one swift flick, he cuts your bra in half. You gasp at the sudden cool air hitting your nipples.

Erik chuckles at your reaction. “You look so fucking beautiful, you know that?” His sweet compliment juxtaposes the unholy acts he’s about to do. His hand gropes your boob, kneading it expertly while he dives in on the other, his septum cold against your touch. His mouth wraps around your firm nipple to suck your bud, tongue circling in motion. Erik moans against your skin, sending deep vibrations in your chest.

“Too bad I have to mess up a pretty little thing like you.” Erik pulls away and reveals a stupid smug smile plastered across his face, proud of the writhing mess he made out of you. You only look at him under your lashes, a silent plea for him to do something. Anything. He soon pouts, “Poor baby, always begging for my attention. You can’t even function properly without being tended to, isn’t that right?”

You nod, biting your lip too hard it draws blood. Erik cups your chin, pinching your cheeks slightly. You moan at his strong grip. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes.” You manage to weakly choke out.

“Pathetic.” Erik spits, letting you go before trailing his knife across your torso. You arch your back when the blunt end of its handle touches your clothed clit. “Bet this pretty pussy is begging for my attention too, huh?” He moves the knife up and down, stimulating your clit with the handle. You buck your hips forward, moaning at the strange yet delicious sensation. “Yes—yes, please touch my pussy.” You whimper.

Erik is forgiving this time and heeds your wishes. He cuts the thin fabric off to expose your throbbing pussy. “God, you’re so fucking wet. Is this all for me?” He dips his fingers on your lips and teasingly rubs them, spreading your juices all over.

“Yes… ‘s all for you.” You moan, desperately in need of his fingers inside you. “Please, please Erik. Please fuck me.” You feel like a ticking bomb ready to explode. Your desperate sounds seem to satisfy Erik enough so he plunges his fingers into your pussy pumping in and out, his rings stretching you out in ways you haven’t felt before.

“Good girl.” Erik coos, marvelled at how tight your walls pull his fingers deep. Before you could feel the tight coil forming in your stomach, Erik does the unthinkable. He lifts up his blade dangerously close to your neck causing your breath to heave out of instinctual fear. You quickly let your guard down when you remember the man wielding the knife is knuckles-deep inside you. “Don’t cum yet or there will be ugly consequences.” He grits his teeth as he speeds up his pace. “You call that a threat?” You smile at him tauntingly.

“Shut the fuck up.” Erik withdraws his fingers to get back at you, leaving your walls hollow and once again unattended. He inches his knife towards your cheek, caressing you longingly with the blade. You can tell he’s getting cocky with it. “Tell me… where do you wanna be marked, slut?”

You thought of him carving his initials in your skin more times than you can count, but you never considered the possibility of it coming true. You’re left tongue-tied, unable to muster words to come out from your mouth. “What? Can’t think for yourself?” Erik coos condescendingly. “Now you need me to do the thinking for you too? Poor baby.”

“How about here?” Erik digs his head on the side of your neck, sucking off the sweet spot until it's tender. “I know you love it when everyone sees how much of a slut you are, and it’s all for me.” Once he leaves an adequate amount of hickeys on your neck, he moves on to your collarbone along with his knife.

“Or here…” He traces the sharp tip on your collarbone, drawing the letter E. His touch feels light as a feather, but this newfound gentleness won’t last long. You hold your breath in anticipation of what’s to come. Erik gives you a reassuring look before he presses the knife in the same spot on your collarbone where he traced his initial. A sharp pang of pain shoots through your senses but you can only elicit a loud moan of heavenly pleasure. “Shh… relax, baby.” He says softly. You watch your blood seep out from the fresh cut as beads of crimson stream down the surface of your skin. Erik wipes the blood off with his bare hand in precise fashion like he’s doing a tattoo on you.

“You’re doing so well.” Erik praises, kissing your tears off your cheek before putting all his attention to the wound he inflicted. E C. Carved on your collarbone for all to see. His initials. “You look so fucking hot. And you’re mine. God, when did I get so lucky?” He kisses the bloody letters, devouring the blood out of your flesh. Erik smiles to reveal red tainting the gaps of his teeth. You’d be lying if you say that’s not the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen in your waking life.

You pull Erik close to clash your lips against his. You kiss him like you're starving, tasting your blood from his tongue. You moan at the sickly sweet metal taste that pairs with the cigarettes and coffee Erik recently had. “Erik, please fuck me. I want your cock so bad.” You whisper in between your messy kisses.

“Since you’ve been such a good girl for being so brave, I think you deserve it.” He replies, tucking your stray hair behind your ears almost too dramatically. “That’s so fucking cliché.” You giggle. Erik smirks, amused at the fact that you still look innocent even after moaning all sorts of dirty profanities. “Yeah? What about this… does this feel cliché to you?” He thrusts his hips forward to let you feel the tight bulge of his cock threatening to burst out from his jeans any moment now. “You made me so hard, baby. You drive me fuckin’ nuts.”

“Turn around.” He says and you immediately comply, unable to wait any longer as you maneuver yourself on the tattoo chair so you’re lying on your stomach. “Ass up, baby girl.” Erik slaps your cheek causing you to gasp and giggle even more. Erik can’t help himself. He always spanks your ass whenever he gets the chance. “Good girl.” He grabs his dick and eases his tip teasingly between your folds, his Prince Albert piercing barely touching your wet pussy. You suddenly got reminded that you're dating an asshole.

You take matters into your own hands by sinking yourself into him but he holds you down. Erik’s strength shouldn’t be underestimated despite his skinny build. “I need you to stay still, princess.” He instructs as he rubs soothing circles on the ample spot of your left cheek. “Think you can handle a little more pain?”

“You can fuck me as hard as you want once this is over. I just need to carve a heart right… here.” There it goes again. You feel his knife slice through the spot he’s been lovingly massaging. Your eyes roll at the pain, as your pussy clenches around his tip. “Please…” You whine while Erik brands you. “God babe, I didn’t think you’d get off to this. You like it when I hurt you, don’t you?”

“Yeah… feels good.” You say breathlessly, making Erik chuckle.

“Now this is what I call a tattoo.” He says, admiring his magnum opus on your ass proudly, a heart shaped lineart with his name spelled out inside of it. Erik didn’t waste another second to ram his dick fully inside you.

“Fuck!!” You scream at the sudden fullness in your pussy, clawing the leather on the chair as he thrusts in and out with such precision, his piercing palpably drags against your walls, hitting your G-spot in the most mind spinning way possible. “That’s it, good girl. You’re taking me so well. Fuck—your tight pussy belongs to me.” Erik mumbles incoherently through in his growls.

The room is filled with the sounds of your salacious moans and skin slapping repeatedly. You look around and see the glass windows, blatantly reminding you that the sight of you getting railed by your boyfriend can be viewed from outside. Someone could be watching. You didn’t care though. You want everyone to know you belong to Erik. Erik pulls your hair, fucking you deeper until his pace becomes unsteady. “I’m gonna cum.” He bites your shoulder. “You better take it like the good girl you are…”

Before you can react, you feel spurts of hot liquid coat every crevices in your pussy. It didn’t take long until you reached your high too. Erik praises you, as you ride your orgasm on his dick with slow and lingering thrusts. You lay your spent body lazily, savoring the euphoric feeling you just experienced.

Erik kisses your back, before slipping out to grab some sterile rags for clean up. He comes back with a mirror so you can properly see the marks he’s given you. “What do you think?” He asks shyly like he’s expecting artistic validation. After the amazing sex he’s given you, it’s only fair you have to give him that in return.

You smile, admiring his work etched on your skin. It’s going to stay that way for a long while. “I love it. I love you.”

“Guess I need to have you around in the shop more often." He helps you stand up, your legs still feel wobbly from the activity. Erik picks up and helps you put on your clothes.

“I guess you do.” You reply contentedly.

“I deserve a five-star review for giving you the best tattoo I’ve ever done.”

author’s note. a week after seeing fd6 and this man still lives rent free in my mind ughhh. been a while since i’ve written something spicy so i aplogize for the rusty smut prose! & thank you so much for reading!! <3

[donvampiro]

hello! I was wondering if you could write something with the monster trio+law with a clairvoyant reader where she can’t tell ghosts from real people and she sees ghosts on there ships and just starts freaking out cause they still retain the look of when they died. Please and thank u!

hii Anon! hope you’re doing well :) this is a very interesting concept! i really enjoyed writing these HCs. careful though because, as stated in my rules post, it’s max 3 chars when it comes to requests. but maybe you’re new to my blog so it’s totally fine Anon, don’t worry ❤️ i still added Law because i feel like this request really fits him indeed hehe. in any case, hope this post will meet your expectations! Love <3

MASTERLIST - Welcome

***

'Shadows of the past'

Monster trio & Law x (clairvoyant) fem!reader

Warning: mention of death & mourning, physical injuries & blood. contains some spoilers (Marineford ; Dressrosa) as well btw

Monkey D. Luffy

tbh i think Luffy would find your powers kinda cool at first, like he wouldn’t immediately get the measure of your concerns and the harm that your visions might cause you, particularly in their tragic, even traumatic nature

every time he'd hear you scream or saw you shudder, seized by fear because you thought you were meeting a “real” person whose body was more or less in good condition, he’d quickly comfort you, offering you a big smile and patting your back or your shoulder with a gentleness that is always reserved for you.

‘c’mon, (y/n), no need to be afraid! think about saying hello to those people instead. oh! say hello to them from me too!’

Luffy’s carefreeness about your natural gifts wouldn’t last forever though. it would only be after a very concrete event that he’d realize the weight on your shoulders that your power can be on a daily basis. in short, he would need a kind of trigger.

maybe it would happen while you’re both sitting on the deck of the Sunny, taking some time for yourselves and stargazing after a nice meal, a little celebration, who knows. smiling, Luffy seems somewhat lost in thought though. his hand is soft yet slightly calloused as it envelops yours in a comfortable silence; but as you’d turn to him, you couldn’t hold back a gasp, more vocal than you’d have liked, and Luffy would instantly turn to you, alerted.

‘(y/n)? what’s up with ya? everything’s okay?’

it was the first time you saw that while looking at your captain for some reason. you saw him, yes, next to Luffy — this bloodstained individual, covered in wounds, and whose cheekbones, although magnificently freckled, could not, however, soften the sight of his fiercely pierced abdomen. his mouth is dripping with blood but his smile is peaceful as he looks at Luffy, before your eyes meet.

your own heart drums facing his stopped one. you know who he is. of course you do. how could you not know? Luffy has told you about him so many times, in that voice that now made you question whether to answer, tell your captain what you're seeing or not. but your ragged breath, bulging eyes, and the light film of sweat coating your face leave you little room for hesitation as Luffy grabs your shoulder and shakes it lightly.

‘hey (y/n). are you seeing things again? tell me.’

reveal the truth in a low voice and you’ll see Luffy’s eyebrows furrow, in an expression that mixes all the emotions in existence. his eyes are lost in the void of his thoughts for a second before looking all around him, searching and calling his brother, finding you.

‘he’s here?! like, where? behind me? can you talk to him? wait, do you think he can still eat like, real food? or ghost food? i’m sure Sanji knows how to make ghost food anyway. i mean, we could have another meal so he can be with us! oh, and tell him that i—’

he talks a lot and his eyes are glassy, ​​with a tearful glint that doesn’t escape your gaze despite his huge smile. you stifle your own sobs, feeling the weight of Luffy’s grief as you see Ace’s ghost disappear into the starry night, in a painfully soft gaze. you shake your head in a sorry sigh, and your captain almost automatically stops speaking. his smile fades away — there’s no need to say more. he contemplates you for a moment, before lowering his head slightly and caging you in a long, silent hug.

that night, Luffy understood the weight of your powers, understood your fears. the ashes of the past were indeed frightening.

Roronoa Zoro

really, Zoro can’t help but be puzzled every time he sees you freaking out like this, shouting about how there’s such and such corpses wandering on the deck of the ship or the streets of some island where you and the crew made a stopover. the swordsman would never delve too deeply into your emotions when they’re negative; not that he’s not interested, but that he prefers to keep things simple between you two and avoid making you overthink.

still, he would always try to reassure you, and he’d do so assertively — without digressions or innuendos — but always wanting to make things easier for you and so that you’d no longer have to worry about seeing these deceased people, more alive than ever in your eyes though.

‘there’s no reason to be so scared, (y/n). these guys are no longer among us, they won’t hurt you. i wouldn’t let them anyway.’

his tone was gruff, but you knew better. Zoro was always protective of you, and you were grateful, but it wasn’t that simple. meeting lifeless gazes, looking at bloodied, weakened, sick or whatever bodies — you were seeing bereavement and pain personified all around you, almost every day, and you couldn’t shake your fears, despite your best efforts and the swordsman’s reassuring words.

this is why your sleep would be regularly stolen by these bloodstained specters wandering around, and today would be no exception, even if you’re snuggled up to Zoro — who seems deeply asleep. it was he who had suggested a nap together, to calm you down, but obviously the task was more difficult than expected.

despite your eyes being firmly closed, sealed so as not to see these presences you were feeling, you couldn't help but fidget, scared. in order to calm yourself down, you decided to get up and go get a glass of water in the kitchen. you stepped out of the cabin and the air was mild. everything was (very) surprisingly peaceful, and you took the time to enjoy the moment as you filled your glass, before slowly heading back to the cabin.

but as you open the door, you’re greeted not by Zoro’s sleeping figure, but by a bloodstained and destroyed body, which finally passes through you to continue on its way. terror makes you drop your glass and it crashes right into the cabin entrance as you scream.

the swordsman is jolted from his sleep and instantly turns to you, his gaze alert as he reaches for his swords — but you stop him, pointing at the broken glass dotting the floor; and your shaky voice immediately makes him understand what happened.

Zoro sighs and leaves the bed for a moment to come and get you, dodging the shards of glass before finally picking you up and carrying you, so that you both collapse on the bed, never breaking your embrace. he can feel your heart pounding in your chest as he whispers in your ear.

‘saw sordid stuff again?’

his voice is calm as your respective eyes meet. his gaze is stern, focused, attentive. you nod, and it’s in a — sweet, only for you — whisper that he concedes that it can’t be easy every day. maybe you need to talk about it more than he thought, after all. Zoro tightens his embrace around you, petting your hair as he lets a comfortable silence settle, before questioning you in a solemn yet uncertain tone.

‘hey, by any chance… have you ever seen, like, in your visions… a young girl with a sword?’

Vinsmoke Sanji

Sanji would be a great listener and always there to reassure you when your visions frighten you. he would empathize and understand the weight your powers can represent; so you can count on him to give you all the affection and consideration you need.

he is supportive. his goal would be to make sure that you don’t feel alone in the middle of all these more or less bloodstained ghosts, so that, whenever fear seizes you, he can be there to comfort you and bring you back to the world of the living.

in that sense, it would probably lead you to be more comfortable with your powers and to be able to talk about them more openly. you would be less afraid. and it’s sitting in the kitchen while Sanji is busy at his stove that you’d talk about this and that, your voice a sweet melody for the attentive ears of the cook.

‘you know, i’ve already seen ghosts around you.’

– ‘ah? they should be more interested in you, (y/n)-chwan, you’re so much prettier.’, he’d reply, and you could hear the smile on his face.

you couldn’t stifle a laugh. with Sanji, things always seemed less dramatic, less scary. it was as if you could face all the troubles in this world but you could always get back up.

your laughter was nevertheless cut short by the presence you felt. you couldn’t help but shudder slightly and your eyes, riveted on the cook’s busy hands so far, eventually lifted towards a ghost behind him. this very ghost was also watching with great interest the recipe being prepared, all the while smiling tenderly.

‘there's one behind you right now, by the way.’

– ‘really?’, he chuckled, without taking his eyes off the vegetable he was cutting. ‘and what do they look like? not too… damaged, i hope.’

– ‘it’s a lady. a very beautiful lady.’

Sanji slowed down his cutting, his mind troubled for a moment. he certainly knew how to appreciate women, all women, but something inside him told him that this woman was different. what interest could the ghost of a dead woman possibly have in him? Unless…

‘(y/n), could you please… describe her?’

he had put down his knife, and the uncertain tone of his voice encouraged you to respond positively to his request; nodding then describing as best you could the woman standing next to him, looking at him with a soft smile.

as you spoke, the cook’s features tensed up, and you could see that he was holding back just about everything that came up to him. words, tears, everything. so you ventured to ask a few questions.

‘do you know this person?’, you’d ask timidly.

and maybe it was now up to you to lend an ear to Sanji’s sensitivity.

bonus:

Trafalgar D. Water Law

talking to Law about your powers would be complicated at first. in fact, he would have a hard time understanding why you would be so moved by every vision you have when it’s “just” part of your abilities. he would have a hard time understanding why you would continue to be afraid even though you’re aware of these powers of yours. everything would seem so… irrational to him.

