#so if you still wanna interact with patch

[quietlyblooms-gone]

“and could love free me from the shadows?” (from Luka hehehe !! he might be barking it at her, in a way where he’s so frustrated about everything 😭)

and other stories... | @goldcnpeaks gets a talkin' to!

there is a bite to his bark, and it takes chiyo aback for only a moment before she firmly replies, " didn’t love save me? "

she stands in the middle of their home -- jovie and luka's. for a little while, chiyo didn't think she'd ever see this place again. she thought the days of dozing off on their couch were over; she thought her life was over. and it had been. briefly. yet there chiyo stands all the same, blonde hair mussed and eyes still puffy with sleep as she stares at luka. though much has changed, she still remains.

" i died. i was gone, and jovie brought me back. then when i ran off into the dark, you two searched for me and found me. " she encroaches upon luka's space, fearless in a manner that comes with caring for another. why would she fear the wolf's teeth now? " wasn't it love? wasn't it love that saved me from rotting away in some abandoned house, confused and scared and all alone? don't scoff at it, luka. "

her chest heaves with emotion. she doesn't do this. she doesn't speak with her tender heart on her sleeve, so honest and open, but there is a bruise upon her heart which luka unwittingly pressed. the pain is sharp, lingering; does he not understand what jovie would do for him? what chiyo would do for him? does he not understand that had he been in chiyo's shoes all those months ago, they both would still be standing right where they are? that jovie and chiyo would have chased after him, pulled him from the dark and stubbornly held onto him? that they would do that now if only he would let them?

does luka not understand how deeply he is cared for? or does he not believe that that is enough to help him? both options hurt for different reasons.

with a furrowed brow, chiyo's gaze slides from the unexplained, little cuts upon his cheek bone to his split lip and back to luka's amber eyes. she reaches out, brushing gentle fingers just under those cuts. " you can depend on us, y’know. jovie would move mountains for you. ” her hand falls to luka’s shoulder then slides down his arm to grasp his hand, and chiyo drops her gaze. softly she tells him, “ i would, too. ”

[zarameraki]

˖°🕷️ ࣪𖤐 𝘁𝗼𝗷𝗶'𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘆 ˖°🕷️𖤐

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 unprotected sex 𖥔 single dad x nanny 𖥔 porn with plot 𖥔 banter 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 praise 𖥔 shower sex 𖥔 bj 𖥔 certified pussy eater 𖥔 daddy issues 𖥔 dirty talking 𖥔 small pillow talk 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 2.7k

: ̗̀➛ notes: wrote this one a while ago and decided it was time to get it out of the drafts. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

“After the prince and his princess defeated the scary, ancient dragon, their kingdom lived happily ever after.”

With a smile, you closed the storybook, glancing over at Megumi, peacefully asleep in his crib. Your fingers brushed against his velvety cheeks before you tucked him in snugly and quietly left his room.

The jingle of keys echoed through the air. 

Toji stepped into the apartment, his appearance dishevelled and weary of another demanding day at the construction site. He shed his hefty boots and lumbered into the living room. Catching sight of you, a faint grin settled on his lips. “He asleep?”

“The dragon story always knocks him out cold.” You took his bag and set it down by the couch as he shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall onto the bar stools. “Long day?” 

“Too fucking long.” He yanked open the fridge door, retrieving a container of leftover pasta and a beer. You joined him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and cracking open the can for him. “One of the machines decided to call it quits halfway through. Spent hours waiting for the mechanics to patch it up before we could even think of wrapping up the foundation.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Zenin.” Your gaze shifted to the scattered construction toys that Megumi often indulged in. “With tomorrow being the weekend, maybe you could take some time to unwind and spend quality time with Megs.”

Toji let out a derisive snort as he warmed up his food. “Always appreciate you looking out for us, sweetheart.” 

“Hey, babysitting is my job.”

He took the beer can from your hand and affectionately pinched your cheek. You grinned with your nose scrunching up. “My paycheck isn’t gonna be here until next week. Is it cool if I can pay you a little late? I’ll double it to make up for it.” 

“Nah, you’re good. I can wait. Megumi’s my favourite little client.” You tucked your hands into the pockets of your jeans as Toji grabbed his dinner and brushed past you. “Jesus, Mr. Zenin. You smell like cement.” 

“Cut me some slack, kid.” 

“I’m twenty-two. Not a kid.” 

“If you’re younger than me”—he jabbed his fork in your direction—“you’re still a kid. Capiche?” 

“Eating pasta doesn't grant you Italian citizenship,” you teased. He rolled his eyes as you snatched your backpack. “Well, I’ll see you Monday evening, then.” 

“Leaving so soon?” 

You quirked a brow and raised your phone. “It’s ten in the evening.” 

“That’s early. Come on, stay and grab a bite. Wanna share?” 

Your stomach rumbled in agreement. And hey, a little extra time with Toji wouldn’t be the worst thing. Among all the parents, he was the only one you felt at ease being around late at night. He felt more like a good friend than just another guardian.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” You set down your bag and snagged an extra fork, sliding onto the stool beside him. He placed the container between you two, ensuring you got enough of your separate fill.   