You were coping with the situation as best you could — if he couldn’t understand, you weren’t going to force him. still, that was before you noticed this person. an individual that, as usual, you had taken for a living person, before noticing their bruised appearance and their spectral nature. this person who followed Law almost everywhere.

it was embarrassing, frightening at times, because this ghost’s presence was unpredictable and random, so you often found yourself jumping out of your skin and screaming in the middle of a conversation when they appeared, with Law looking at you in perplexity.

so you had decided to avoid Law a little, just to spare yourself a little, and to avoid having to broach this subject which you already had the feeling he wouldn’t be very receptive to.

however, Law, for his part, was actually very receptive to the fact that you were avoiding him. he saw it perfectly, and also felt that there was something you wanted to tell him, but didn’t dare to, or something like that. he felt lost about it: you knew you could tell him anything, right? or, had he done something that made you no longer feel comfortable talking to him?...

Law would confront you directly about it, not wanting to beat around the bush; and his heart was beating a little faster than he anticipated as he saw you searching for words.

‘well, i… i see… i often see a tall man around you, his face made up, with a large black coat, he’s very injured, with blood all over his face and… so… it makes me…’

– ‘“it makes you” what? what am i supposed to do?’

something snapped in his mind and his reply came out on its own, in a way harsher tone than he would have liked. Law’s grip on his nodachi tightens as he frowns. he looks hurt by this information over which you actually have no control. you shake your head — you knew he wouldn’t understand anyway, that he would only see your visions and fears as irrational, as always. you look away.

‘... nevermind.’

you start walking away, and Law runs his hand over his face with a heavy sigh, trying to process what just happened, and realizing his words were far too harsh. facing the loss of those who matter to us is already a trial. but seeing death walking around every day, even in moments that should give us rest… yeah, he too would freak out facing those kinds of visions eventually.

‘(y/n), wait’, he calls, catching up with you quickly. his voice remains monotonous, but you still hear the softness he always reserves for you. ‘i worded my question poorly. i… yeah, i think we should indeed discuss all this.’

you turn to him, your respective gazes seeking each other, and in his eyes lay torment as well as the apologies he can’t seem to voice. you nod, and he mutters.

‘i will try to understand.’

[nineteenninety-six]

Would you consider writing for the Pitt one where Jack abbot is like a widower and his wife had a daughter and now she’s like 16, and she’s also at the Pitt fest, she gets shot but doesn’t notice until she sees her father in the er, maybe her friend got shot and they both rush over while she keeps her friend alive and then when he hugs her, blood gets on his gown, she’s also been shot

Maybe happy ending this time..you could do friend dying if that helps with your want for angst

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Daughter!Reader

TW: Pittfest, inaccurate medical stuff, injuries via bullets etc

AN: Midway through writing this, I realised that I strayed from the request, I apologise.

Your phone buzzed incessantly in your pocket as you jumped off of the back of a pickup truck in the ambulance bay of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center but you paid it no attention. Your focus was solely on your friend still laying in the bed of the truck, your once pale pink jacket, now discoloured by blood, pressed against their upper chest.

The buzzing stops as your friend is pulled out, a red snap band wrapping around their wrist before a doctor directs the techs and nurses moving them to where the triage doctors tell them where they should go.

The triage doctors turned to you next and a wave of relief washed over you at the familiar faces. It was Shen and Parker, two doctors who worked with your father on the night shifts.

Parker sends you a warmth comforting smile, her glove covered hand coming to rest on your arm, “I’m so glad to see you kid, you have no idea. You okay? Any injuries?”

Your shoulder hurt but you’re pretty sure that’s from when you face planted into the ground during the panic earlier. You had tried to catch yourself but you weren’t very successful and so you were sure you had scrapes and bruises across your face. If you were otherwise injured, the adrenaline coursing through your veins numbed it to you.

“I’m fine, I think.” You shake your head at Parker’s question, “What’s going to happen to her?”

“Your dad’s there, he’ll help her.” Shen tells you before steps closer to you, a suspicious glint in his eye as they catch something you hadn’t realised, “You’ve got a head lac.”

“Are you sure you’re fine? You’ve got blood all over you.” Parker’s brows are furrowed as she looks at you in concern.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not mine.” You say.

A yellow band is swiftly snapped around your wrist before you’re being shuffled into the ED. Since you felt fine you decided to find your friend amongst the chaos of the emergency department. You ignored the cries, screams and the overwhelming stench of blood as you looked around but you didn't get far before a hand wrapped your arm and tugs you around.

It was your father.

He pulls you into a hug, arms tight as he wraps them around you, “Oh thank God.”

Your dad pulls away just enough to see your face before he’s pulling you into another hug, “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I was worried sick.”

“I was a bit busy.” You murmur into his shirt.

Your dad’s presence was comforting and just what you needed at that moment. You melted into his hug as you felt your eyes burn with unshed tears,

“I’m so glad to see you dad” You whimper, “I was so scared.”

“I know kid, I know but you did so well.” Your dad steps back, his eyes falling to your wrist, “Yellow band. What’s wrong?”

“Shen said I have a head lac.”

Your dad tips your head down and nods as he looks at it, “Yeah c’mon, let’s patch you up.”

“Wait, don’t you have more critical people to help? Also, where’s my friend?”

“Your friend is fine; they’re in the OR. Looking like a full recovery.”

You let out a sigh of relief before your legs buckle and you feel the room tilt around you. You’re caught before you collapse to the floor by your dad as you pass out.

Jack curses as he settles you down on the floor, calling out for help as he searches for any wounds. Shen had sent you in with a yellow band but Jack had an inkling there was more hidden.

He pulled up your shirt and sure enough, a bullet wound stared back at him.

“Someone call surgery!”

Walsh hurries over, falling to her knees opposite Jack, “What do we have?”

“Bullet to the navel,” Jack spits out, “Please tell me there’s an OR free.”

Walsh shakes her head, “The last one just got taken. Can we stabilize her?”

“If we found out about the wound earlier then maybe but she’s gone untreated for too long. It’s now or never.”

“Jack, we don’t have an OR or even a damn sterile room.”

“Please!” Jack’s voice wavers as he looks over at the surgery attending, “She’s my daughter…we have to help her.”

Walsh’s expression changes at the information and Jack recognises the new one that appears on her face, it was the one he had worn many times before. It was the one he wore when he told people that their loved ones died.

“P-Please...you have to help her.”

Like an angel from heaven, Garcia ran over to them with a gurney, “A OR just opened. We’ve got to go now.”

Jack springs into action, immediately moving to your head, hands moving under your shoulders as someone grabs your ankles and together, they lift you up and transfer you onto the gurney. Jack doesn’t waste another moment, pushing you down the hall to the elevator along with Walsh and Garcia.

He doesn’t get any further than the OR doors, Walsh stopping him with a hand on his chest, “This is as far as you go. You’re a great doctor Abbot but you’re not a surgeon.”

Jack knows that protesting will just delay your care so he steps back with a nod and watches as the door closes behind Walsh as she rushes in to get sterilized.

Jack doesn’t go back down to the ED; he’s in no state to help anyone right now but he also can’t sit down and wait for news so he settles on pacing in front of the OR. His prosthetic chafes at him, rubbing with every step he takes and he can hear your voice in his head chastising him, reminding him what happens when he ignores the signs and over does it, creating more pain and problems later on.

He's not only worried about you but for your friend too. You two had been friends since elementary school and Jack had lost count of the number of sleepovers, mall trips and vacations you had done together over the past decade. If you lost your friend, you’d lose a part of you as well and so Jack hoped both of you came out alive.

[neeeooon]

shut me up ;

34 | unread text messages

ft. fem!reader & shidou, isagi, chigiri, nagi, kunigami, reo, bachira, sae, rin, kurona, kaiser

cw. cussing, depictions of injury, angst (IM SORRY), lots of comfort i promise, boobs mentioned (once)

“the internet thinks you’re dead. or pregnant. maybe both?” bachira said with a shrug before tossing his phone onto your couch.

you sighed through your mouth, wincing slightly when you tapped on the bandages around your face and nose. the bruising along your under eyes had subsided, but was still noticeable.

bachira gave your shoulder a squeeze and handed you a water bottle with a straw in it, smiling when you thanked him. “does it still hurt?” he asked.

“a little. it’s more sore than painful, though. did the guys say when they’re coming over?”

“are you ignoring the fact that the internet thinks you’re dead or pregnant?”

“yes,” you stated, grinning a little when you caught his eye. “the guys?” as if on cue, your front door was kicked in (it was already open), and shidou appeared with a very tired-looking itoshi duo behind him. when he saw the bandages and bruising around your eyes, his smile faltered. shidou did his best to put it back a second later and crashed onto the couch beside you.

“y/n, looking as gorgeous as ever!” he kissed the back of your hand, eyes softening when you laughed.

“whatever. are we having movie night or what? where are the others?”

sae placed two pizzas on your counter and searched around for the paper plates. “isagi and kurona went to get drinks. i reminded them no cans, you baby.” he said it like an insult, but the smile he sent over his shoulder told you otherwise.

“and kaiser?” the question slipped out before you could stop yourself, and it got quiet. frustration hit you hard enough to re-break your nose, and you sank deeper into the cushions.

shidou gave your thigh a squeeze and leaned forward so only you (and bachira, who was hovering on your left) could hear. “honey… i think you should leave it.”

your eyes burned. you hadn’t heard from kaiser since the incident. not a peep. all you knew was that he was back from the hospital and locked up in his room. he must have been sleeping in his living room, because your bedroom wall was silent.

bachira nuzzled his nose against your bare shoulder. “we don’t want you to get hurt again because of him.” you wanted to argue that it wasn’t because of him, but shidou beat you to it.

“you know it’s not his fault. it’s that crummy dad of his.”

“who he keeps in his life by sending him checks every month. of course, the dude’s gonna reach out when his source of income suddenly ghosts him.”

“what should he have done instead?”

“not get involved with our friend when he knew his dad was going to retaliate? warn her? go to the police like we’ve been saying he should do for years?”

you stood up and moved to a barstool in the kitchen, where the brothers were silently picking at their food. they stared at you for so long you felt a third eye growing. “what?” you snapped. at least, you wanted to sound snappy. instead, your voice came out stuffy and sad.

sae took the open stool next to you and gently nudged your hand with his. “it’s best if you forget about him for now.”

that’s it. pushing yourself away from the counter, you walked into your bedroom and locked the door behind you. your eyes ached as you cried, tears dampening the bandages and leaving hot trails in their wake. all you wanted to know was if he was okay. the not knowing, paired with the constant advice to leave him be, made your chest hurt and your head spin. you wanted to see him, even if it meant having him see you bruised, just as you were.

a quiet double-knock on your door made you wipe delicately at your face, and when you cracked the door open, kurona slipped in without inquiry. you opened your mouth to ask if he needed something when kurona suddenly pulled you into his chest for a hug. you stood, shocked, as he awkwardly patted your back.

“he’s okay,” he whispered, and you sucked in a breath so sharp it stung your lungs. “it’s okay to love someone like him.”

the breath left your lips as a choked sob. you threw your arms around kurona, hands gripping his shirt to stabilize yourself.

☆ 🎸

kurona helped you clean yourself up and pretend like nothing happened when you finally calmed down. he had to borrow one of your oversized band tees since his was wet with tears. the guys didn’t speak much the rest of the night, all focused on the film except for isagi, who let you fall asleep on him after noticing the puffiness not caused by your broken nose. the bandmates cleaned up as you napped, and isagi woke you up only after they’d all left.

“they’re kind of split,” isagi commented when he noticed you scrolling through your numerous unread messages to kaiser. you looked up to find him gnawing on his bottom lip. “i don’t know what’s gonna happen, but i know everything will be okay. we were able to send his dad to a holding cell in germany with all of our statements, right? even if kaiser doesn’t press charges, that… thing isn’t here anymore.”

“then why is kaiser still ignoring me?” you asked, breathlessly. “i like him, isagi. i care about him. i want him to be okay, and knowing he’s cut me out hurts.”

isagi stopped chewing his lip to run his tongue over it anxiously. he helped you stand and leaned against your bedroom door as you searched for some pajamas, awaiting his reply. isagi turned around so you could change and rubbed awkwardly at his nape. “i won’t say i know kaiser better than the guys, but i’ve known him longer. i know he uses his sex appeal or whatever as a way to cope with his past and how shitty life can be. i know he stopped when he got to know you, and i know he cut contact with his dad as a way to move past everything.”

you paused your movements to listen.

“i don’t know if kaiser is capable of feeling love for anything, not even himself, but i know he feels something for you. it’s strong enough to make him fight back in his own way.”

you didn’t want to cry anymore, but your voice wobbled dangerously as you asked, “is that why he won’t see me? cause i remind him of… of him?”

isagi spun around on instinct and thanked every higher being that you were completely dressed. “no, what?” he stepped forward and hugged your shoulders. “dude, no. never. i think kaiser is ashamed of how things went down. he may ever think he’s the reason you got hurt.”

“but he’s not—“

“i know that. i don’t think he knows that, no matter how much we tell him otherwise.”

your vision shook as you bumped your head against isagi’s collar. “i hate this.”

“i know. i’m sorry.” he gave you one last squeeze before pulling away. “also… not that it’s any of my business, but you should probably text your friends. i think they’re about ten hours away from calling the police to report you missing.”

☆ 🎸

“y/n!” chigiri screamed into the phone, snatching it out of nagi’s hands before the white-haired guy could even open his mouth. “what the fuck?! why are you ignoring us? why are the bastardz postponing their show?! where have you been?!”

releasing a shaky sigh for only you to hear, you angled the camera toward your face. you watched as chigiri’s face dropped. “y/n…”

the phone was snatched back and froze in nagi’s grip. you watched your best friend work his jaw as he tried to keep himself calm. “who. i’ll kill them.”

“nobody you know, i promise.” you pushed a hand through your hair and glanced at your picture on facetime. you’d taken the bandage off, but the bruising around your nose wasn’t too bad. the top was still a little swollen, and it was your eyes that gave away that something had broken.

reo gently pried the phone from nagi’s now-trembling grip and forced a smile to his face. “nothing a little makeup can’t fix.” he turned away from the camera and flinched when the sound of a door slamming echoed through your phone. you watched him swallow before facing you again, angling the phone so that chigiri appeared with an orange cat.

you gasped. “is that garby? he’s so big!”

the duo successfully managed to distract you with the cat for nearly ten minutes before somebody started abusing your doorbell. you glanced at chigiri and reo, who were giving you tense smiles through the screen.

“he was really worried,” reo said, and you stood up with the phone in your hand.

“i’ll text you guys later, i promise.”

“don’t forget!”

placing your phone down, you opened your door and let out a surprised yelp when nagi fell against you. you bent under his weight but didn’t shove him away as he buried his face in your neck and clung to you like a sloth would a tree. “you can’t do that,” he mumbled, words muffled against your skin.

blinking, you leaned your head against his and ran your fingers through his hair. “i know. i’m sorry.”

only when you hugged him back did you realize he was shaking. “i-i know they’re your friends, too. i know you hang out with them a lot. but you’re my best friend, okay?” pulling his face from your neck, nagi looked down at you with wet eyes that immediately made you cry. “you have to tell me these things, too. if you’re hurt, i wanna know. i can’t raise choki on my own, ‘k?”

he tried for a smile, a weak one, but you jumped up to toss your arms around him and let yourself sob into his hoodie. “i’m sorry—i didn’t want to worry you. i know it sounds stupid now, but it’s true. you’re my best friend, too, sei. i love you.”

nagi ran a hand through your hair and gripped the ends as he said, “love you, too.”

☆ 🎸

nagi fell asleep on you, his head squishing your boobs like old times, but you missed him too much to complain.

laying on your bed, you stared at your chat with kaiser. there were over a dozen messages from you, all marked delivered, all asking if he was okay or willing to talk to you.

your thumbs hovered over the keys, hesitant to type out another message, when suddenly the delivered sign under your most recent message turned to ‘read.’ you watched with wide eyes as finally, finally, three bubbles appeared on his side of the screen.

masterlist // previous (ch 33) // next (ch 35)

notes -> my period must be coming cause why is kurona making me tear up UGHHH I LOVE HIM ❤️‍🩹 a lot going on this chapter, it just kept coming out idk why but hopefully you enjoyed!

tags -> @x3nafix @n0tbelle @nensi @ohagiyoo @tired-child00 @melinana @chaoslibra @kaidostwin @bubybubsters @miss-aesthetic-13 @ihsoti @arwawawa2 @lonigiri @realrintaro @mivqko @sorasushik1 @pookalicious-hq @higuchislut @tofumiarchives @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 @rainychi2 @ch4rstxr @sapph1r3x @sagging-saging @5-laska @tuna-toes @seinuis @sindulgent666 @evilari111 @newinhalerpls @kisses2kanao @sugacor3 @meizumi @90s-belladonna @meowstertruck420 @kyutiipie @ranzess @cookiesandcreammy @nevvynev @stwberri @mikeymyfav @dontmindtheevie @kaikaidenkai @mizukiblogs @ravenbc @yvanllie @cyberasterrr @lily-isalittlegirl @yourlocaleffy @hanamatopoeia

© neeeooon, 2025

[huhtriever]

just friends - megan skiendiel

synopsis : they’re just friends, but the way they care about each other starts to feel like something more. As their dream gets closer, they have to decide what their hearts are really saying.

content warnings: emotional tension, slow burn, soft confession

pairing: megan skiendiel x katseye!reader

word count: 4.5k

they call it friendship.

when megan grabs your hand, fingers threading through yours, just before you both step onto the stage — your palms sweaty, your heart pounding, and hers steady, grounding.

when she waits for you outside the studio, even though her practice ended thirty minutes ago and her ride is texting her impatiently, but she doesn’t move until you’re done.

when she slips into the vocal room quietly, like she knows the pressure’s eating you alive, and hands you two squished protein bars with a look that says she won’t let you burn out tonight. “figured you’d skip dinner again,” she murmurs, like it’s a habit of hers to notice.

it’s just friendship.

everyone says so. you say so, too.

but then there are the moments —

the way she looks at you, eyes soft and unguarded, like she’s memorizing the shape of your silence.

like in all the noise of this competition, you’re the one thing that makes her feel like she can breathe.

and maybe that’s still friendship.

or maybe it’s something no one wants to name yet.

—

the days inside dream academy blur at the edges. dance evaluations. vocal assessments. endless group missions. there’s barely enough time to sleep, let alone sort through the weight pressing on your chest.

every breath feels borrowed. every movement judged.

today was brutal.

eight straight hours of choreography. the mentors weren’t happy. nothing about your performance clicked. not sharp enough. not synchronized enough. not enough, period.

you’re still on the practice room floor long after the others have cleared out, your legs stretched in front of you, muscles screaming in protest.

you’re trying to coax your body into silence, trying to push past the feeling that you’ve somehow failed again.

then you hear footsteps — soft, familiar.

you don’t need to look. you already know who it is.

“should’ve known you’d still be here,” megan says as she drops beside you, folding herself neatly into a cross-legged seat. her voice is warm, light with just enough teasing to soften the concern underneath.

“you know the staff’ll kill us if we’re not back by lights-out.”

you sigh, barely glancing up. “i needed to fix that transition. i was offbeat.”

she tilts her head, watching you like she’s trying to figure out how to get through the wall you keep rebuilding.

“you always say that,” she replies. “even when you’re the cleanest one in the room.”

you stare down at your hands. your knuckles are red, fingers sore.

“i can’t afford to be the one who messes up,” you say quietly.

there’s a pause. a soft breath.

“you’re not.”

you blink, and when you look over, her eyes are already on you — steady, unwavering.

megan jokes more than she comforts. she laughs more than she lectures. but right now, she’s all calm fire and quiet certainty.

“you’re one of the strongest here,” she says, like it’s fact. “you don’t have to tear yourself apart to prove it.”

your throat tightens. words don’t come. maybe they’re stuck behind everything you’ve been holding back.

so you say nothing.

she nudges your knee with hers, a small smile pulling at her lips. “wanna walk back together?”

you nod.

she stands, holds out her hand.

you hesitate — only a second — before you take it.

her grip is firm. warm. grounding.

you don’t let go. not right away.

and she doesn’t, either.

the dorm hallway is quiet when you return — the kind of quiet that hums just beneath the surface, filled with the soft sounds of distant breathing, creaking floors, dreams whispered behind closed doors. most of the trainees are asleep. or pretending to be.

you and megan don’t go into your room right away. instead, you both sink to the floor just outside the door, backs against the wall, shoulders nearly touching under the glow of the low corridor light.

she leans her head back and exhales like she’s been holding her breath all day. maybe she has.

“this place is like a pressure cooker,” she murmurs.

you nod, a quiet hum of agreement slipping out.

the silence stretches. not awkward. just full.

“i’m scared sometimes,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

you glance at her, surprised. “you never look scared.”

she huffs a soft laugh. “that’s the point.”

then, turning her head toward you — “but you make it easier.”

your heart trips. stumbles. nearly falls.

but you catch it before it can go anywhere.

you pretend you didn’t hear what she really meant.

instead, you raise an eyebrow.

“so i’m your emotional support trainee now?”

“obviously,” she grins, that familiar spark returning to her voice. “you’re contractually obligated to hold my hand during evaluations and share all snack rations equally.”

you glance down. at some point during the walk back, she’d taken your hand again. fingers threaded through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you lift your hands slightly.

“oh, is that what this is?”

“exactly,” she says, grip steady, not letting go. “friends do that, right?”

you smile. but it’s tight at the edges, like it’s holding something in.

“yeah. friends.”

you say it like a promise.

you say it like a lie.

—

the next day, someone asks about you two.

it happens between reps, during a quick water break in the middle of vocal drills. everyone’s tired, laughing too loud, sweaty and stretched thin by the pressure. emily's the one who says it — half-joking, half-curious, her voice laced with mischief.

“are you and megan, like… together-together?” she asks, grinning over the rim of her water bottle.

you laugh. automatically. it’s easier than saying anything real.

“what? no,” you say, brushing it off. “we’re just friends.”

megan echoes you a second later, voice light.

“yeah, just friends.”

but there’s a flicker of something when your eyes meet — quick, unspoken.

you both look away before anyone can catch it.

later that night, after lights-out, you’re sitting on your bunk with a towel draped over your head, drying your hair in slow, distracted motions. most of the room is quiet, save for the low hum of the hallway light and the occasional creak of the beds.

megan climbs up beside you without a word, folding her legs underneath her, the mattress dipping with her weight. she’s in one of your old t-shirts — the one she always steals — and her hair’s still damp too, curling slightly at the ends.

“hey,” she says gently, nudging your shoulder with hers.

you peek out from under the towel, raising an eyebrow.

“about what emily said earlier…” she starts, then hesitates. her fingers pick at the hem of the shirt.

“do you think it’s weird that people think we’re, y’know—” she trails off, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before darting away.

“a thing?”

you inhale slowly. “i don’t know. i guess… i get why they might.”

she blinks. “do you?”

you try for a laugh, but it comes out a little too soft, a little too unsure.

“i mean, we are always together,” you say, counting it out on your fingers like it’s some kind of joke.

“we hold hands a lot. we share snacks. we sleep in the same bed, like, all the time. we talk about things no one else knows. stuff i’ve never said out loud to anyone else.”

her expression shifts — something flickering behind her eyes — but she doesn’t interrupt.

she just listens.

“so yeah,” you say, your voice quieter now, words slower, heavier, “i get it.”

there’s a pause. long enough to feel like it means something.

she pulls her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around them.

her voice is small when she speaks again.

“we’re just friends… right?”

you look at her.

her face is turned slightly away, but you can see the way her jaw tightens, like she’s bracing for something.

you want to say yes.

you want to say no.

you want to say something that makes sense.

but you don’t know how to name the way your heart reacts to her voice, to her laugh, to her hand in yours like it belongs there.

so you don’t say anything.

just sit there in the dark, towel half-on, trying not to fall apart under the weight of everything unsaid.

that night, you lie side by side in the narrow dorm bed, just barely close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s presence. the room is dark except for a sliver of hallway light seeping through the bottom of the door. the soft hum of the air conditioning fills the silence, steady and low, like background music for a scene you’re both too afraid to write.

you’re both on your backs, staring at the ceiling. neither of you has moved in a while.

then, softly —

“hey,” megan says.

you turn your head slightly, your voice low. “yeah?”

she hesitates. just a second.

“i like being your friend.”

you nod, eyes still on the ceiling. “i like being yours too.”

another pause. the kind that stretches, tugs at the air.

“but sometimes…” she says, voice barely more than a breath now, “it feels like more.”

you turn to face her.

her face is close. her eyes, wide and unsure, search yours like they’re trying to find a safe place to land. like she’s afraid of what she’s just said and even more afraid of what you might say back.

your hand inches toward hers, slow and uncertain. you don’t take her whole hand — just brush your pinky against hers. a tiny, deliberate touch.

“i know,” you whisper. “i feel it too.”

she doesn’t say anything. neither do you.

but her pinky curls around yours. tentative at first. then firmer.

and that’s it. no more words, no big confessions. just the quiet weight of understanding settling in between you.

your pinkies stay tangled through the night.

like a secret promise neither of you is ready to name — but neither of you lets go.

it’s the final stretch.

the mentors say it like it’s something to celebrate — eyes bright, smiles wide.

“only two weeks until the finale!”

the room claps. some cheer. others just nod, already halfway gone in their heads.

but to you, it doesn’t feel like a victory.

it feels like a countdown.

to what, exactly?

you’re not sure.

winning. losing. disappearing. becoming someone else entirely.

your body moves on autopilot now — dancing, singing, smiling when the cameras are on.

your brain never shuts up. it replays everything: rehearsal footage you’ve watched a hundred times, corrections from mentors that live under your skin, that one note you keep missing, the mirror image of your own tired eyes.

you barely sleep. and when you do, it’s restless.

and megan —

megan’s not around much anymore. they’ve split you into different teams for the final mission. new choreography, new partners, new walls between you.

but still, she finds ways to be there.

an energy drink appears in your locker one morning, the can cold against your fingers. a neon sticky note clings to the side in messy handwriting:

“drink this or i’ll fight you — megz ♡”

you smile for the first time that day. maybe the first time that week.

she sends you voice memos at 1 a.m. — soft humming, snippets of lullabies, her voice low and close like she’s just on the other side of the wall.

“go to sleep, you stubborn gremlin,” she whispers in one of them. “you’re doing great, even if your brain says otherwise.”

you listen to them with your eyes closed, earbuds tucked in tight like they’re holding you together.

between rehearsals, she pulls you aside in the hallway — no words, just gentle fingers brushing a tear from your cheek. her thumb lingers there, warm and steady. then her arms wrap around you.

it’s quick, but not rushed.

soft, but not fragile.

she holds you like she means it. like she knows what you need before you can say it.

and still —

you don’t call it anything.

you could.

maybe you should.

but for now, it’s easier to leave it unnamed.

like saying the word out loud might break whatever delicate thing you’re both holding in your hands.

the dress rehearsal ends late.

your body feels like it’s unraveling — muscles trembling, lungs tight, skin clammy with sweat. your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. every step back to the mirror feels like it takes twice the effort it should.

your mentor’s voice echoes in your head, loud and sharp even though rehearsal is over:

“that was good. but is ‘good’ enough when the finale’s on the line?”

you slide down to sit against the mirrored wall, legs pulled up, head low. your reflection stares back at you from the floor — tired, dim, cracking. you press your palms against your eyes, trying not to cry.

and then —

megan.

she slips in like she belongs there. like she always does.

hair tied up in a messy bun. still in her rehearsal clothes, a sweatshirt tied around her waist. she carries two water bottles and something else you can’t see. maybe calm. maybe courage. maybe both.

she doesn’t say anything at first. just kneels beside you, setting one bottle near your foot.

“you okay?” she asks softly, like she already knows the answer.

you don’t lift your head. “no.”

she sinks down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. no hesitation. just quiet proximity.

you take the water bottle, but don’t drink it.

after a minute, you murmur, “they said i looked tired.” your voice is thin, raw. “like i wasn’t fully present.”

megan nods slowly, resting her arms on her knees.

“you’ve been running on fumes for weeks. i’m not surprised.”

you look at your hands. your knuckles are red again. everything feels like it’s slipping.

“i just— i want this so bad,” you say, voice cracking. “and i keep thinking… what if wanting it isn’t enough?”

her voice doesn’t waver.

“it is.”

a pause.

“you are.”

you let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in your chest all day. then you finally look at her.

“how do you always know what to say?”

megan shrugs, but there’s a small smile playing at her lips. not a light one — something deeper.

“i don’t. i just… feel it when you’re hurting.”

you open your mouth to respond, but she’s already continuing — voice softer now.

“i’ve been thinking about something,” she says, eyes not quite meeting yours. “since the hallway that night.”

you don’t have to ask what night.

you remember it like it never ended —

we’re just friends, right?

and the silence that followed.

“me too,” you whisper.

she turns toward you fully this time. her legs fold beneath her, hands clasped in her lap, expression more open than you’ve ever seen. like she’s stepped out from behind something.

“it’s getting harder to pretend like this is just a friendship,” she says. her voice isn’t shaking, but it’s close. “i’ve been pretending. a little. because it’s safe. because if i called it something else, i wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

you search her face — her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the slight furrow in her brow. she’s scared. and brave. all at once.

you speak carefully, like the words might break.

“and if we called it what it really is?”

her eyes lift to meet yours. something flickers there — fear, maybe. hope.

“what do you think it really is?”

you don’t answer with words.

you reach for her hand.

not out of panic. not to be reassured.

but because you want to hold it. really hold it.

not as comfort. not as friendship.

but something more. something truer.

she lets you.

her fingers thread through yours like they’ve been waiting. her palm is warm against yours, her grip light but certain. something passes between you in that moment — quiet, grounding, impossibly real.

no labels. no declarations. just this.

just you and her, sitting on a studio floor after midnight, holding hands like it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in weeks.

and neither of you lets go.

—

the next day is chaos.

nerves hang thick in the air, clinging to skin, pooling in corners.

final group practices run back-to-back. the mentors move like shadows through the rooms — clipboards in hand, cameras trailing behind them, eyes sharp with expectation.

some trainees cry. quietly, into their hands, or not quietly at all.

some go silent, disappearing into themselves.

you hold it together.

because you have to.

because falling apart isn’t an option when there are eyes everywhere, watching for weakness like it’s a flaw.

you’re about to step into the vocal room when a hand catches your arm.

you freeze.

you already know it’s her.

megan stands in the empty hallway, the bustle of the other rooms muted behind thick rehearsal doors. her fingers wrap gently around your wrist, not pulling — just holding.

you turn to face her.

her expression is bright and unsteady, like she’s feeling everything at once. adrenaline. hope. fear.

and you.

“if we both make it,” she says, her voice low, eyes locked on yours, “i want to see what this could really be.”

your breath catches. your heart stumbles.

you want to say me too, but the words don’t come fast enough.

instead, your voice breaks a little:

“and if we don’t?”

she doesn’t hesitate.

“then i’ll find you anyway.”

you nod, throat tight. “promise?”

she smiles — and it’s not the kind she wears onstage, all sparkle and polish.

it’s the real kind.

soft. quiet. sure.

unguarded.

“always.”

and then she lets go.

and you go.

but the promise stays, tucked inside your chest like a heartbeat.

that night, you lie awake again.

but it’s different this time.

no anxious spiraling, no rehearsals looping in your mind like a broken track.

just silence.

and her.

you let yourself remember — really remember — without pushing it away.

her hand in yours.

how it didn’t shake. how it didn’t let go.

her voice in the quiet, steady and low, saying things neither of you were brave enough to say before.

the way she looked at you — not like you were under pressure, not like you were competition, but like you were choice.

like the world could fall apart around you and she’d still pick you out of the wreckage.

every time.

you don’t have a name for it.

not yet.

maybe not for a while.

but as you lie there in the dark, the covers pulled up to your chin and the hum of the dorm filling the silence, you start to believe something you couldn’t let yourself believe before:

you don’t need one.

not tonight.

tonight, it’s enough just to feel it.

to know it’s real.

to know she feels it too.

—

the day the final lineup was announced, your heart felt like it might burst out of your chest.

everything had built to this — months of sweat and aching muscles, cracked voices and sleepless nights. and now, it all came down to one moment. one list.

when the names were read out, the world went quiet in your ears.

until you heard hers.

megan.

she was already crying — laughing through it, her hands covering her face, joy spilling out of her in every direction like she didn’t know how to hold it all.

she looked around the room, dazed, disbelieving, and then her eyes found yours.

and when your name was called too —

when the syllables landed in the air like they belonged there —

it hit you like a wave.

relief. disbelief. something that felt dangerously close to happiness.

you were debuting.

together.

the practice room — the one that had become your whole world — was too small to contain what you felt in that moment. it had held your worst days, your breakdowns, your whispered doubts at 2 a.m., and now it held this.

it wasn’t the ending you’d imagined.

dream academy had been a war zone of exhaustion, tears, pressure so heavy it left marks on your skin.

you’d been broken down, rebuilt, pushed past what you thought were your limits — again and again.

but now, standing beside megan on that stage, lights bright above you, her fingers brushing yours as the crowd erupted —

you didn’t feel broken anymore.

you felt invincible.

—

the months after debut have been a whirlwind — fast, relentless, a blur of motion and noise and barely-there sleep.

rehearsals stretch long into the night. music shows blur together. cameras catch you from every angle. interviews demand answers you barely have time to think through. fan signs bring smiles that feel real and exhausting all at once.

you wake up tired and go to bed more tired, your body running on adrenaline, caffeine, and the kind of stubborn hope that got you here in the first place.

choreography carves itself into your bones. your throat stings from endless vocal runs. you keep going. because you have to. because you want to.

and through it all —

there’s megan.

not just as a fellow member.

but as something steadier. something quieter. something that stays.

she catches your eye during performances and winks like it’s a secret only you two know — a flash of warmth in the middle of the chaos.

she sends you dumb, sweet texts between schedules.