“Your feeding your fucking hair, sweetheart,” he commented, collecting your hair back. His fingers brushed over the side of your neck making it hard for you to swallow. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, quickly gathering your hair into a ponytail. Toji continued to chew slowly, his gaze fixed on you. “What?” 

“You always had a mole there?” He pointed below your jaw where a prominent beauty mark tattooed your skin. 

“I’m offended that you’ve just noticed now.” 

He finished chewing. “You don’t tie your hair up often.” 

“Would you like me to?” You twirled your spaghetti around your fork.

“I like your hair down,” he admitted, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary. “But maybe not while we’re eating. Don’t want them getting dirty.” 

You rolled your eyes and took a large bite, cheeks puffing out as you chewed.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Toji grumbled, swiping away the speck of tomato sauce from the corner of your mouth. His tongue darted out to clear it, followed by another swipe of his hand. The tomato sauce probably matched the colour of your skin from that gesture. “Ever thought about hiring a nanny for yourself?” 

“No, but I might have someone to take care of me in a month.” 

Toji paused and dragged his eyes towards you. “Who?” 

“Just a boy from my class,” you replied nonchalantly, poking your fork in the meatball. “He’s cute, sure. Plus, he’s a hockey player. Basically the epitome of the perfect, conventional, bring-home-to-mom-and-dad kind of guy.”

Toji took a deliberate sip of his beer. “If that’s what you’re into.”

“You say it like you’re an expert on my taste.”

“I’ve known you for a year, darling. You never struck me as someone who’d go for a poster boy.” 

“Then who do you think I’d go for?” you asked softly. Green eyes locked with yours in a tense silence. “Since you seem to have me all figured out.”

Toji stole a quick glance at your lips, then darted his eyes toward the door of his son's bedroom. He fought back the surge of temptation bubbling up inside him, tightening his grip on the beer can in his hand. “Maybe I haven’t gotten to know you well enough.” He went to take a bite but you quickly interrupted by grasping his hand and guiding his fork toward your mouth. 

With the spaghetti twirled around it, you brought it to your lips, savouring the taste as you chewed slowly, all the while locking eyes with his emerald gaze. He observed your throat as you swallowed, his attention now fully magnetised by your flushed face.

As you licked the sauce from the corners of your lips, and wrapped your mouth around your thumb to clean it, Toji’s pulse quickened. “I’m an open book for you, Mr. Zenin.” You rose from your seat, reaching for your backpack. He couldn't tear his gaze away, transfixed by the sight of your ass. “Have a wonderful time beating yourself off to my pictures tonight.” 

Toji’s gaze flickered to his undeniable bulge straining against his jeans, a curse slipping past his lips. Downing his beer as you moved away, he pushed off the stool, closing the distance with a predatory grace, catching you in the middle of tying your shoelaces.

Your eyes widened as he backed you against the door, trapping your arms above your head. His knee insinuated itself between yours, his breath hot against your lips as he snarled. 

“He’s made dinner reservations at an Italian restaurant next week,” you whispered. “Unless you don’t want me sharing pasta with him like it’s a fucking Disney movie, I suggest you kiss me now, Toji.” 

“God, that fucking mouth of yours.” A broad smile appeared at his lips as he pressed them hungrily against yours. Your body responded instinctively, grinding against his thigh in a desperate plea for more. Toji’s grip on your wrists loosened, his hand finding its way to your face, driving his tongue inside your mouth and flicking it against yours. 

He lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he held onto your ass. Lost in the intoxication of your overdue kiss, Toji maintained some semblance of awareness, urgently guiding himself into the bathroom, where he settled you onto the counter.

Breaking away, but still holding your jaw, he smirked. “I smelled like shit, yeah?” 

You shrugged. “Cement, but close enough.” 

“Since you know it all, you’re gonna help me clean it off.”  He stripped off his shirt before reclaiming your lips once more, your hands roaming eagerly over his chest and around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. You’d waited a whole year for this. 

Toji removed your jacket, then paused to peel off your t-shirt. He unhooked your bra with a single motion, pulling you close against him. The sensation of your nipples grazing against his chest hair made you momentarily gasp for air.

“You good?” he whispered, palming the side of your head. 

“So good.” You lunged at him again. He stumbled backward, bringing you with him until you both found yourselves inside the shower stall. His muscular arms coiled around you, pulling you closer as he ravaged your mouth.

Meanwhile, you shed your sweatpants and panties, while Toji unclasped his jeans and tossed them aside along with the rest of your clothes. He briefly opened his eyes, his mouth moving in sync with your desperate one, as he reached to twist the shower faucet open.

The first layer of cold water made you shiver and break apart. You and Toji stared at one another, your gazes lowering in tandem to study your naked bodies. He was big. So big. And extremely hard. His pink tip reached up to naval. Covered in veins that pulsed at a closer look. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous, sweetheart,” Toji said, stepping closer to you. Your back met the cold surface of the stall’s glass wall. His large hands cupped your breasts and travelled down to your hips. “You've been hiding all of this under those stupid looking sweaters?” 