“did you eat?”

“pls hydrate or i’ll come find you and make you.”

“ur cute. don’t tell the stylists i said that.”

she holds your hand under the table during late-night breaks — when everyone else is too tired to notice, when the cameras are finally off, when the world lets you breathe for a second.

it’s still not official.

you haven’t named it. haven’t talked about what it is or where it’s going.

the world around you is too loud for that —

too demanding, too public, too ready to turn something soft into something sharp.

but in the quiet, in the stolen moments no one sees —

you know.

she knows.

and that’s enough.

for now.

one evening, after a schedule that stretched you past your limit, you both collapse in the dorm lounge — bags dropped at the door, shoes kicked off without care, the buzz of exhaustion humming beneath your skin.

megan flops down beside you with a dramatic groan, pulling her hoodie low over her eyes like it might shield her from the world.

her voice is hoarse from singing, rough around the edges.

“remember when this felt impossible?” she says, half-laughing, half-wheezing.

you lean your head back against the couch and close your eyes, letting the ache in your body settle.

“sometimes i still can’t believe it’s real,” you murmur.

she shifts beside you. when you open your eyes again, she’s looking at you — eyes bright despite the bags underneath them, sweat-damp hair curling at her temples.

“i’m glad you’re here,” she says, quiet but clear.

“not just on stage. but here.”

she taps her chest with two fingers.

“with me.”

your throat tightens. the kind of tight that only comes when you know you’re safe enough to be honest.

you reach over and squeeze her hand, fingers slipping into the spaces they know by now.

“i’m scared sometimes,” you admit. your voice is barely there. “of messing up. of getting lost in all of this. of forgetting who i am.”

she doesn’t answer right away. just shifts closer, until your knees touch, until her fingers begin tracing small, slow circles against your palm — grounding, familiar.

“we’ll figure it out,” she says, and her voice is steadier than you expect.

no hesitation. no maybe.

“together.”

and somehow, that one word is enough to make you believe it.

the days aren’t always easy.

some start with headlines you didn’t ask for — rumors twisted out of nothing, speculation packaged as truth.

your name becomes something people think they can own.

your smile, your silence, your every move — all up for dissection.

being an “idol” feels less like a dream and more like a cage some days.

a glittering one, sure, but a cage all the same.

your body’s tired. your voice thinner. the pressure never really lifts — it just shifts, presses differently.

but even on the hardest days —

when your heart feels heavy and your mask starts to slip —

megan’s tired eyes will find yours across a crowded practice room.

and suddenly it’s not so loud.

she’ll bump your shoulder as you pass, or mouth breathe like a prayer.

sometimes she just looks at you and smiles, small and real, like we’re still here, okay?

and that’s enough.

later, her laugh will echo through the dorm hallway — wild, unfiltered, the kind of sound that cuts through everything.

and you’ll remember.

you’ll remember why you chose this.

why you keep choosing it.

why it’s worth it.

because she’s in it.

because you’re in it together.

one night, after the lights fade and the broadcast signs off, after the makeup’s wiped away and the cheers are just an echo in your ears, megan tugs your sleeve and says,

“come with me.”

you follow her up to the rooftop, past the sleeping dorm floors and humming vending machines, past curfews and expectations. the city stretches out below — glowing, restless, alive.

you sit side by side, wrapped in mismatched blankets, your legs brushing. the air is cool and sharp, but it feels good — real, grounding.

neither of you speaks at first. you just listen to the wind, the distant hum of traffic, the quiet pulse of your own heartbeat trying to steady itself.

then, her voice breaks the silence. soft. steady.

“i’ve been thinking.”

you glance over, but don’t rush her.

she’s staring out at the skyline, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

“we don’t have to keep pretending this is just friendship,” she says, like she’s been holding the words in for too long.

your heart stutters.

catches.

waits.

she turns to you, eyes gentle but certain.

“not if you don’t want to.”

you look at her — really look — and it’s all right there.

every moment. every near-confession. every hand held in secret.

and suddenly, the fear feels smaller than the want.

“i want this,” you breathe.

your voice shakes, but your hands don’t.

she smiles — a quiet, beautiful thing, soft around the edges like dawn.

it makes everything inside you settle. makes everything feel possible.

she reaches over and takes your hand.

your fingers slide together like they’ve been doing this for lifetimes.

“then let’s not be just friends,” she whispers.

and for the first time, you don’t have to pretend anymore.

it’s not a dramatic confession.

no sweeping music, no fireworks bursting overhead.

no crowd to cheer, no cameras to catch the moment.

just two people.

quiet. steady.

holding on to each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

no grand promises — just the quiet kind, made with fingers intertwined and hearts open.

a choice.

a beginning.

you don’t know exactly what the future looks like.

there will be hard days. louder ones. secrets to keep and storms to weather.

but right now, under the stars and wrapped in soft silence, none of that matters.

right now, this is enough.

you and her, side by side, finally naming what’s always been there.

and in that moment —

when her head rests lightly against your shoulder, when the night wraps around you like a promise —

everything feels possible.

—

hope you guys like this one! i’ve been on a writing streak so be prepared for a few more stories this week 👅 thank you all for the support

[zaynessbeloved]

It starts with a single message.

Zayne: “Are you free tonight?”

That’s all he says. No explanation, no follow-up, just the blinking bubble sitting in your inbox like a quiet promise. And for some reason, you don’t hesitate to answer.

You wait outside your apartment as the sky fades from bruised blue to ink. The hum of his engine reaches you before the headlights do—soft, controlled, clinical in a way that fits him too well. Zayne pulls up without a word, glancing at you once as you slide into the passenger seat. There’s a warmth in his eyes, subtle and unreadable, but it sits there like a secret you’re not sure you’re supposed to know.

No destination. No map. Just the road stretching out before you, and the soft thrum of a playlist you didn’t expect from him—lo-fi beats and ambient guitars, the kind of music that feels like late-night confessions and the in-between moments no one ever talks about. The windows are cracked halfway, letting in the cool night air that rushes against your skin like it knows you need to breathe.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. But it’s not awkward. It’s never awkward with him. It’s the kind of silence that lets you lean back in the seat and just be. Maybe because it’s Zayne. Maybe because it’s always been like this—him showing up when you don’t know you need it, his quiet presence doing more than words ever could.

You lose track of time as the city lights melt into black highways and winding roads. Eventually, the skyline disappears behind you, replaced by stars and the hush of a world asleep. And then the car slows, turning onto a narrow path you didn’t even see coming.

A hill. A view. Zayne parks the car without a word, kills the engine, and everything goes impossibly quiet. When you open your door, the cold hits first—and then the sight.

The city sprawls below like a living thing, pulsing gold and silver and shadow. It's beautiful. Painfully so. And somehow, it feels like the kind of view you’re not supposed to find by accident.

He tosses you a drink from the back seat—your favorite, of course—and leans against the hood of the car, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon like he’s guarding something precious.

You take a sip and join him, hip brushing his. It’s a long time before he speaks.

“Found this place a couple years ago,” he says, voice low, almost hesitant. “I was driving after a shift and needed some quiet.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you—his eyes are on the stars, on the lights below, anywhere but you.

“I come here sometimes,” he adds, after a beat. “Not sure why I brought you.”

That stings, for half a second—until you realize what he’s actually saying. He doesn’t bring people here. He didn’t even tell you where you were going. And yet here you are, on sacred ground.

You look at him more closely now. There’s something carved into the lines of his face tonight. Tiredness, maybe. A kind of weight he carries behind those eyes. You’ve always known Zayne was quiet. Reserved. Difficult to read. But this—this is something else. This is him offering a piece of himself without asking anything in return.

And then he says it.

“Do you ever think about how much people hide?” His voice is barely a whisper. “How much they carry without saying anything?”

You blink. He’s not asking about people. Not really.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “All the time.”

He nods once. And then again, more to himself. “You do that too,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

A small, almost-smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. And for a second, everything in you aches. Because he’s here. With you. Opening the door just enough for you to see what he never shows anyone. Not his patients. Not his colleagues. Maybe not even himself.

And he doesn’t want anything from you. He’s not asking you to fix it. He’s not seeking comfort. He’s giving it. In the only way he knows how.

And that’s when it hits you.

You’ve known Zayne your whole life. You’ve fought beside him. Grown up beside him. And still—still—he finds ways to surprise you. To shatter you, gently. To make your heart ache not because he’s hurt you, but because he’s trying so hard not to.

You watch him in profile, wind brushing through his dark hair, arms crossed like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You want to touch his hand. You don’t. But your chest is heavy in the best, most painful way.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t ask why. He just hands you the last sip of your drink, and when your fingers brush, he doesn’t pull away.

The quiet settles between you like an old friend—soft and undemanding. No pressure to fill the silence, no need to prove anything. Just the whisper of wind through trees, the distant hum of the city below, and the steady presence of Zayne beside you.

You sit on the hood of the car, shoulders nearly touching, the chilled metal beneath you radiating the night’s calm into your bones. Your fingers cradle the drink he gave you, long gone now, but you keep the can close anyway. The faint imprint of his warmth lingers where your hands brushed, and for some reason, it feels significant.

He shifts beside you, not quite looking your way, but there’s a gentle expectation in the air—as if he’s leaving space for something, should you choose to fill it.

So you do.

“Do you remember that one summer,” you murmur, voice low, “when Caleb dared me to climb that stupid rusted water tower? The one out by the school field?”

Zayne huffs a breath through his nose, a quiet laugh. “You were what—ten?”

“Nine,” you correct, your smile curling unconsciously. “And halfway up, I slipped and screamed bloody murder. Thought I was gonna die.”

“You didn’t scream,” he says, finally glancing at you. His eyes catch faint reflections of the starlight—green and brown, glass and fire. “You called my name.”

Your heart does a quiet, traitorous thing in your chest. You hadn’t remembered that part.

“I ran the whole way down,” he continues, quieter now, like the memory plays behind his eyes. “Scraped my knees on that broken fence trying to get to you.”

“I didn’t even fall,” you whisper, laughing despite yourself. “You climbed up and held onto me like the whole tower was gonna collapse.”

“Felt like it might,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “You were shaking.”

You swallow. “You didn’t let go.”

His gaze flicks to you again, lingering this time.

You shiver—and it’s not from the memory. The breeze has picked up, and while the night is beautiful, it’s colder now that you’re not moving, your body slowly giving in to the chill. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying not to make it obvious.

But of course he notices. Zayne always notices. Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders. The movement is fluid, casual, like it means nothing. But it does. It means everything.

The fabric still carries his warmth, the faint scent of his cologne—clean, understated, something grounding that makes your throat tighten. His fingers brush the sides of your arms as he settles it on you, and you freeze for just a second, stunned at the intimacy of it. You expected it somehow—because you’ve come to know he’s like this. Quietly observant. Subtly thoughtful. Always giving without ever asking for anything back.

Still, it doesn’t stop the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You’re grateful for the darkness.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small.

He doesn’t tease you. He just gives you a soft nod and turns his eyes back to the view, his expression unreadable.

After a long pause, you glance at him again. “How’s the hospital?”

A tired sigh escapes him before he answers, the sound barely there. “Busy. Always busy.” he rubs the back of his neck. “Sometimes I wish I could be in two places at once.”

“Zayne…” you say quietly, guilt tugging at the edge of your voice. “You’re exhausted. You didn’t have to bring me here.”

His gaze shifts, hazel eyes finding yours, warm and steady. “I wanted to.”

You blink.

“I needed this,” he says softly. “And... I wanted to spend time with you. You’re important to me. So is our friendship.”

And there it is. That word. Friendship.

You nod, trying to smile. Trying to be casual about it. But something in you recoils—a quiet sting blooming behind your ribs. You know he didn’t mean it to hurt. It’s just… you don’t see him as just your friend. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

He watches you too closely.

“What was that look?” he asks, his voice light but his eyes searching.

“Look?” you echo, too fast.

“That face you just made.”

You shake your head, laugh too breezy. “What face? You’re imagining things.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t believe you. You know it. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like one of his patient charts. “You always make that face when you’re hiding something.”

“I do not,” you say, nudging his shoulder.

He said it so simply—you’re important to me—but the words sank too deeply, too quickly, before you’re ready.

You smile, or at least you try to. But something flickers in your expression that you don’t quite manage to catch in time.

Zayne’s gaze shifts to you, a subtle narrowing of his eyes, like he’s tracking a rhythm he can’t quite place. His brow furrows slightly, not in frustration, but in that quiet, analytical way of his—like he’s trying to feel around the edges of something unsaid.

“Are you really okay?” he asks, carefully.

You’re already retreating a little—not physically, not yet, but your tone softens into something too easy, too airy. “Yeah,” you murmur, giving him a light nudge with your shoulder. “I’m fine. Just—remembering stuff. You got all nostalgic, now I’m catching it.”

You even add a soft laugh, hoping it’ll smooth things over. “Let’s not get too sappy out here. Next thing you know you’ll be reciting poetry under the stars.”

But he doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you. That Zayne kind of look—steady and impossibly quiet, like he’s listening for something even you haven’t said yet. Like he’s searching for the truth under the words you keep hiding behind.

And then his eyes shift—lowering slightly, flicking to your mouth for a second too long.

Your heart trips. He blinks once, slow. “You’re not fine,” he says, not accusing—just certain. “You got quiet all of a sudden.”

You try to deflect again, soft and smiling. “Maybe I’m just cold,” you tease. “Your jacket’s warm, but your vibe is kind of serious tonight.”

But Zayne… doesn’t let it go. He holds your gaze like he’s bracing for something. And then there’s a subtle change. The breath he takes is deeper, steadier. His hand flexes slightly on the edge of the hood. And something in his expression shifts.

Not tentative. Not unsure. Deciding. He leans in just the slightest bit, and your body stills.

“I’m going to ask something,” he says, barely above a whisper, “and if I’m wrong—forget I did.”

You don’t even have time to respond. Because the next second, he does something you never expected Zayne—your Zayne—to do without hesitation.

He kisses you. No warning. No lead-up. Just the press of his mouth to yours, sure and sudden and real, catching you halfway between breath and thought. It’s not rough, but there’s urgency in it—like the kind of leap you take when you’ve been holding something in for too long and finally can’t anymore.

Your eyes fly open in the shock of it, then flutter shut just as fast, all the air pulled from your lungs like he reached right in and stole it.

His hand hovers just beside your hand, not touching, not trapping you—but there, like he’s still waiting to know if he read this wrong.

But you’re not pulling away. You can’t. Because everything you’ve been quietly, hopelessly feeling for him just caught fire in your chest—and now it’s on your lips, too.

You don’t even know how long the kiss lasts. It might be seconds. Might be a lifetime. All you’re sure of is that the world has fallen away, and you are kissing Zayne.

Zayne.

And he kissed you first. The realization hits like a wave, crashing through the calm you’d clung to only moments ago. Your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, barely coherent under the thunder of your heartbeat. You hadn’t prepared for this—not tonight, not like this—but the warmth of his mouth on yours is impossible to mistake. Real. Solid. Undeniable. His lips are soft, slightly hesitant at first, like even now he’s holding back some part of himself—but there’s tension there too, coiled beneath the surface, aching to break free.

You kiss him back before your mind catches up, instinct guiding you when logic stutters and stalls. And the moment you do—God—everything changes.

He exhales against you, a sound low in his chest, and then his hands rise. One touches your cheek first, tentative, almost reverent, and then the other follows—both cradling your face with the kind of care that makes your knees threaten to give out. His thumbs graze the edges of your jaw, tilting your head just slightly to meet him better, deeper. The angle shifts. The kiss settles. And everything else ceases to matter.

There is no hilltop. No city lights. No past, no future. Just the aching heat between you, and the way he kisses like he’s been waiting to know how it feels.

Your heart is thrumming in your chest, in your throat, behind your eyes. You can’t hear anything above it, can’t think past the taste of him and the feel of his breath against your skin. He smells like night air and something clean and comforting that’s always lingered on his shirts when you’ve leaned too close without meaning to. But now you’re not pretending anymore. Now, you’re here—kissing him like you mean it.

And he’s letting you. But just when you think you might drown in it—when your fingers twitch against the edge of his jacket, wanting to pull him closer—he pulls back. Only just.

His breath is uneven, his mouth parted as he blinks down at you, hazel eyes wide with something unspoken. His gaze sweeps over your face, searching—maybe for regret, maybe for reassurance. He lingers on your lips, on the soft, stunned parting of them. And when you unconsciously bite your lower lip—barely, just a flick of teeth—he exhales like someone knocked the wind clean out of him.

His forehead leans into yours, resting there, skin to skin, breath to breath. Neither of you speaks. You don’t have to. Because in the space between your shared breath, in the way his thumbs still brush along your jaw, in the silence that stretches around you like a held chord—you both know. You crossed a line. And neither of you is sorry. Not even close.

You breathe in the nearness of him, your lashes fluttering against the warmth of his cheek, and something settles in your chest—fierce and fragile all at once.

You will never forget the way this moment feels. And thank God for that. Because it felt so good.

[thebestsetter]

Undressed

Synopsis: Break ups are tough. The ones with the one you swore you'd spend your whole life are even harder. He'll never get over you, he's sure of it. How could he, when everywhere he looks, you're there?

Characters: Rin Itoshi, Oliver Aiku, Michael Kaiser, Sae Itoshi

TW: The word fuck sometimes, OOC characters 😟

A/N: This is obviously inspired by Sombr's song "Undressed". Y'all should totally listen to it.

A/N²: THEBESTSETTER'S WRITING COMEBACK???

I don't wanna get undressed for a new person all over again

Rin Itoshi has never had an easy time opening up to other people.

Ever since he was a kid, talking about his feelings and thoughts never came as easily to him as it did to others. Feelings were... well, complicated. The only one who could make him come out of his little shell was Sae Itoshi, his older brother. The one who promised to always be by Rin's side. The one who he looked up to. The one who comforted him and gave him free popsickles.

The one who betrayed him. The one who felt disgusted by Rin. The one Rin wanted to crush and destroy.

And also the one who broke Rin. Who made him cry countless times, wondering just what was wrong with him.

After that fateful night, Rin never opened up to anyone again. Why bother? If even his own brother abandoned him, others would too, right? People come and go, so what's the point in being an open book? They're gonna leave anyways, he's clearly destined to be alone (And he's okay with it, really.)

Or perhaps not, cause somebody else managed to break through the walls he oh so carefully built up. You managed to.

Talking to you was easy. He didn't felt like he was forced to speak, it just came naturally. It was as if his own body wanted to open up to you, to have a shoulder to cry on - or maybe it was just the effect you had on him, he'll never really know.

He told you everything. He talked to you about the ugliest parts of him, the ones he tried so hard to hide. He told you about Sae and how the whole situation regarding both of them made him feel. He felt vulnerable enough to cry in front of you, multiple times.

He still remembers your arms around him, the embrace strong, yet so gentle. It was clear you cared for him. Scratch that, you told him you loved him, more than once. And he loved you back. So, so much.

That's why he doesn't understand what went wrong. Why he's here and you're there. Why he's alone again.

"...Rin?"

Well, not exactly alone.

Don't get him wrong, his new girlfriend is good. Great even. She's pretty, the media loves her and her cooking is very good.

There's just one problem.

She isn't you.

"Is everything alright?"

His shoulders are shaking as he lies with her in their shared bed, his back facing her while he looks at the wall as if it was the most interesting thing in the room.

"Mhm" He nods, trying to calm down. His breath is unstable, even if he tries to hide it.

"You're shaking. You sure you're alright?"

The feeling of her hand going up and down his back, clearly trying to calm him down, does nothing to help. Actually, it only makes things worse: he feels disgusted by it. Her touch feels so, so wrong. It feels forced. Out of place. Strange.

He brushes her hand off like it physically burns with a little more force than normal. He realized it was too much though, so he tried to play it cool.

"Sorry" he says, finally finding his voice again "I'm fine, really. You should sleep now... Love"

He almost spits the word, like it's acid going through his mouth. The stinging sensation in his lips after saying it makes his head start reeling and his heart beat faster.

"Rin, you know you can always talk to me when something's wrong, right? I'm your girlfriend, sweetie. You need to trust me for this relationship to work"

Trust? He trusted too many people already. Sae. You.

And, suddenly, the earning becomes hatred. For a split second, he holds the pillow tighter, the longing he felt for you quickly replaced by pure anger.

You promised him. You told him you'd never leave him. And the worst part is that he believed you. He wanted to believe.

He really should talk to her. She's waiting for an answer, staring at him in silence. She stares at him like the kids used to do when he was little: like his feeling were too confusing to understand. Like he was too much.

You never once looked at him like that. You looked at him with understanding in your eyes. With care and patience.

The anger turns into tears. One by one, they begin to spill from his eyes as he hiccups into his pillow. It's as if the ghost of your hands is right there, wiping away his tears.

"Talk to me, Rin" she says - no, she pleads.

But he can't. Even though he knows he should, his mind doesn't want to. He opens and closes his mouth, trying to find the right words to say, but finds none. His body physically holds him back from talking to her the way it used to do with you.

"...I can't"

He'll never be able to open up to another person, as long as the ghost of you still haunts him. He doesn't want to.

I don't wanna kiss someone else's neck and have to pretend it's yours instead

This wasn't supposed to happen.

He wasn't supposed to get attached.

It was meant to be an one stand, a quick "fuck and go" to help him get his mind off of the current... situation he was facing.

But Aiku couldn't help it: she just looked too much like you.

Her hair, her face, hell even her name sounded like yours - which really helped him cover his slip ups (moaning your name instead of hers) many times.

When they were sleeping together, she put her cold feet under his legs to warm them up just like you used to do. Her favorite series are the same as yours. Her style looks liked yours. She was almost you.

Almost. She wasn't you.

But if Aiku closed his eyes really tight, he could pretend it was you.

He knew he looked crazy, but he just couldn't stop it.

When he gifted her the perfume you used, he brushed it off as a coincidence. Many girls wear that fragrance, so it's not a big deal, really. When he "accidentally" bought her VIP tickets to that rock band you liked - the one he refused to go with you many times, claiming he was "busy" - even though he knew she doesn't like rock, he just shrugged and said he liked the band - he doesn't know a single song beside your favorite one. When he kisses her neck, he needs to pretend it's you, or else he physically can't be affectionate with her. He closes his eyes and inhales your her cologne, smiling to himself as he mutters your name.

"Aiku?" She asks, turning to look directly at him "Who's that?"

And that's when he realized: she was not you. Because her eyes were nothing like yours.

He misses them. Your eyes, I mean: the way the colors in your iris danced, inviting him in and making him grow an inexplicable need to kiss you till you're both a breathing mess of love and earn.

That's why he knows he should stop.

He really should.

"What do you mean? I said your name"

There's not an ounce of doubt in his voice when he talks to her, as if they've had this conversation hundreds of times already.

"...okay then"

And when she turns and he can't see her face - her eyes - anymore, he automatically goes back to pretending it's you again.

So you have to understand, he couldn't let go of her. Cause then he'd have to get over you, and he's not sure if he's ready to.

I look across the tracks and see you with another

There's nothing worse than seeing your lover moving on while you still suffer

Kaiser feels sick to his fucking stomach.

What the actual fuck is happening just in front of him? Why are you at your cafeteria with a lowlife? Your cafeteria. Yours and Kaiser's. The one you had your first date in. The one where he asked you to be his girlfriend.

He's gonna throw up.

Why are you with that bastard? He looks like a fucking dog that hasn't taken a bath in weeks - no, months. He's so much better than that idiot in front of you right now. He knows it. And he's sure you know it too.

So why are you smiling so hard?

How can you be smiling so hard without him, when he's never gotten over you? When he still earns for you, still goes through your old photos on his phone. When he still calls you just to listen to your voice on the voicemail.

How can you move on while he's still suffering? And how can you look so pretty while doing it.?

It's unfair. He's been on dates after your break up, sure, but never managed to find anyone even close to your level. That's why he doesn't know how you managed to.

Kaiser knows he's pathetic. He though those lovesick fools from the movies you forced him to watch were ridiculous - until it was him in their position.

He rejects every girl that even tries to talk to him. The scented candles - the ones that have your scent - are always lit. He checks your social media like it's a ritual.

He even cries himself to sleep sometimes, trying to figure out just what went wrong. Why he's so easy to abandon. Why no relationship ever works for him.

"Mich... Kaiser" He hears someone call.

It's you. Hand in hand with your new... Lover.

He can't help the disgusted expression that appears in his face.

"...hey" It's so weak, so low, so unlike him that even you seem surprised

"What are you doing here?"

I was looking for you, hoping to see you here. Alone. Looking for me, too

"Ah, just passing by. The coffe here is the best, you know."

It's not a question, it's an affirmation. He knows you know. You told him yourself that they serve your favorite coffe.

"Yeah, I know" an uncomfortable silence settled, but Kaiser didn't even oay attention. His eyes were focused on your hands, intertwined with that guy's. "So..." You start, looking at him. Oh, how he missed your eyes.

But not like that. You're looking at him with indifference, not with the loved you used to. "How's life going?"

"Amazing" Bullshit "I'm seeing someone" it's the most absurd lie he's ever said.

"Really? That's great!" No. You're not supposed to be happy. That would mean you...

"I'm glad you also managed to move on" Also? "You know I still care for you, right?"

He's gonna cry.

"Y-yeah" How many times has the mighty Michael Kaiser stuttered?

"You should call me" he's blocked.

You seem to remember it, since you blush and look to the side. His face softens when he sees this. You really haven't changed. At least, not completely. "I'm gonna unblock you, don't worry"

Oh, how long has he earned to hear those words? But not like this. Whatever this is, it isn't what he wanted.

"Sure" he puts his cold and alone hands inside the pockets of his jacket, pretending it's you holding them. "I need to go, now. She's waiting for me at home"

There's no one at his house - he can't call it home anymore. Home is wherever you are.

"Yeah, sure. Goodbye, Kaiser"

"Goodbye"

He begins walking away, his eyes glossy and the air around his face filled with the puffs from his heavy breathing.

"Oh, I almost forgot"

He looks at you again, locking eyes. He takes in your whole body, almost as if it's the last time he'll ever see you: and it might be.

"Take care of youself, Micha."

It seems his pillow will wake up wet again.

I don't want the children of another man to have the eyes of the girl I won't forget

Sae changed.

Spain changed him. Life changed him. Football changed him.

Whatever was going between you both before he travelled was over. He made it very clear that day, when he broke up with you on a snowy day.

He knew he needed to do it. He needed to if he wanted to he the best midfielder in the world.

He also told you to not wait for him, even though you told him you would. He wasn't selfish enough. He knew you deserved to be happy.

And even though he said you shouldn't wait, he still held hope. Hope that you had waited for him, just like you said you would.

That's how he finds himself in Japan again after almost 5 years, strolling through the park where you spent your whole childhood playing together, searching for you.

Everywhere he looks, there's a piece of you. The swings you both ate ice cream in. The sand box where you'd play with Rin. The bench where he confessed his love for you. The olive tree where you first met. The...

"Daddy, look! It's Sae Itoshi, from Real Madrid!"

He snaps out of his daydream when a highpitched voice breaks him out of it.

"It's really him, daddy!"

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Yes! Yes! 100% sure!"

"Okay then, go talk to him"

He looks to his right and sees a little girl running up to him a smile on her face and her arms open wide. Her dad is behind her, recording the whole thing while smiling.

"Hello" he says, ruffling her hair a little. He doesn't really like paparazzi, but he really likes his kid fans. Only when they're not spoiled, though "What's your name, little one?"

"I'm Hannah!" She says, still hugging his legs "And I'm your biggest fan!"

He smiles a little

"Well then, 'biggest Sae fan'" he hears her dad say, laughing and coming closer "Why don't you let him go now so you can take a picture together?"

She reluctantly lets go, still not able to contain her smile. When the photo is taken, Sae crouched down to her height to say goodbye, like he always does with kids.

Except it's not the same. The words die in his lips.

Because he recognizes that look. Those eyes.

They're exactly like yours. Even the sparkle in them is the same.

He's suddenly brought back to the thoughts of you. The way you looked at him when he declared his love. The way your eyes sparkled when he won one of the most important championships of the town with his silly school football team. Hell, he even remembered the way your eyes filled with tears when he broke up with you that day.

All because of that little girl.

It can't be... can it?

"Hey, man" he hears the girl's dad say, which makes him quickly rise up again (without really saying anything to the girl. He got too distracted)

"Yes?"

"Could you give a shout out to my wife? She really likes soccer, so I'm sure she knows you"

Oh God.

"Sure. What's her name?"

Please don't say her name please don't say her name please don't say her name please don't...

"Sure. It's..."

He tunes everything down the moment the name began to form itself in the man's lips. Maybe if Sae didn't hear it, it wouldn't be truth.

Yeah, maybe.

But it wouldn't. The truth was simple: you moved on. And the proof was there, right in front of him, smiling without a care in the world.

"So, think you can do it? The video, I mean"

Those kid's eyes will haunt him forever. He's sure of it.

"...yeah. I'll do it"

[fic-girlie]

Can I request one for reader asking Joel for a baby? Like, sheepishly, timidly asking him, uncertain how he's gonna react after all he's been through? (Hopefully he says yes??)

Where it begins

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: You ask Joel for a baby—and together, you begin again in quiet, tender hope. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, family talk, soft smut, trying for a baby

It had been on your mind for weeks now—quiet, persistent, a whisper tucked into the edges of your days. Not loud, not urgent. Just… there. The thought of a child. Of his child. It settled into moments when you least expected it: the way your eyes lingered on him across the table, how your chest ached watching him cradle Benji with that rare gentleness only Joel could carry, the quiet stretch of mornings where you stayed curled against him just a little longer. You weren’t even sure when the wanting had started. Maybe it had always been there, buried under gratitude and survival, waiting for a moment like this—when life had finally grown soft enough to let it bloom. But asking? Saying it out loud? That was something else entirely. Because Joel had lived through too much loss, and love didn’t come easy to him, not even now. You weren’t afraid of him. But you were afraid of the weight your question might carry.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows across the wooden walls of your home. It was late—later than you usually stayed up—and Joel had already kicked off his boots, sunk into the old couch with the same quiet sigh he always gave when his body finally gave in for the night. One arm rested along the back of the cushions, the other slung lazily over his stomach, his eyes soft and half-lidded from the firelight and fatigue. You’d already joined him once, curling beside him, your fingers brushing idly over the worn fabric of his shirt, taking comfort in his warmth, his presence. He hadn’t said much. Just kissed the top of your head and let the silence sit between you like a familiar friend. Joel didn’t need to speak to make you feel safe. He never had. But that didn’t make the words burning at the back of your throat any easier to say.

You stayed like that for a long time, heart thudding quietly against his side. You weren’t even sure what was stopping you. You weren’t scared of Joel. Not really. But this—this was different. This was a question that carried weight. That might change the shape of everything between you. You didn’t want to ask like you were testing him, or like it would break you if he said no. You just wanted to ask because… you needed to know. Needed to say it out loud and see how it landed. You traced the stitching on his flannel shirt with the tip of your finger, trying to calm the jittery flutter in your stomach, and your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost unsure.

“Joel?” you said, just barely above a whisper.

“Mhm?” His voice rumbled low in his chest, lazy and gentle. You could feel it against your cheek.

You sat up just slightly, just enough to look at him—really look at him. He turned his head to meet your gaze, eyes soft, brows raised just a little like he could already sense there was something on your mind. Something real.

You hesitated.

And then, without letting yourself overthink it again, you said it.

“Have you ever thought about having another kid?”

The words hung there between you, trembling, delicate. You felt them leave your mouth like a confession, felt the weight of them fill the silence like smoke. Joel didn’t answer right away, and your stomach twisted, your heart suddenly thudding against your ribs with a frantic kind of guilt. You started to backpedal before he could even open his mouth.

“I mean—not that we have to. Or that I’m saying we should. I just— I’ve been thinking about it lately, and I didn’t want to keep it from you, but if it’s too much or��”

“Hey,” he said, quiet but firm. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and calloused, grounding you instantly. “Slow down.”

You blinked at him, your breath hitching. He looked at you like he always did when something mattered. Like he was trying to see every part of what you weren’t saying.

“You’re not upset?” you asked, voice small.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not upset.”

You watched the way his jaw worked as he looked at you—how his eyes darted away, just for a second, before they came back. You could see the past moving behind his eyes. Not like a wall. Not anymore. But like a scar. Something that lived with him, always. Sarah. The years of loss and rage and ruin. The life he never thought he’d get again. And now this—this life with you in Jackson, where the snow fell quiet and soft outside the windows, and he could take off his boots at night without thinking of where he’d run next.

“I ain’t thought about it in a long time,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Didn’t think I’d ever get the chance again. Wasn’t even sure I should.”

You waited, breath caught in your chest.

“But then you came along,” he added, quieter now. “And every damn day since, I’ve started thinkin’ more and more about what it means to stay. To build somethin’. Not just survive it.”

Your eyes welled before you could stop them. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You’re sure?” you whispered, still not quite trusting your voice. “After everything… you’d want that again?”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to yours, and let out a shaky breath.

“I’d want it with you,” he said, soft and certain. “Only with you.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and your hands found his. He pulled you into his lap without a word, cradling you like you were something fragile and precious. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped around each other in the quiet. His hands settled over your lower back like he was memorizing the weight of this decision, the gravity of your body against his.

“You’d be a good dad again,” you whispered against his neck.

His arms tightened.

“I’d try like hell,” he said, voice breaking just a little. “I’d give that baby every part of me I didn’t know I still had.”

And somehow, you knew he meant it.

You knew you’d never have to ask again.