“I happen to like my sweaters, thank you very much.” 

“Baby, they’re ugly.” 

You rolled your eyes and smiled. He continued to laugh at his own comment until you gripped his dick. 

He stopped immediately. 

“What’s wrong, Mr. Zenin?” Your hands moved in an elevated pattern. “Cat got your cock?” He planted his palms on either side of your head. You added twists and rolls, ones that had him at your mercy. Then you sank down onto your knees and swirled your tongue around him, sucking him off. He was breathing hard and fast, and his fingers gripped your hair. “Fuck my throat until I can’t speak for a week.” 

Toji snapped. 

He thrusted deep, deep down your throat and relished in the gagging sounds you made. “Holy fuck, baby. You’re so good at taking my cock.” Your nail sank into his hips, eyes rolling back to your skull. He forced you to open your eyes by pulling at your hair. “Fucking look at me, you little slut.” He shoved himself deeper and held your face against his pelvis. You scratched against his skin to take a breather while choking on his hot gush of release. There was nothing to swallow when he pulled your head back, releasing his dick from the confines of your mouth. 

You coughed out, drumming your fist against your chest to regain control of your lungs. A hand wrapped around your arm and stood you up. 

Toji held your jaw and inspected you closely with a twinge of concern. “Was I too hard on you, doll?” 

You nodded but raised a thumbs up. “Fantastic.” Probably the best blow-job you’ve ever given—even if Toji was mostly in control. 

His lips met yours in a soft kiss, allowing the water to wash away at your bodies. He massaged his fingers through your scalp, and, in contrast, gave your left asscheek a sharp slap. “Turn around. It’s my turn to eat.” 

Your chest pasted against the glass wall. Toji pressed himself against your back and slithered his hand down to cup your pussy. He grunted in your ear delivering a slap to it and hearing you squeak from the impact. His fingers pinched your clit and parted your folds. Easily, he fitted two fingers into your hole. “Jesus. You’re so fucking tight. No one’s been in this pussy before, baby?” 

“A few,” you said. “But they were smaller.” 

Toji curled his fingers inside of you. “A dirty whore like you needs something bigger. Don’t you, doll?” You moaned against the glass, your cheek pressed to the surface. “Tell me, baby. You need my fat cock to stretch out your tiny cunt? Need me to shape it to my cock’s size?” 

“Y-Yes—ah.” You arched your back the second his calloused thumb started circling your clit. “Fuck, Toji—oh, fuck. Faster.” He drove in a third finger and his free hand clapped over your mouth to suppress your cry. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed in your ear. “Can you do that for me, doll?” You nodded and he pushed you forward, kneeling down and spreading your asscheeks. “My pussy. You hear that? This is my fucking pussy.” He dragged his tongue over it and up to your little puckered hole. 

You were high on the sounds of him slurping at your release, sucking your folds into his mouth, and teasing your asshole with the tip of his tongue. This was not how you imagined your Friday night to go, but you weren’t gonna complain. You’ve been fantasising about this moment since Toji caught you putting up babysitting flyers in his neighbourhood. 

“My dick’s gonna break off if I don’t put it in now.” He wrapped your hair around his palm and positioned himself at your entrance. “Ready, doll?” 

“Fuck me, Toji. Please.” 

He could get off on your begging alone. 

His hips thrusted forward, his cock filling you to the hilt. He pulled back out and drove in—repeatedly, relentlessly. His palm came down with a bruising slap on your ass without a break. Toji wasn’t going to be satisfied until they were discoloured, until you couldn’t sit down for days. 

Seeing you wanton and moaning his name flicked a switch in his brain. He was going to brandish you in a way that you wouldn’t leave him for weeks. Months. Years. You’d be at his side until your children were arranging your joint funerals. The strange feeling inside his chest felt foreign, almost hindered the speed at which he was rutting in you. This was his first time fucking you after a year of pining and jerking himself off to your picture and he was already envisioning a romantic-movie montage. 

Toji leaned his face back so the water washed away the vision. Then he pulled out and turned you around, kissing your gasping mouth. He entered inside you again, hoisting one leg up. His fingers pinned you in place by your throat while violating your—his—pussy. 

“I’m gonna come inside you,” he breathed out over your swollen lips. 

“Do it.” 

Toji suppressed his groan by crushing his mouth against yours, a guttural growl producing from his throat. His release was everlasting, filling your inside to the brim. You came crashing down, holding the back of his hair and breaking away to breathe. His face nuzzled in the crook of your neck, equally panting. Those large hands settled on your throbbing ass as he completed the last bits of his ministrations. 

 You were both out of breath as you stared at one another. 

Toji blinked when you hugged him around his torso. His arms remained frozen at his side, glimpsing down at your crown. You looked up with those big, doe-eyes and a full-blown smile. Oh, he was so fucked. 

The remainder of the night was spent washing and drying each other, before tangling your naked bodies in bed. 

Toji continuously kissed your lips, his hand running up and down your back. You laid atop his chest, his cock buried within you as you gently rowed your hips back and forth. He planned to keep it nestled in you for the rest of the night. 

“Spend the weekend with me,” he murmured, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “We’ll go out for dinner at an Italian restaurant with Megumi.” 

“Yeah?” You pecked his nose. “We’ll look like a little family.” 

“That little shit already considers you his mother.” 

You chuckled and brushed the tendrils of hair away from his forehead. “Maybe another time. College’s been kicking my ass. Gotta catch up on those assignments if I wanna graduate with honours.” 

Toji found himself desolated. “Can’t you just study here?” 

“Not with two babies whining and crying for my attention.” 

He gave your ass a light smack. You feigned a wince making him caress it immediately. 

“But I can come over in the evening,” you said. “We can go out for ice-cream.”

He smiled at the fact that you were going to make time for him and his son despite your busy schedule. “Ice-cream it is.” 

You laid your head down on his shoulder and adjusted yourself comfortably on his cock. “Goodnight, Mr. Zenin.” 

“Goodnight, doll.” He rested one hand on the back of your head and the other massaging your ass, staring up at the ceiling where his vision played for the rest of night. 

Toji smiled. 

[honeekyuu]

talk too much. [suna rintarou x reader]

twelve. lipstick

previous || masterlist || next

a/n. you ever just miss a man so much you pick up a hobby again?

warnings: suna rintarou

✗ !!! minors do not interact !!! ✗

✗ !!! ignore timestamps !!! ✗

“We’re still on for Saturday, right?”

You swallow down the bite of dinner, smiling nervously into the camera. Suna’s got two fries in his mouth, and he’s not looking at you. His gaze focused very carefully on his drawing pad, stylus gripped loosely between his fingers and following the path his wrist sets with care.

It’s just after seven o’clock, but you’d been on the phone since two. He’d clocked quite a few extra hours in the studio this week due to some project deadlines, and you’d dutifully sat on the other end of a facetime call every night. Your own work remains undone, the problem set haunting you from the corner of your desk. You have a draft of a chapter for your writing class up on your monitor, your messy notes open on your laptop. 

You’d been doing that more recently, too. Blatantly ignoring the responsibilities of your major to actually invest in your electives, this one in particular. You’d always been interested in writing, but it’d been more of a passing hobby than anything else. This class – and the encouraging feedback from your professor – had made it scarily real for you in the last few weeks, with a terrible, lingering hope filling you. A terrible hope that this might be what you’ve wanted to do this whole time. A terrible, nagging thought that the unopened problem set on your desk might be indicative of something bigger that you’ve been trying not to acknowledge.

You’re more than happy to set that issue aside to engage Suna’s conversation.

“Saturday?” you say, spooning more of your rice bowl into your mouth while you give him your attention. He only glances at you, eyes dropping to your mouth before flitting toward his own dinner shyly. He shoves nearly half of his burger in his mouth, only snorting when you watch in horror, before nodding.

“‘aturday,” he mumbles plainly, and you have to pull up your calendar because you know that’s all you’re getting.

PUMPKIN PATCH – DON’T FREAK.

Well, that’s not helpful.

Your chest swarms with nerves, and you do your best to appear as though a brick of fear hasn’t just come down over your head.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

He sees right through it, swallowing while he cuts you a disbelieving glance. “You’re so nonchalant and cool.”

You laugh, hiding behind a hand. “Sorry, I’m freaking out.”

“Me, too.”

His honesty is disarming as always. 

“Yeah?”

“Incredibly. But I still wanna do it.”

You purse your lips, warming. “Me, too.”

A beat passes, and then a voice full of fond amusement. “Yeah? You sure?” 

A roll of your eyes, the draw of his laugh when he sees it.

“Yes, Rinnie. I’m sure.”

A sigh of frustration masked as a laugh. “You’re so cruel for that.”

It’s hard to focus on your draft that night.

–

You take a deep breath and exhale slow. Slow. 

Breathe in, turn to look at yourself in the mirror, this way and that. 

Breathe out slow. Slow. 

“It’s okay,” you say to yourself, breathing in slow and then breathing out slower. “It’s okay, it’s Suna.”

It’s Suna, the same boy you’ve been talking to for weeks – months, really. The same boy who’s proven again and again that he’s not like any boy you’ve ever met before. The same boy who’d asked to pick you up this morning, who’d asked to walk entirely out of his way to pick you up for a date. A date that he’d been pushing for since before either of you could consider it one.

“It’s Suna,” you breathe again, forcing yourself to be okay with how your hair looks. “Just a first date. With Suna.” 

There are three quiet knocks on the front door, echoing around your apartment and into your bedroom.

Just a first date with Suna.

You start to sweat almost immediately.

“Okay,” you breathe, fanning your face with nervous hands and walking on shaky legs to your bedroom door. “Okay, I can do this.” You look around the living room as you cross it, making sure the space is tidy and lacking anything potentially embarrassing. You’d already checked five times, but one more couldn’t hurt.

By the time your hand is on the doorknob, your face is burning and your hands are clammy.