——

Joel didn’t say anything else that night—not right away. He didn’t need to. You saw the answer in the way his arms folded around you, in the way his chest rose and fell a little deeper as you tucked yourself against him again, the silence wrapping around you both like something sacred. When you woke the next morning, he was already making breakfast. One hand on the skillet, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’d spent all night thinking. And when he looked up and caught your sleepy gaze from the doorway, he said, “We’ll talk about it. Tonight. After dinner.”

He didn’t run from it. That alone told you everything.

You didn’t plan it—not exactly. That wasn’t Joel’s way, and it wasn’t yours either. Life out here wasn’t about calendars and ovulation charts. It was snowstorms and ration counts, shared patrols and quiet meals. It was real. And when it came to something this tender—this monumental—it felt right to let it begin slowly. Organically. Joel had said yes without ever needing to say the word. In the days that followed, it lived in the way he touched you, his hands lingering longer at your hips when you passed behind him in the kitchen. The way he pressed soft kisses into your neck at night, his body warm and solid behind yours in bed, the weight of him so grounding it made you ache. The way he looked at you like he was letting himself hope—really hope—for the first time in years.

The first time you tried, it didn’t feel like trying at all.

It happened late one evening, the two of you curled in bed after a long day. Snow had fallen heavy outside, and you’d spent the better part of the afternoon helping Maria with sorting winter clothes for the kids in town. Joel had returned from patrol smelling like pine and cold air, his cheeks pink from the wind. You’d kissed him when he walked in, and he’d murmured something about the way your hands felt warm against his skin.

Now, you lay facing him beneath the heavy quilt, your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. His eyes were already on you, soft and unreadable in the amber flicker of the bedside lamp. There was something there in his gaze you hadn’t seen before—not nerves, not exactly. But something like reverence. Like he already understood what this could mean, and it was already making him a little undone.

You kissed him first.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The kind of kiss that made time feel like it didn’t exist, the kind that deepened by degrees until you were both breathless, his hands cupping your jaw, your thighs parting beneath the slide of his body. You felt his restraint first—the almost hesitant care he used, like he didn’t want to push too far, like he didn’t want to break this moment before it had even begun.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rasped, his lips brushing your cheekbone.

You nodded, tugging gently at his shirt until he took the hint and shed it, baring the warm, solid plane of his chest to the cool air. Your palms pressed there like you were holding something holy.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay. Are you?”

He kissed you then—not just an answer, but a promise.

Joel made love to you like he was memorizing the shape of this new future. He was unhurried, reverent, his hands everywhere—your hips, your back, the curve of your waist like he could anchor you both with nothing more than his touch. He whispered things he didn’t usually say, soft gruff words like “so beautiful,” and “I’ve got you,” and “you’re mine, sweetheart.” And when he finally pressed into you, he held your face in both hands and kept his eyes on you, chest heaving like he could barely breathe around the weight of it.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deep, slow, and overwhelming in a way that had nothing to do with speed or heat. You felt the full truth of it in every thrust, every sound he let slip when your nails dug into his shoulders, every broken gasp when you whispered, “It’s okay, Joel. I want this too.”

Afterward, he didn’t roll away or pull back. He stayed right there, wrapped around you, his nose buried in your hair and his arm strong across your belly. You both lay in silence, breathing the same air, your limbs tangled beneath the blankets. His heartbeat felt steady against your spine, slower than usual. Peaceful.

“You think it’ll happen right away?” you asked softly.

He exhaled a short laugh, low and warm. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” A pause. “But I want it to. With you.”

You smiled, eyes closed. “Me too.”

And so it began.

You didn’t talk about it constantly. You didn’t need to. It wove itself quietly into the rhythm of your life. Joel would sometimes wrap a protective hand over your stomach as you drifted off to sleep, or press an absent kiss to the inside of your wrist after dinner, like the act of trying had opened something in him he couldn’t quite put into words. There were nights where you reached for each other out of nothing but need—hot, slow, breathless—and nights where he buried his face in your neck and moved inside you with aching gentleness, like he was holding something fragile between you both. Sometimes it was laughter, sometimes it was tears. But it was always real.

One morning, after a late start, you stood in the doorway watching Joel tie his boots before patrol. He looked up, caught the small smile on your lips, and raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

You shrugged, heart full. “Just like seeing you.”

He huffed, rose from the bench, and walked over to kiss you, rough palm cupping your jaw.

“Get used to it, darlin’,” he murmured against your skin. “Ain’t going anywhere.”

And neither was this dream.

[gojoethereal]

˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊ Not Yours ˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader x Geto Suguru (Satosugu x Reader) Tags: possessive satoru, possessive suguru, touchy satoru, protective suguru, jealous boys, fluff, soft dominance, light angst (brief), comfort, established relationship, canon divergence

You can feel them before you even see them.

Gojo’s hand never really leaves your waist the entire night—he's practically molded to your side, fingers gliding over the curve of your hip with a touch that's all casual arrogance and quiet obsession. Suguru, on the other hand, is subtler. He doesn’t cling, but he watches. Like a shadow in silk, eyes on you even when he’s mid-conversation with Nanami. The kind of attention that heats your skin.

“Can’t believe we’re letting you out of our sight,” Gojo mutters, pouting dramatically as you tell them you need to use the restroom.

“You’ll survive for five minutes,” you say with a small laugh, kissing Suguru’s cheek, then Satoru’s jaw.

Suguru tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your skin just a moment longer than necessary. “Come right back, yeah?”

You should have known better than to wear that dress.

It hugs all the wrong places—or maybe all the right ones—and you feel eyes trailing after you as you make your way back from the bathroom.

That’s when it happens.

He’s tall, dressed in some designer suit, probably drunk on something expensive. He steps in your path with a too-easy smile, all charm and confidence.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you around before,” he says, eyes raking over you. “You here alone?”

You barely get a word in before a shadow sweeps behind you.

“No,” a low voice cuts in, smooth but dangerous.

Suguru.

He steps forward, slotting himself beside you, hand grazing the small of your back—gentle, but claiming.

“She’s not,” Gojo adds a beat later, appearing on your other side like a ghost. One arm slides around your waist as he leans down, voice a lazy murmur right against your ear. “You were gone for two minutes, babe. We got worried.”

His tone is airy, but you can feel the tension coiled beneath it.

The guy’s smile falters. “Didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t,” Suguru replies evenly, though his arm is now firmly around your shoulders. “That’s the problem.”

Gojo’s fingers are splayed across your waist, warm and firm. Possessive. He chuckles, leaning into you like he’s telling a joke. “It’s cute you thought she was alone though. She’s never alone.”

There’s a quiet sort of menace in his words that even a civilian can pick up on.

The guy mumbles an apology and walks off with a little too much speed.

You let out a slow breath.

Suguru’s fingers brush your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod. “He didn’t do anything. Just said hi.”

Gojo doesn’t say anything at first—he just hugs you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. “Still don’t like anyone looking at you like that.”

“He didn’t even touch me,” you say softly.

“That’s the issue,” Suguru murmurs. “He wanted to.”

You blink at him.

“You’re ours,” Gojo says, lips brushing your ear now. “Only ours. Yeah?”

You nod, throat a little tight, heart fluttering under their touch.

“Come on,” Suguru murmurs, hand sliding down your back as he gently steers you toward the group. “Stay between us.”

Gojo’s hand never leaves your waist the rest of the night. Suguru’s shoulder is pressed to yours, a steady presence. Every brush of their fingers feels like a promise: no one touches what’s ours.

And you don’t mind one bit.

The moment the front door closes behind you, the air shifts.

Suguru is the first to speak, voice low and calm like silk stretched tight. “That guy…” he says as he unbuttons his coat, “was lucky we were feeling merciful tonight.”

Gojo leans against the wall, arms crossed, still wearing his sunglasses even in the dim lighting of your apartment. “Merciful? You mean you were. I was two seconds away from breaking his jaw.”

“You were two seconds away from causing a scene,” Suguru corrects, dropping his coat over the back of the couch before looking at you—softly, sharply. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, setting your clutch down on the coffee table, your voice a little hoarse. “He barely even said anything.”

“That’s all it takes,” Satoru says, pushing off the wall and coming toward you. His fingers are already at your waist again, right where they belong. “Some prick looking at you like he deserves your attention.”

“You’re ours,” Suguru says again, more firmly this time, stepping behind you.

Satoru leans in, nose brushing your temple. “Do you have any idea what you look like in that dress?”

“I wore it for you,” you murmur.

That earns a low hum from both of them.

Suguru wraps his arms around you from behind, his breath warm against your neck. “And you looked beautiful. But the way he looked at you…”

“...made me want to take you home and remind you,” Satoru finishes, tipping your chin up with two fingers.

“Remind me?” you whisper, already breathless.

“That you’re ours, baby,” Gojo says, kissing you slow and deep, like he’s been holding back all night.

Suguru pulls the zipper of your dress down carefully, reverently, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. “No one else gets this,” he murmurs against your skin. “Only us.”

The dress pools at your feet, and you feel them—hands and mouths and breath—all over you, like they’re painting ownership with every touch.

“You belong with us,” Suguru says as he guides you onto the bed.

“You belong to us,” Gojo adds, voice low and desperate.

And you do.

Every kiss, every whisper, every possessive touch is a reminder—not that you’re trapped, but that you’re wanted. Loved in a way that’s just a little selfish, a little obsessive, and completely intoxicating.

[verstappenverse]

Still In The Race

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After a disastrous penalty in Spain, Max comes home expecting anger, but finds comfort instead.

Author's Note: The championship may be hanging by a mathematical thread, but the last shred of hopium lives on. But for real this was just a bit of fun to decompress after that race... onward to Canada.

1k words / Masterlist

The front door slams harder than it needs to.

You hear the tell-tale thud of Max’s duffel bag being dropped unceremoniously by the entryway and the low scrape of his shoes kicking against the mat. No words, no greetings yet. Just tension radiating from the hallway like a storm cloud dragged in behind him.

You stay curled on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, laptop open but forgotten as you listen to him move. Cupboards open. Close. The fridge hums before the sound of a water bottle clattering to the counter breaks the silence.

Then finally, finally, you hear him sigh.

You wait.

And when he steps into the living room, face still tight with frustration and disappointment, you offer him a soft smile. “Hey.”

Max blinks at you. He looks like he expected war. Or at the very least, disappointment.

Instead, you pat the couch. “Come here.”

He hesitates.

Still wearing his hoodie creased from the long flight and jeans that haven’t been changed since he left the paddock, Max runs a hand over his face. There’s stubble along his jaw, and bags under his eyes that even his usual post-race adrenaline couldn’t burn off this time.

He doesn't say anything as he sinks down beside you.

You wait again.

And then, quietly, “So… tenth.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, head falling back against the cushions. “Fucking joke.”

You scoot closer. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” he snaps, too quickly. Then sighs again, softer. “Yes. I don’t know.”

You reach for his hand and thread your fingers through his. His thumb brushes your skin absentmindedly, something he always does when he’s overwhelmed. A grounding habit.

He swallows. “They screwed the strategy, you know that?”

You nod.

“Hards? Hards! I honestly can't wrap my head around what they thinking. Left me out like a goddamn sitting duck on those tires and then—” He breaks off, jaw clenched. “Of course the car snaps. What the hell did they expect? Of course it did.”

You stay quiet, letting him vent.

“First I'm avoiding Charles, and then I'm ran off the road at turn one. It was my position, I had every right to pass, and they ask me to give the place back? Fucking ridiculous, honestly.”

You bite your lip to suppress the smile threatening to form. Not at his pain, never at that, but at the sheer intensity with which he’s reliving it. He’s fuming. A tightly wound coil of rage and injustice. But God, it’s almost endearing how passionate he is.

Max notices your expression. “You think it’s funny?”

“A little,” you admit, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I'm sorry I know I shouldn't laugh, but the way you radioed in, the reaction, was kind of iconic.”

That earns a soft laugh. Barely there, but it’s something.

“You’re not mad?”

“For what? For you being right?” You tilt your face up toward him. “No, Max. What's not funny was what the team did to you today, they panicked and screwed you over and you reacted. You were frustrated. Fair enough, anyone would be.”

He studies you. “I thought you’d say that I should’ve kept it together.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But you’re not a robot. You’re human and no one got hurt. Look in the long run it may not have been your smartest move, but what's done is done, and I’d be more concerned if you weren’t pissed off about a good race going up in flames because of someone else’s mistake." You squeeze his hand. “You know I’ll always stand by you.”

He turns his face away, jaw tightening. “It might be done, you know. The championship.”

“It might be,” you agree, because false optimism doesn’t help him. “But crazier things have happened. And there’s still time. You never know what's coming”

Max exhales. “It just feels like no matter what I do the universe is handing it to them on a silver platter”

You smile gently. “You know better than anyone titles aren’t handed over. They’re won. And lost. And sometimes snatched back in the final laps of the final race.”

His hand tightens around yours.

“Besides,” you continue, “even if this season doesn’t go the way you want, look at everything you’ve achieved already. You’re still Max. You’re still one of the greatest to ever do it.”

He meets your gaze finally. There’s something raw in his eyes. Tired. Hunted.

“I just hate when it feels like no one listens to me,” he mutters. “Like I’m screaming into the void.”

You squeeze his hand. “I always hear you.”

That undoes him more than anything else. The way his shoulders drop, the tension bleeding out of him slowly, like you’ve pressed a release valve on a week’s worth of chaos.

He tips forward, head bowed, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I was so angry,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I want to win.”

“I know that too.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then more vulnerable than he would ever admit to anyone else, “I felt like I let everyone down.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t. You fought like hell. Hey, even with shit tires, the penalty, strategy against you, technically you still finished in the points.”

Max huffs. “Tenth.”

“Still in the race.”

He groans at the pun, and you laugh.

“Sorry. Too soon?”

He lifts his head just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. “A little. But I’ll allow it.”

You stroke his arm gently, letting the silence return in a more peaceful form. Max melts against you eventually, resting his head in your lap, his hand still wrapped in yours. The tension in his body finally dissipates, replaced by exhaustion and something heavier, grief for what might have been.

You run your fingers through his hair. “Want to know what I really thought when I saw the crash?”

He hums in response, and you nudge him playfully.

“I thought, that’s going to be a great highlight reel moment when he wins the championship.”

Max opens one eye. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’ll be part of the drama arc. The moment everyone thought you were done. Classic setup for a comeback.”

He smirks. “You think I’m still in it?”

“I think the championship doesn’t deserve to be over until you say it is.”

He shifts, curling in closer, your calm anchoring him.

“You’re really not mad at me?” he mumbles one more time.

You lean down and kiss his cheek. “I love you.”

“Even when I yell at GP?”

You grin. “Especially then. Makes for great memes.”

He laughs, fully this time, because if there’s one thing stronger than his frustration or disappointment it's you, together, and with you in his corner, maybe this championship isn’t over after all.

[the-shedevil-writes]

Drunk on You (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob rarely drinks. But after losing a bet with Phoenix, he ends up downing five drinks of her choice—none of them realizing just how absurdly strong they are. Leaving you to take care of your sweet and very drunken boyfriend as he fights for his life. WORD COUNT: 3.3k WARNINGS: Drinking/Accidental Drunkenness, Cussing

MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

Friday nights were reserved for drunken pool games at The Hard Deck with Y/n’s favorite squad of pilots. But by the end of the week, she was exhausted. Work, for some reason, had been a much bigger load to bear. People were just much more forgetful, rude, and critical this week, leaving her to pick up the pieces. She just wanted to stay in, maybe watch a movie, and sleep. 

When she told her boyfriend, Bob, this over the phone, he immediately stepped in. “Do you want me to stay back with you? I know you’ve had a hard week.” He said sweetly. 

She shook her head, “No, you’re all good. If you wanna swing by after, go ahead though.” She reassured. Though she’d love to just lie in bed with Bob, and hold each other till they were fast asleep and drooling. The TV always ended up playing the ‘continue watching?’ screen.

“Okay, I shouldn’t be out too late. Might have a few drinks because I lost a bet to Phoenix.” He said, sighing. 

That made her chuckle. She was not surprised by that in the slightest. Bob wasn’t a huge drinker. He’d have a beer every once and a while and call it a night. But that just made it easier for the dagger squad to have leverage against him. 

“That’s fine. Be safe.” She said into the phone

“I always am.”

Well, it was 11 PM. She was in the middle of her millionth Friends rewatch, and she was bored out of her mind. Maybe she should’ve gone to Hard Deck. She took a handful of popcorn and shoved it in her mouth. 

Then her phone rang. Caller ID: Chicken. Obviously, her screen name for Rooster. Her brows furrowed, but she shrugged as she reached for her phone. It was probably going to be just him grumbling about how she didn’t come out and how much fun she was missing. She pressed the green answer button.

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Y/n- Uh- We’ve got a situation,” Rooster said over the speaker.

Oh god. What happened? A million different possibilities played through her mind. Did Bob get hurt? Did someone hit on him? Did he die in some freak accident? There were too many ‘situations’ that this could be. And it was only 11 PM.

“What do you mean?” She asked worriedly.

“IS THAT Y/N?” A familiar voice echoed faintly in the back… Was that?