The man on the other side of the door doesn’t look much better.

It’s weird, meeting someone you’ve known for months.

The first thing you notice is that he’s tall. You’d known. You’d known he’d be tall, but fuck, he’s tall.

The second thing you notice is that he’s got dark features but light eyes. Green eyes, but black hair, black eyebrows. Green eyes, but inky black eyelashes that flutter over them. You’d known that too, from the photos and the calls, but his eyes are greener and his hair is darker in person. His clothes are just as dark, grey shirt tucked into black jeans and dark plaid flannel thrown over the top.

You notice the piercings and tattoos, too. The lip ring he tugs nervously between his teeth, the uneven number of piercings on his left ear and right ear, glinting in the light of your apartment hallway. The black ink peeking out from under the sleeves of his flannel, dark ink and pale, ringed fingers.

Pale, ringed fingers that are shaking just slightly, wrapped tight around a bouquet of flowers.

He looks exactly the same as he does in his photos – the familiarity is nearly overwhelming – but everything is new, intense. The reality of Suna Rintarou is stronger than it had been before.

“Hi,” you whisper, staring up at him with wide eyes. He stares back, looking just as stunned.

“Hi-” he breathes, cutting short and swallowing hard. You watch his Adam’s apple bob, ink on his throat moving with it. “-pretty girl.”

You’re not sure you’ll survive this day.

You shiver, breaking eye contact nervously and trying not to let the chills that his voice induces run rampant on your skin. “Do…” You glance over your shoulder and then back at him. “D’you wanna come in? For coffee or something?”

You watch his face redden in real time, watch his ears turn pink as he looks away from you. 

He’s as nervous as you are.

“Sure,” he says quietly. “That sounds nice.” He follows you inside, stepping carefully into your foyer and looking around curiously while he takes his shoes off. “I like your place.”

You warm, padding into the kitchen to start making coffee. You’re distracted beyond belief, distracted by the overwhelming sense of Suna’s presence. It only worsens when you glance back to thank him and realize that he’d followed you down the hall. “Oh. Hi.”

His eyes scan your face – your wide eyes and surprised blush – and then he bites down on his lip ring, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Hi. Am I making you nervous?”

Laughter bubbles out of you, and that wave of familiarity returns, washing away some of your anxiety about meeting him. You already know him.

“Maybe,” you tease, nodding back at the bouquet hanging limply in his hand. “But not any more nervous than I’m making you.”

Suna glances down, realizing that his hand is gripped so tight around it that petals are starting to shed off of the flowers onto your floor. “Oh-” He holds out the bouquet, grimacing when more petals float down between you. “This is for you.”

You smile, feeling a swell of giddiness rise in your chest – the one that you’ve always gotten with him, from the moment you started to fall for him. “I have some vases in that cabinet over the fridge,” you say, still grinning stupidly at him. His eyes twinkle, and you know he’s caught the tinge of domesticity in the way you talk to him. “Help me out, 6’3”?”

He sets the bouquet on the counter, never taking his eyes off of you. “Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

Oh, good lord.

You press a clammy hand to your heated face, watching him cross the kitchen toward you. You lean into the corner of the counter when he stops close enough to you that his scent washes over you, warm and comforting and so Suna and new that you have to fight not to gravitate toward him. 

Suna reaches up with ease, pulling the cabinet open and plucking a small vase from inside. He smirks to himself while he does. “Why d’you keep these up here if you can’t reach?”

“So I can get pretty boys like you to do it for me,” you joke, basking in the nervous flutter of those inky black lashes and the sharp cut of those green eyes down to yours.

“Got a lot of pretty boys on your roster?” His voice drips in annoyance, but his face is a lovely pink color and he can’t seem to keep eye contact with you.

“Just one,” you say, your confidence leaving you when he hands over the vase. Your fingers brush against his, and your heart flies to your throat, the nerves unbearable. You turn away, filling the vase with water from the tap and putting far too much care into arranging the bouquet. You feel him behind you, feel his eyes burning through your skin as he takes you in.

“I like your jeans,” is all he says. 

You glance down, taking in the light denim jeans and burnt orange cardigan you’d spent way too much time picking out last night. You’re not the biggest fan of how the jeans fit you, mainly because they’re much more form-fitting than you’re used to, but you’d really wanted to try something new for him. To show him how far you’ve come.

“Thanks,” you whisper nervously. “I’m still getting used to them.” He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a large part of you knows that he doesn’t need to. You can feel his pride from here, washing over you in waves of heat.

You turn back to him, leaning all your weight on the counter so you don’t collapse. “I like your outfit, too.”

His grin is torture, you’re sure of it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “I tried really hard today.” When you just beam up at him playfully, he sighs in defeat and looks away. He scans over all the things on your fridge, lingering on the polaroids of you with your friends while he speaks. “‘s probably better if we skip the coffee and just go.”

Your face drops, and you blink in confusion. “Why?”

He just smiles in a way that feels self-deprecating, eyes locked on a photo of Alisa and Suga kissing each of your cheeks while you laugh. He swallows, staring down at it with something warm in his gaze. “If we stay here much longer, I’m not gonna wanna leave.”

He has no idea how okay with that you just might be.

Still, he’d promised you a pumpkin patch.

You step toward him, closing the distance and watching as his gaze flits to yours nervously. You press your chest to his while you reach past him for the fridge, pretending you don’t feel his breath stutter or the fingers that brush against your waist.

There’s another photo, just under the one he’d fixated on – it had been taken the same night, just last week in fact. A weeknight when the three of you had decided that bellinis and Breakfast Club could be the only cure to your end-of-semester stress. When Alisa had whipped out a cheap polaroid camera and demanded a photoshoot, when Suga had only been so glad to order delivery for more alcohol and raid your closet for stupid photoshoot outfits. When the three of you had gotten drunk and giddy enough for your newfound confidence – still shy and small and in no small way nurtured by the very man in front of you now – to make an appearance, encouraged in the whoops and hollers of your friends when they’d seen the new you come out.

When you’d climbed drunkenly into Alisa’s lap and let her take a sexy – incredibly blurry, but still sexy – snapshot of you, the memory of Suga cheering in the background while shaking his ass to the end track of Breakfast Club embedded in the glossy film of your smeared lipstick. 

You’d kept the photo, too in love with the memories that had come with it. But you think maybe it would belong better elsewhere.

“Here,” you say, pressing the front of the photo to his chest while you back away, watching with warm ears when he takes it but keeps his eyes on yours. “You can keep that one in your wallet, if you want.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise, but you turn away and move back down the hall before you can watch him look at it. 

Still, the hushed ‘holy shit’ echoes all the way to the foyer while you put your shoes on, and you bite down a laugh.

“Ready to go?” you call, tying up your sneakers and hearing Suna rush unsteadily out of the kitchen. 

“Y-Yeah, sorry,” he calls back distractedly. Glancing up through your lashes, heart pounding in your ears at your own courage, you catch as he tucks the photo away in his wallet, just behind his ID. He folds his wallet carefully and slips it in his front pocket, inked fingers still trembling slightly. 

You walk out after him, locking the door and following him down to the nearest bus stop. He can’t seem to decide if he should stand a friendly distance from you while you wait or if he should press his side against yours, so you linger closer to him to let him know it’s okay. He flushes but steps right up to you, facing you and using his frame to block the wind when he sees how you tense against it. 

You stand in a silence that’s somehow both comforting and unnerving, meeting his eyes and then looking away nervously. He just watches you, lips pulling into a fond smile every few moments before he remembers to smother it. He reaches out to you after a while, running cold fingers over your ears and tapping the tips of his fingers against your done-up hair, grinning when you give him an empty glare.

“I like these,” he mumbles, toying with your dangly pumpkin earrings. His thumb brushes over your jaw and then your cheek, and then he finally drags it lightly against your bottom lip, your lipstick coming off a little on his skin. “Pretty.”

You inhale sharply, head swimming with the feel of his fingers and the smell of him – of his clothes and his cologne. So gentle and warm, yet so goddamn overwhelming.

You look up at him through your lashes, parting your lips just slightly, and his eyes grow wide as he stares down at you. He blinks in surprise, and you’re not totally sure what’s just happened. But his thumb leaves your lip, and you find yourself turning toward it, chasing the feeling for just a moment longer. Chasing him for just a moment longer.

The sound of the bus turning the corner breaks the spell Suna Rintarou’s put you under.

You blink rapidly, taking a small step back and watching Suna swallow hard. His face is redder than you think the wind can be blamed for, but he just turns and holds a hand out to help you onto the bus. Your skin burns where it touches his, and you shyly show the driver your student ID before leading Suna down the aisle, his fingers interlacing with yours the moment you start to pull away.

He’s grinning to himself when you finally choose a seat. You roll your eyes but let him rest your hands in his lap. 

After a moment where he’s checking how many stops are left, he pulls out a pair of corded headphones, holding one out to you.

“Want me to show you my sick music taste?”

You laugh, thankful you’d chosen a seat in the back, because the way you’re looking up at him is nothing short of pathetic.

He unlocks his phone, but it opens immediately to a paused YouTube video of a famous Pokemon gamer streaming a playthrough. You lift your brows, staring up at Suna with knowing eyes. He flushes and hurries to close it out.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I was watching it on my walk over to calm my nerves.”

You giggle and point down to his screen. “Put it on, then.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, okay.”

“No, really,” you insist. “Put it on. I wanna watch it.”

He turns to you with wide eyes. “There’s no way in hell you want to watch this.”

You roll your eyes and take his phone, rewinding the video a bit and pressing play. You try to catch up with all the new information while Suna just stares down at you. You hum after a second.

“So, it’s a Nuzlocke?” 

He doesn’t answer you, only blurting out, “You’re the girl of my dreams”. You laugh, glancing around the crowded bus before shaking your head and returning to the video.

“Yeah, you mighta mentioned that once or twice.”