“Bud, go- go sit in Jake’s truck.” Rooster said off to the side, “So, Phoenix brought this new daiquiri seltzer thing for Bob to drink as part of their bet. And neither of them realized it had a 70% alcohol content.” He sounded like he was wincing, as if waiting to hear her yell at him. 

“Jesus Christ! Is he okay?” She asked, more worried than anything else.

“Yeah, he only had a couple, but for a guy who barely drinks… He’s pretty gone. We were talking about having him just stay at my place, but we didn’t know if you guys had plans.” 

She immediately jumped into action, “Bring him to mine. He has a bunch of his stuff here.” She said firmly. “How’s Phoenix? Does she need anything?”

“She’s fine. She had a lot less. We’re getting Bob water, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Alrighty. Sounds good.”

She hung up the phone and started prepping for his arrival. Usually, it was the other way around. On a crazy Friday night, it was Bob taking care of her drunken mess. So even though she was tired, she wasn’t mad. It’s not like he had planned on this. 

She grabbed a bunch of plastic water bottles and put them on her bedside table. There were some extra clothes he kept in a drawer in her closet. She loved that drawer. She loved the fact that it existed. That he felt comfortable enough dating her to leave his things there.

Ibuprofen for when he was hungover the next day. Snacks for if he needed something to soak everything up. And an extra blanket for if he got the chills.

Yeah, it was safe to say that she was very experienced in being dysfunctionally drunk… Was that a problem? She dusted her hands off. Oh well, it just meant that she knew exactly how to take care of Bob, who was probably getting his world fucking rocked.

A knock on the door broke her out of her thoughts, and she ran over to open it. When she did, she found a sober Hangman and Rooster holding up a disheveled Bob. His glasses were crooked on his face, and his typically tidy hair was pushed back and standing up. A red drunken flush crossed his cheeks. She had never seen him so wrecked. 

“Hey, party animals,” She said, trying to keep the atmosphere light, letting them in. 

“Hey… Sorry to crash your night in.” Rooster said with a guilty expression. 

“Oh, it’s no problem. This is kind of an emergency.”

Meanwhile, Bob looked up at Hangman with a hazy smile. “That’s my girlfriend.” He slurred, nodding proudly. She broke into a smile.

Hangman nodded, pretending to be entertained, “Yeah, buddy. Very astute.” He dropped his smile and looked over at her, “He has not shut up about you, all freaking night.” 

She gave a smile that said ‘awww’. Poor Bob. Even in his inebriated state, he was still thinking about her. 

“Where do you want us to put him?” Rooster asked, still holding onto Bob, who looked like he was doing his best to be present… but failing. 

“Here, we’ll take him to my room.” She said, leading them in.

After they got Bob lying on the bed, she walked them to the door. The two lieutenants walked out with their tails between their legs, saying their sorrys. She tried to reassure them that it was completely fine. But they were good guys. It was clear they felt bad for crashing her night, and also probably for not reading the tiny wording on the front of the bottle.

She walked back into her bedroom to find Bob lying on top of the blankets. His cheek pressed up against the pillow, and his legs sprawled out. 

“Baby… I’m drunk.” He cried out.

That made her heart hurt. She knew he didn’t like to drink very much. That he didn’t like the feeling of it. She walked over to the bed and gently sat by his feet. Reaching out to hold his ankle. 

“I know. I can see that. Let’s get you out of this uniform and into something comfy.” Her voice was softer than normal.

He nodded, slowly blinking. She moved over to the floor and knelt by his face so she could take his glasses off. The wire frames were currently being crushed between his face and the bed. She reached out to grab the arms of it, and he sighed just looking at her.

“My god, you’re so pretty.” He slurred. His blue eyes looked up at her. Pupils huge enough that she could see her reflection in them. “Don’t- Don’t take my glasses off. I wanna see my pretty girl.”

She couldn’t help the smile that grew on her face. Taking care of Bob really wasn’t bad at all. “Thank you. But you’re crushing your glasses. The arms might get all bent.”

His eyes widened in understanding. “Oh yeah.” He said, sitting up clumsily to avoid that. His body swayed, as if he were sitting on a ship. 

She stood back up and gently took the glasses off his face. He looked up at her with his big doe eyes. After some admiring, he reached out his arms and looked up at her, as if asking for permission. She chuckled and walked in between his legs so he could wrap his arms around her waist. His face pressed up against her stomach. “I missed you. I just wanted to go home.”

She stretched over and put his glasses on the bedside table before hugging him back and scratching the back of his head. He let out a shaky exhale at that. It made her heart skip a beat that he called her house ‘home’. Or maybe it wasn’t the house. Maybe she was his home. 

“Yeah, I know. We’re gonna get you sober soon.” She reassured. She left his arms and grabbed the shirt and boxers that she had picked out and left on the dresser. Returning to him, sitting obediently on the bed, she began to unbutton his khaki shirt. 

He giggled, “I always- I always like it when you do that.” He stammered while squinting his eyes, as if he was trying to get the best view of her without his glasses. 

“I know you do. But tonight we’re just sleeping, mister.” She teased 

“That’s my favorite.” He said, happily nodding as she took off the overshirt.

“Arms up for me, baby.” She said, and he did it, letting her slip the white T-shirt underneath over his head, “You’re a very easy drunk to take care of.” She commented.

He smiled to himself as she helped him put on the old Lemoore Union High School shirt he used for pajamas. “I-I don’t wanna make your week worse.” He admitted softly.

Oh yeah. The horrible week had slipped her mind. She had told him so so many times over the phone about it in the past few days. There were a few times she’d sniffle and tear up on their phone calls, out of frustration built up. And he’d always try and be right over because that was just Bob. He never wanted to see his girl upset.

And it was clear he was worried about upsetting her right then.

“Bob, any time I spend with you is the best part of my week.” She said truthfully, “This included.” She kissed his head, and he closed his eyes, just letting himself feel the bliss for a moment.

After Bob was done changing into some fresher boxers, she had him sit up against the bed frame. She handed him a water bottle, which he accepted eagerly.

“Don’t drink too fast or you’ll throw up.” She said, “You’ve seen me do it.” 

He chuckled at that and took a slow sip of water. She crawled onto the bed and sat next to him, checking her phone and reading the group texts from Rooster and Hangman teasing everybody about the night. 

Chicken: Well, that’s the last time Phoenix ever brings a drink to the function. Jesus Christ.

Bagman: Will send all blackmail here in the morning so it hits you harder hungover. Take a shot every time Bob talks about his girlfriend in the videos.

“You are so pretty, Y/n.”

She turned her attention back to him, “You’ve said that quite a lot tonight.” She said, raising her brows. The constant repeats made her wonder what exactly he was saying to Hangman all night. 

“You should- you should be a model.” He hiccuped, “Like those girls on Hangman’s w-all.” 

The water had given him a bad case of the hiccups, but he seemed just eager to talk to her now with a little more energy.

She furrowed her brows and smirked. “Who are the girls on Hangman’s wall?”

He closed his eyes and nodded at nothing. “When we share a stateroom, he’s got these big p-osters. With- with these ladies on it.” 

She was trying to stifle her laugh as he talked with his eyes closed. 

“And they’re all in like red bikinis on the beach or- or on the American flag… I don’t think that’s allowed.” He said, sadly shaking his head, which made her laugh out loud. She couldn’t hold it in at what looked like his genuine disappointment about a violation of The Flag Code. 

He blinked his eyes open at her laugh. His favorite sound in the whole world. A bashful look went over his face. “But none of them are prettier than you.”

“You’re crazy, baby. Thank you. Maybe at some point I’ll do a photoshoot like that and print you a poster.” She offered.

His eyes practically bugged out of his head at the thought. A surprised cough came from his throat as he pointed up to the ceiling. “But I-IIIIIII wouldn’t put it on the bunk wall. That’s just for me.” He said, nodding and leaning over so he could lie in her lap. Even though the subject matter was scandalous, he wasn’t touchy. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just wanted to spend this horribly sloshed time with his girl. 

“Oh, that’s just for you?” She repeated, teasingly looking down at him, as she brushed her fingers through his hair. He looked up at her with half-lidded eyes. “How are you feeling? Are you feeling dizzy? Thirsty? Hungry?”   

He shook his head. “I feel better. I’m gonna feel bad tomorrow though.” He groaned.

She nodded, “But that’s why I’m here. I’m gonna make us breakfast, and get you lots of water and ibuprofen.” She sang softly.

The blissed smile returned to his face. “You’re an angel. A literal angel.” He reached out and held her hand. 

She squeezed his hand back. “What even happened? What was the bet?” 

He groaned again. His face crumpling up and it was simply adorable. “So, so there’s this strike we’re training for. And- and the target is like… It’s like…”

She did her best to seem attentive and listen, but she was fighting the urge to smile. Playing with his messed-up sandy blonde hair between her fingers, she found it interesting how he struggled to speak. Usually, when he explained missions to her, he was able to explain it straight to the point… Not tonight. 

“The target is like… super duper tiny. And I was like, heyyyy no problem. Nooooo problem for Bob. No, no.” He said, giggling to himself in her lap, “But Phoenix said I couldn’t do it. And I was like- that’s mean.”

“So you bet that you could do it.” She finished his story.

He nodded, “Mmmhmm, I-I bet that I could do it first try. Which was stupid. And my punishment was drinking 5 drinks of Phoenix’s choice.” 

“Why’d she choose that one?” She asked curiously

“LOOK!” He said suddenly, very loudly with his eyes shot open, which made her laugh, “Sheee thought that she was doing me a favor. She had heard that this brand tasted like juice. So it’d be easier for me, ya know.” 

She nodded, listening. It was sweet that he was still defending his pilot. Even though he was absolutely wrecked, he wasn’t angry at Phoenix. 

“And it did. It tasted like strawberry juice. Like your favorite. But the percentage was so high.” Bob whined, “Per can.” 

“70% per CAN? These were canned drinks?” She groaned

He nodded, clearly regretting. “Not fun. Not fun at all.”

After a little bit of just talking, he started drifting off on her lap. She gently moved him off of her, just so she could lie down next to him. He grumbled, but he was too exhausted and dizzy to protest. She tucked him in under the blanket and turned off the bedside lamp. 

When she shifted onto her side, she felt Bob scooch over and wrap his arms around her. He squeezed her against him like a teddy bear, looking for comfort. She sighed, relaxed, and smiled to herself. She did a good job. He’s gonna be just fine.

The next morning, Bob woke up with a loud groan. His head felt like it was being split open with an axe. Sitting up, he looked around dazed and blind for a second before remembering that he was in his girlfriend’s bedroom. He reached for his glasses on the bedside table, putting them on. 

He found a sticky note next to a water bottle and painkillers, 

‘Picking up eggs for breakfast. Drink the water and ibuprofen… Don’t throw up in bed, please :)’ 

He did so. He chugged the water and threw back the pills now that his stomach wasn’t as sensitive. A queasy feeling took over him, but he was used to it. He flew jets after all, so nausea didn’t often get him to throw up. After some deep breaths, the feeling subsided.

After that, he checked his phone to see that the group chat had blown up. 

The most recent messages were from 2 AM, and it was a picture of Phoenix passed out on Rooster’s couch. A blanket draped over her as her mouth hung open with a little drool on her chin.

Rooster: Get this woman her car keys.

A groan mixed with a laugh escaped him right as Y/n walked in. 

“Morning, baby. How’s the hangover?” 

God, he was so glad to see her. He was so happy to be in his girlfriend’s room, and not on Rooster’s couch.

“Bad. So bad.” He sighed, rubbing his face.

“You feeling good enough to eat? I’m gonna just make some quick eggs and toast.”

With a tired nod, he got out of bed. He walked over to her and silently wrapped his arms around her. “Yes, please.” He rested his chin on top of her head. “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

She sighed into his neck. “Any time… You’re always taking care of me when I’m drunk anyway. It’s about time I redid the favor.” She chuckled.

A little bit later, they sat at her kitchen counter, eating their eggs and toast. Bob picked at his slowly, wary of making himself sick. She had her phone out and scrolled through the various videos Hangman sent. Starting from the beginning of the night, there was a video of a sober Bob sitting in a booth and looking at the camera with dread.

“My name is Bob Floyd. And this video is to document that Natasha Trace was completely and utterly right.” He said before opening a white can with a strawberry label and cheering it to the camera.

The next video was Bob, a little gone, but not as bad as the state she saw him in. “My name is Robert. And- and I’m three drinks in… These are kinda strong, Hangman.” He burped.

“They’re the most girly drink she could find, Bob,” Hangman said off-camera.

“Anyway. I miss my girlfriend, and I wanna go home.” He said before taking a sip of his fourth can.

The last video was chaotic and shaky footage of Bob being helped into Hangman’s truck. In the background, they could hear Rooster on the phone with her. He scooched in and lay across the back seat. “Where’s Y/n? How come she’s not here?” He asked confused, making her laugh as she watched back the footage. Bob couldn’t even watch it; he just groaned, listening to the audio.

“She’s at home. We’re taking you to her, I think.” Hangman said.

“I love her so much.” He slurred, “I’m gonna- ’m gonna marry that girl. She’s so smart. And so pretty.” 

She gasped and laughed out loud watching that back. Bob’s eyes shot open. He said that?! 

Hangman turned the camera to himself, revealing a monotone expression. He looked pissed off before turning the camera back to show Bob again. 

“Hangman, where’s my phone? I- I wanna call her.”

“I have it so you don’t, dumbass.” 

Then the recording ended, and she looked over at Bob, who had his head in his hands. 

“You’re so sweet.” She said, leaning over to poke at his shoulder

“I hope you know that I’d say it all again sober.” He said nervously. He didn’t want her to think that it was just a drunk accident. All of what he said was true; he just didn’t say it so pointedly all the time. Some liquid convincing just made all his feelings burst out.

“I know.” She said confidently, “I love you, too.”

[httpssturns]

“Could I live under here?”

in which Chris loves snuggling under reader's hoodie, especially when it's his.

notes: hoodie stealing, pet names, established relationships, cuddling, clingy chris, Chris hiding under reader's hoodie, cuteness, fluffy, Use of "mama and ma," Slight suggestive jokes/actions but not really.

Chris’s hoodies are by far the most comfortable piece of clothing you could ever wear. They're always warm, soft, and they always have this cologne smell, like Old spice and sunshine, if sunshine really had a smell anyway.

And like clockwork, almost everyday you could be found curled up on his bed, hoodie on and hair up. Probably watching a show on your laptop or taking a nap, and today was no different.

“Baby, hey.” Chris says with a happy grin. He immediately finds his way towards you, flopping onto the bed and pulling you into his arms.

“Hi, bubba.” You giggle, kissing his temple.

“Is that my hoodie?” Chris teases, poking your cheek as his fingers gently tug on the soft fabric.

“No, it's the Abraham Lincoln’s.” You puff sarcastically, your hands finding his hair to softly tug on a tuft.

“S’no need to be smart with me, ma.” He murmurs, but it sounds more like he cares about being close to you then what you say.

The air goes quiet for a little bit, your laptop pushed to the side as Chris practically sits in your lap. The only thing he can be seen doing right now is clinging to you, relishing your presence after a long day.

“Ma..can we cuddle?” he asks quietly, and you automatically know what he's saying. To anyone else, seeing his form practically hanging off of you would look like cuddling enough, but for him, cuddling is never complete unless his head is nestled against your chest under a warm hoodie you're wearing.

“Course we can, bub. Come here." You say softly, pulling your hoodie up so he can slide under. Once he's under the fabric, you can't help but smile. You may not show it as much as him, but this is definently your favorite way to cuddle together.

“Love you so much, mama.” You can hear him breathing softly, the sound of his voice slightly muffled by the hoodie. He’s so so warm, and so close it could almost make your heart burst.

“Love you more, sweetheart.” You murmur, and you can feel him move slightly to press kisses to the skin of your chest, nuzzling into the soft flesh.

“Liar, no one can love anyone more than I love you.” He retorts, his nose snuggling into your skin.

“Well, then maybe I'm no one.” You tease with a soft giggle, rubbing his lower back softly and drawing random patterns on the flesh.

“Nah, definently not no one. You're my mama. My pretty girl.” He mumbles softly against your skin. You can feel his lips move against your skin, sometimes with words, other times it's just little kisses or traces of his lips on your skin.

His words make you melt, your heart beating rapidly against his cheek. And unfortunately, he notices.

“Your heart is beating pretty fast, pretty girl. You like when I call you that?” He teases, shifting the hoodie so he can poke up the neck of it.

“Get away from me!” you whine, pushing his head back down. “I won't let you cuddle me like this anymore if you keep that up.” You threaten, and the way he instantly pipes up in panic has you struggling not to laugh.

“No, no! I'm sorry. Please don't make me leave.” He whines, hugging you tighter as he peppers kisses on your stomach like an apology.

You let out a small giggle, and reply “Fine, but if you tease me again I'm evicting you.”

Chris doesn't respond for a second, seemingly thinking about something before he finally speaks up.

“..Do you think I could live in here?” he wonders aloud, nestling against your stomach. “i mean, it's soft and warm.. so nice.. I think I could live here.”