–

The wind is sharp out in the middle of the pumpkin patch, but you can’t tell if your cheeks are red and stinging from that or from the sheer force of smiling so much.

Suna makes you laugh like it’s his job. He whispers quick one-liners in your ear or into your hair, smiling against the crown of your head when you hide your grin behind your hand.

He treats you like a princess, holding your hand so you don’t trip on the vines and uneven ground while you pick out a pumpkin to take home. He carries everything for you, despite your complaints, and makes a point of still holding your hand. 

And when you finally manage to find a large tote bag to shove all your souvenirs into – designated home pumpkin, popcorn, apple cider donuts, and a variety of knick knacks – he all but fights you for possession of it in the middle of the gift shop. You let him win, and as a reward, he keeps his chest pressed against your back while you wait in line for a short hay ride, one hand – fingers cold and rings colder – pressed to your waist under your cardigan, your skin pebbling under his touch.

He leans down to listen to you talk about nothing in particular, and you wonder, as the line trudges slowly along, if he realizes that his other arm is wrapped tight around you, his thumb hooked through one of your belt loops. You wonder if he realizes that the quiet push and pull of mutual nerves that had kept its hold on you all day is finally falling away, his comfort shown in the way he grabs and holds you like you’re his.

You wouldn’t mind that so much.

You finally reach the front, and he helps you up onto the hay ride, the two of you finding a little spot in the corner. Suna sets your bag between his knees but lets it sit right on his feet, the cloth tote never touching the floor of the wagon. You hum, watching him do it.

“Do you have sisters?”

He blinks, glancing at you in surprise. “A younger one, yeah.”

“Are you close with her?”

He smiles, still confused. “Sometimes…?”

You just laugh, looking away and taking in the view outside the ride. “I can tell. You don’t let bags touch the floor.”

He glances down at his feet. “I-” He laughs. “She told me it was bad luck. Smacked me over the head with her purse once.”

You grin fully, your cheeks hurting again, and shake your head. “Not tryna risk any bad luck today, Rinnie?”

He barks out a laugh, hiding his face in your hair when a couple glances back in amusement.

“I’m still not sure how I got you to like me,” he whispers against you. “I’m not risking shit.”

The ride stops outside of a large corn maze, and other people file off of the wagon slowly. You wait until it’s nearly empty to stand, taking him with you, but you stop him from leaving, pulling him back quickly and rising onto your tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

“You can afford to risk a little bit more.” 

And then you plant your lips on the corner of his mouth in a kiss so chaste that he barely has time to inhale before you’re gone. You hop off the ride on your own, taking off toward the maze. He calls after you loudly, laughing when you just disappear into a wall of corn.

You race through a whirlwind of corn stalks and trip over the uneven ground, hearing as Suna crashes into the maze behind you. Your heart jumps to your throat, and you lead him deeper into the middle of nowhere, accidentally scaring no fewer than three other groups of people and apologizing quietly while your name echoes behind you. 

You stop after a few minutes in a clearing, instantly regretting the decision to run and doing your best not to pass out right there. You barely hear him behind you, slowing to a stop and watching as you bend over to catch your breath.

“You lost, pretty girl?”

You jump, whirling on one foot, only to find Suna’s already crossed over to you. There’s a smudge of lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, listen,” you start, laughing wildly as you back away. “Just listen for a sec-”

He grabs your outstretched hand and yanks you toward him, keeping you there with one arm wrapped around your waist.

“Did you mean that?” he asks, smiling as you try to wriggle free. “That I should risk more?”

“Okay, listen-” you laugh, pushing your hands against his chest. “I was just playing around-”

Suna’s mouth on yours tells you that he’s not.

The chills start in the crown of your head and wash down over you in an instant. Your heart stops in your chest, and when it starts again, it’s everywhere, all at once. His lip ring is cold on your mouth, but his lips are so unbelievably warm. And when he pulls away just enough to whisper to you, his breath triggers every nerve ending in your body.

“Fuck,” he whispers, breath unsteady in his chest. Your head swims at the feeling of his heartbeat under your fingers. “Was that okay?”

You can only nod, your vision hazy and your mind completely blank. He shuffles against you harshly, and you realize belatedly that your bag had slipped off his shoulder and he’d fumbled to catch it.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “Didn’t want to let it touch the ground.”

You stare up at him, wondering how you could have possibly gotten so lucky with Suna Rintarou.

You take his face in your hands, pushing your lips against his and swallowing the quiet whine he breathes into your mouth. 

He pulls you tight against him, and you push onto your tiptoes anytime he starts to lift too high, and he nearly drops you when you tug his lip ring between your teeth, your tongue passing nervously against it when he makes a sound that makes your toes curl. 

You only realize that maybe this isn’t totally appropriate for a family-friendly venue when you hear a family in the distance, trying to figure out the way out of the maze. You push against Suna’s chest, watching as he takes a moment longer to process what’s going on. When he does, all he can do is blink down at you dumbly. 

“Huh?” he breathes, face gradually burning a beautiful, rosy red that makes you want to do terrible things to this man.

You swallow your nerves.