“Chris, you'd probably get heat stroke, or starve.” You joke softly, trailing your hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin.

“Noo, you would just need to get one of those portable fan things that have the batteries, gimme some air every once in a while.” He teases. “And as for starvation, you're pretty tasty, I think i’d be eatin’ good.”

“Christopher, come on.” You laugh, and all he can do is poke his head out for a second to give you a cheeky grin.

“i’m so dead serious, I really think I have everything I need to live a happy, nourished life under here!” he exclaims with a laugh, nipping at the skin just under your bra.

You let out a soft yelp, before you both burst into giggles. “Okay, maybe you could potentially live here. I'll have to talk to the landlord though.”

“The landlord will say yes, I know it.” He giggles with a sure tone.

“How are you so sure about that?” You ask with a small chuckle, flicking his back softly before rubbing the spot with your fingers.

“Let’s just say, I have my ways.” He murmurs, kissing the top of your breast before poking out with a grin.

“Alright mister, we’ll see. But the landlord is pretty strict, she might refuse.” You grin back at him, patting his back.

Chris only giggles some more, and for the rest of the night, he's just living under your hoodie in a bliss you could only get from being at the top of cloud nine.

Let's just say, he got the lease the next day.

No tag today cuz I made these dividers! (Free for use)

✮ soph's notes: I hope you guys like this fic because I actually am really proud of this one!!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ @sugarraez @ribbonlovergirl @slvt4subchratt @sturnsblogs @oopsiedaisydeer @backwardshatnick @izzylovesmatt @viviansturns @courta13 @coquettechris @matts-wife @matts-babytomatoes @whore4chris

comment on this post to be added to the main tag!

[peacefulbanshee]

Friends?

Part 2 here!

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Superhero!Reader, some platonic!Rex Splode x Superhero!reader

Word Count: Around 1.3k

Synopsis: You and Mark are only friends, right? So why does it hurt so much seeing him with Eve?

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI), some swearing, Rex is lowkey mean but real, Mark is a loser, fluff in the flashback if you squint, light smut in the flashback, brief and non-detailed of wounds, angst no comfort (sorry), reader's powers only briefly mentioned in the flashback, not proofread

A/N: I've had this draft stored for a while! Reader is also AFAB.

“You’re pathetic, you know that right?” You snap your eyes away from Mark and glare at Rex, who’s leaning against the railing and nosily eating a slice of pizza. Crumbs fly out of his mouth as he chomps down on each bite. 

“What?” You groan.

“Come on! Even a blind man can see that you have heart eyes for my boy over there,” Rex laughs, “you can die before you admit your feelings for him, but sweetheart, it’s so obvious.” “It’s complicated. Can you keep your voice down?” You hiss. 

You don’t know whether to be upset or join in on laughing at your misfortune with Rex. After all, he has a point. Ever since Mark started dating Eve, he’d iced you out completely. No more giggling over stupid things that people say, or nerding out over the latest issue of Seance Dog. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll get a brief text from him every three business days asking how you are. Otherwise, it’s radio silence from your former best friend, Mark Grayson. 

“I mean don’t get me wrong, Eve’s great,” Rex whispers much to your displeasure, “she’s got a bangin’ hot bod and super hot mind too–”

“Are you here to keep talking about Eve or actually bestow some tangible life advice on me?” You mumble.

“Geez, let me finish,” Rex grumbles, “I was saying that Eve’s pretty cool, but she’s also not you.” But she’s also not you? What does that even mean? Does that even matter? After all, the team’s been making little side comments here and there about how “Mark’s never been happier,” how “Mark lights up when Eve enters the room,” and more of the like. You sigh and roll your eyes. Maybe you have just been a bit overly resentful. After all, “friends” don’t feel like they want to rip their hair out over spite and jealously when they see someone lock lips with the woman he loves. 

“Ok–” You begin.

“And listen, you don’t have to tell me anything. But as your friend and super good observer, you and Grayson had to have done something that crossed the lines of platonic friends. I mean, you’re both also hot and if I was Grayson, I would have jumped your bones a long time ago.” Rex says with finality. 

You let out another grumble and storm out of the room. Not because you’re annoyed at Rex per say, but rather because he’s 100% right with his statement: you and Mark did do something that was not at all platonic. So, maybe you are entitled to a bit of resentment. After all, that night three weeks ago gave you confirmation that he did harbor some romantic feelings for you. So, that's why him and Eve being together feels like a big slap in the face.

***

Everything moved so fast. 

It was late when Mark had flown (almost crashed) through your window after a particularly nasty fight. One look was all he had to give you to know that he needed to be patched up. You scramble over to Mark, lift his arm over your shoulder, and lead him to your bed. Sure, you can fly and have some superhuman strength, but nothing akin to Mark’s. Every time you see him after a battle and he manages to still stand, you’re in awe of it all.

You plop him down on your bed and go and grab your first aid kit stuffed in the back of your closet. For the first five minutes, neither of you said anything as you stitched his deeper wounds and slathered ointment and bandages on the shallower ones. 

“Can you lift your chin for me?” You whispered, breaking the silence between the two of you. 

“Oh uh, yeah,” Mark juts his chin up to your ceiling so you can wipe away residuals of dried blood. “I really appreciate you, you know.”

You make a noncommittal “hm?” sound. Mark’s always telling you that he appreciates you, and that he’s lucky to have you in his life. He’s been saying these things when you’d get him your friends’ numbers, or when you’d help him when he would be one more failing grade away from flunking a science class. He’d also told you that you lit up his life when you hugged him while he sobbed when Amber broke up with him. Sure, you’ve always harbored some feelings, but you reasoned that it would be better to stay quiet than jeopardize your friendship. 

Mark softly grabs your hand and guides it away from his face. “I really mean it. You mean so much to me.”

Your brain short wires. Ok, fine. Maybe you’ve had your contrite fantasies about doing… things with Mark, but never once did you think that would come to fruition. Now here you two are, gathered on your full-sized bed surrounded by all your plushies as you patch Mark up. And one look at him is all it takes to see that he has some unmistakable heat in his eyes. This time, it’s not directed at one of his failed crushes, but you. 

“Mark–” 

“You’ve always been there for me. I’ve done so many fucked up things, but you stay,” Mark shakes his head, “everyone passes judgment on me, but never you.”

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

For a second, you’re frozen. But when you feel Mark cradle your cheek and deepen the kiss, you moan. You feel him smile against your lips as he pulls you onto his lap, and helps you shrug off your flimsy night shirt so you’re left in your shorts. You cheeks heat up and your lift your arms to cover yourself, but Mark tsks and gently removes them and gazes at you.  

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Then, like all the pain from his battle dissipated, he flips you both over so he’s hovering above you. He plants one hard kiss on your lips, before he descends lower and lower and lower. Once he’s between your legs and has his fingers hooked around the seam of your shorts, he gazes at you with his puppy eyes. You nod and let out a choked yes and that’s all it takes for him to rip off your shorts and kiss you where you needed him the most. 

The next morning, you wake up sprawled across Mark’s chest. You pause for a moment to listen to the soft breaths that leave his mouth and smile. Maybe this is the start of something new, something good. 

You quietly detangle yourself from Mark, and waddle over to your bathroom, a familiar ache between your legs. If you had known Mark was actually some sexed up superhero and not just some dork who binged Seance Dog every chance he’d gotten, you would’ve done this much sooner. 

But then, like your real life fantasy had some expiration date, your heart drops when you come back out and find your bed empty and window slightly open. Mark had left without saying goodbye. 

The interactions you had after that were awkward. Both of you refused to address the situation. Whenever you saw each other out of superhero obligation, Mark never met your eyes. That was enough to piss you off. So understandably, you had almost fought Cecil when he tried to station you two together on a mission. 

Your silent resentment was eventually felt by others, who would trade uneasy glances whenever Mark would walk past and your eyes would shoot daggers at his back. And then to top it all off, he started dating Eve. Your heart broke the day you saw them walk into the base with their fingers intertwined.

Now you had found yourself next to Rex, who basically admitted that he knew you two had something going on. 

But you forgot that Viltrumites have enhanced senses. So once Mark heard that you and Rex were talking about him, he couldn’t help but eavesdrop. 

And maybe what’s the most frustrating is that he didn’t do anything to subside the pang in his heart as he watched you leave. 

Is this better as a standalone or should there be a part 2?

[americaine-noces]

fallingforyou ⋆˙⟡

natalie’s bike clicked beneath her as she skidded to a stop on the gravel outside your driveway. it was already getting dark, the sun bleeding behind the trees, and your bedroom light wasn’t on yet. she leaned on the handlebars, chewing the inside of her cheek, thinking maybe you weren’t coming out after all.

you always did this—lost track of time, floating around that enormous house like you didn’t even notice the walls echoing. sometimes she swore you liked the quiet too much. sometimes she hated how comfortable you were in it.

you came out finally, hoodie too big, socks half-off in your sneakers. no rush in your step, just that same calm energy that always made her stomach do something weird and stupid.

“took you long enough,” she muttered, but there was no bite to it.

you smiled, and she felt like she was sixteen again, like every stupid moment was folding into this one, warm and unbearable.

“where we going?” you asked, sliding your phone into the front pocket of your hoodie.

“just riding,” she said, swinging her leg over the bike and waiting for you to hop on the back. “unless you’ve got somewhere better.”

you didn’t. you never did. just followed her, always had, since that day you patched up her knee at thirteen like it meant something. it had. at least to her.

the wind whipped past your hair as she pedaled, fast and reckless. you whooped behind her, arms around her waist. she hated how it made her feel—like you needed her. like you were hers. and you weren’t.

not yet.

you ended up in the field near the edge of town, the one with the fence that never quite kept anyone out. laid side by side in the grass, your arm barely brushing hers.

“this’s nice,” you said, and she wanted to scream. wanted to say you were all she thought about. that every time you touched her, even by accident, she read a thousand things between the lines. that she didn’t want to be your friend. she wanted to kiss you. wanted to crawl inside your ribcage and stay there until you understood.

instead, she said, “yeah.”

you didn’t move away when her fingers brushed yours. didn’t say anything when she touched your leg, gently, like a test she already knew she'd fail. you just kept staring at the sky, the stars not even out yet.

“hey,” she said suddenly, propping herself up on one elbow.

you turned to look at her.

“if i told you something—like, if i said i was falling… would that ruin things?”

you blinked at her, confused. “falling?”

she looked away, heart loud in her ears. “for you.”

a beat. two.

you laughed, a little nervous, like you didn’t know what to say. like you thought she was joking.

and god, you were so painfully oblivious.

she smiled anyway, soft and tired. “forget it.”

you didn’t press. didn’t ask again. just lay back in the grass and talked about nothing for the rest of the night, like her heart wasn’t in your hands, like you didn’t even notice.

and maybe one day you’d change your mind.

but for now, she’d take what she could get.

nat is very me💜

[vacationbimboschool]

Special to me

Comforting bf!Rafe

Content below: mentions of toxic relationship with father, oral (m receiving), riding, praising.

Words: 1.3K

It was no secret that the relationship between Rafe Cameron and his father was far from ideal. From public arguments to private altercations, Rafe had always managed to maintain his composure, even when making reckless decisions.

But today was different.

It was around 5:00 p.m. when you received a phone call. A smile instinctively formed on your face as you recognized the caller ID.

“Hey, Rafey,” you greeted warmly.

There was no response.

“Hello?” you repeated, this time with a growing sense of concern.

You could hear heavy breathing on the other end before he finally spoke.

“Um… hey. I need you right now.”

His voice was fragile, unsteady, as though he were holding back tears.

You and Rafe had been dating for years, and not once had you seen him cry. He usually expressed himself through anger or frustration, which made it clear: this was serious.

“Yes, okay. come over,” you replied without hesitation. You didn’t need him to say another word.

You stood up and glanced at yourself in the mirror, bracing for whatever was about to unfold.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at your door.

It was him.

You descended the stairs and opened the door. There he stood, eyes red and puffy, his face tight with discomfort, as if he hated being seen in such a vulnerable state.

“Oh, Rafe,” you said gently, placing a hand on his cheek. “Come on in.”

He stepped inside, running his fingers through his hair as you quietly closed the door behind him.

Turning to face him, you softly offered, “Here, let’s sit down.”

You guided him to the couch, where you both sat in silence.

The silence stretched between you as you sat beside him. You watched him carefully—his jaw clenched, hands restless in his lap. It was like he was trying to hold himself together with the last bits of strength he had.

You didn’t push him to speak. You knew Rafe well enough to understand that he needed time.

After a long moment, he finally broke the silence.

“He hit me again,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.

Your heart dropped.

He didn’t need to say who—he never did.

You instinctively reached for his hand, gently lacing your fingers through his. He didn’t pull away, which said more than words could.

“I didn’t even do anything this time,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I just… don’t understand how after all these years, Sarah is still his favorite.”

You stayed silent, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand, grounding him.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Tired of pretending everything’s fine. Tired of acting like my father loves me, as if I’m special to him just like Sarah is.”

You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around him. At first, he was tense—rigid in your embrace—but then he exhaled, and you felt him melt into you, like someone finally letting go after holding it in for too long.

“I’m so sorry Rafe. It’s okay now,” you whispered into his shoulder. “You’re safe here.”

You felt him nod against you, just barely.

Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. The silence between you was no longer heavy—it was comforting, a quiet understanding.

“You know,” you smiled at him, “you are the most important person to me.”

Rafe looked up at you then, really looked, like he was searching for any lie in your words but couldn’t find one. His eyes softened, and that shattered look on his face tugged at something deep inside you.

“I mean it,” you added, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I hate seeing you like this… like you’ve got no one.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to say something—thank you, maybe. Or I need you. But instead, he just leaned in. And you met him halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. But when you didn’t pull away—when your fingers slid into his hair and you tilted your head to deepen it—he melted into you, all desperation and quiet hunger.

You pulled back slightly, lips barely grazing his as you whispered, “Let me take care of you tonight, baby. Let me make you feel like you matter.”

His breath hitched. And that was all the confirmation you needed.

You slid down to your knees in front of him, your hands moving with deliberate tenderness—undoing his jeans, pressing kisses to his lower stomach, all while your eyes never left his.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Rafe,” you whispered, just before your mouth met his cock. He gasped—loud, raw—and his hand gripped your hair like he needed something to anchor him.

You took your time. Worshipped him. Let your tongue and lips speak all the things he couldn’t believe yet. You moaned around him just to feel him twitch. Just to hear that broken little groan he let out when you looked up at him again.

When he was shaking, breathless, you pulled off with a soft kiss to the tip and guided him back against the couch, straddling his lap with your knees pressing into the cushions on either side of him. Your fingers ran along his jaw as you kissed him again, deeper this time—needy, consuming, like you wanted to kiss away every bad memory he carried.

You reached between your bodies, wrapped your hand around him, and lined him up. The second your wet heat touched the tip of his cock, Rafe groaned—like the relief physically hurt.

You sank down slow, torturously slow, your walls stretching around him inch by inch. His breath hitched, mouth falling open. He grabbed at your hips, but you caught his wrists and pinned them above his head against the back of the couch.

“No,” you murmured, your lips brushing his, “just feel me.”

When you finally took all of him, seated deep and snug, you didn’t move. You just stayed there, letting him feel every pulse of your body around his cock. The way his chest rose and fell, the slight tremble in his arms—it was like you’d stolen his ability to think.

You leaned in and whispered, “You feel that, baby? That’s how perfect you fit inside me.”

Then you started to move.

Slow, rolling grinds of your hips that made his eyes flutter shut and his fingers dig into the cushions. You kept your hands on his chest, dragging your nails down his pecs just enough to make him shiver.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Rafe,” you purred, rotating your hips in slow, deliberate circles. “Don’t gotta be strong. Don’t gotta be tough. Just let go.”

Every time you rose and dropped your hips, he sunk a little deeper into you—physically, emotionally, completely. His hands eventually found your waist, gripping you tighter like he was trying to keep himself grounded in the moment, in you.

“You’re so good, baby,” you moaned into his ear, your pace picking up. “So big… so deep… making me feel so full.”

Rafe whimpered—actually whimpered—and you felt his cock twitch inside you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect.”

You leaned back just enough to look down at him. His head was tilted back, lips parted, skin flushed and damp with sweat. He looked absolutely ruined. Exactly how you wanted him.

“You like this, baby? Being taken care of?” You rolled your hips just right and watched his jaw clench. “Let me show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”

You picked up the pace, bouncing in smooth, steady rhythm. Skin slapping, breath mingling, moans filling the room like a dirty symphony. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, over and over.

And still, you kept whispering to him—into his ear, onto his lips, against his neck.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re mine.”

“You’re so fucking good, Rafe.”

“I’d choose you every time.”

Every word chipped away at the walls around him until he was clutching you like a lifeline, gasping your name, and begging—begging—to come.

You slowed just enough to look into his eyes.

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And when he finally did, spilling into you with a shattered groan, you kissed him like you were sealing the pieces of him back together.