“I think I’m ready to go,” you whisper, watching as confusion and then concern passes over his face. “If you’re ready to go.”

It clicks in an instant, and your heart skips when his eyes flick between yours before dropping to your lips, swollen and warm and completely his.

“Your place or mine?”

[writingpandagoth]

Hiii so just wanna start off of how i am so in love w ur fics, and uhm a request here lol, so if we got jealous reader- can we get more jealous severus? Like, to the point hes thinking of going harder (👀) that night just so in the morning, when resder is absent or limping, full of hickeys, wrong tie/something with serverus would wear daily (can be placed in their students era w reader same year as him or as professors), anyway- yapping again, hope you feel better! *not forcing on this ask lol*

I have to say I nearly had a mental break down writing and adding the finishing touches.

But well Here it is.

Jealous Severus and a huge dash of Possessive claiming. (It's filthy and I feel ashamed...👀)

Hope you like it and it actually makes sense!❤️

18+ Content ahead.

(contains: Bondage, overstimulation, overuse of 'mine', multiple orgasms, hard unprotected sex and excessive marking.)

Marked

You came to Hogwarts quietly, without fanfare. Madam Pomfrey had requested a qualified healer to assist her with the increasing number of magical injuries and long-term spell damage cases. You accepted eagerly. Working in the Hospital Wing seemed like a dream job—peaceful, stable, tucked inside ancient stone walls full of magic and history.

You met Severus Snape your second day on the job. He was... terse. Condescending. And painfully observant. At first, he only visited when students turned up in his class with cauldron burns or potion poisoning, muttering curses under his breath about dunderheads and incompetence. He never stayed long, and he barely acknowledged you.

But over time, something shifted.

He started lingering. Offering dry commentary while you worked. Leaving tea on your desk and pretending he hadn’t. Watching you from the doorway longer than necessary.

He grew irritated whenever other professors spent too much time speaking with you. Whenever a visiting Auror complimented your potions work. Whenever a student dared to flirt. You saw it in the way his jaw would clench, how his voice would drop into a lethal calm, how he'd slide between you and the offender with just enough presence to make them shrink back.

Still, the two of you tiptoed around each other.

He never said anything. Neither did you.

You built something tentative—quiet cups of tea after long shifts, shared books, shoulder brushes that lingered. The feelings between you became impossible to ignore, but neither of you dared speak them aloud. It was too uncertain. Too fragile.

Then one night, you laughed at a joke in the staff lounge. A visiting Curse Breaker had said something charming, and you laughed without thinking.

You didn’t notice Severus approaching until his hand closed around your wrist and he pulled you into the nearest corridor.

You barely had time to ask what was wrong before he kissed you.

Now, years later, you live together in a tucked-away corner of the dungeons. Mornings begin with the scent of tea, the rustle of parchment, and Severus muttering darkly about dunderheads. You patch up his hands when he slices them during potion prep.

You bicker.

You laugh.

Your evenings end with his head on your shoulder as he reads in bed, your legs tangled beneath a thick wool blanket. There is comfort in the rhythm. In the quiet domesticity you’ve built.

And through it all, Severus remains the same man: brilliant, brooding—and unmistakably, undeniably possessive.

Then Gilderoy Lockhart arrived.

He bursts into the Great Hall like he owns it, dressed in layered cerulean robes and a smile so white it looks enchanted. The man sparkles. Literally. His cuffs are dusted in shimmer, and his teeth catch the light like glass.

Your first interaction comes during breakfast. You’re seated beside Poppy when he saunters over, balancing a plate of fruit and cheese.

"Ah, you must be the radiant healer everyone’s been talking about," he says, voice syrupy smooth. He takes your hand in both of his. "And just as enchanting as I imagined."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

"I’m Gilderoy Lockhart. Order of Merlin, Third Class, honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile."

You gently tug your hand free. „And I’m trying to eat my toast."

Undeterred, he laughs. "Witty, too! Marvelous."

From across the room, you feel Severus’s stare—sharp, unwavering, and heavy enough to press heat into your skin. You glance his way just in time to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. And as Lockhart continues his syrupy routine beside you, you and Severus share a glance so loaded with mutual what the actual fuck that it nearly makes you laugh.

But you don’t. Because Severus isn’t amused.

His jaw tightens, and you can see it: the silent calculus of which hex would leave a lasting enough impression on Lockhart without landing himself in front of the Headmaster.

You raise a brow, as if to say Don't do anything dramatic.

He raises one right back, eyes narrowing as if to say:

I promise nothing.

—

Over the next week, Lockhart makes a sport of haunting the Hospital Wing. 

The first time, Lockhart stumbles into the Hospital Wing dramatically clutching his wrist.

“Broom mishap,” he explains with a wounded wince. “Such a shame, really. Happened right as I was landing—a rather daring flip to impress a couple of second-years.”

You roll your eyes and gesture for him to sit. “You’ll live.”

As you wrap his wrist with precise, efficient movements, he leans in, placing a hand on your thigh and murmurs, “You have the hands of an artist, did you know that?”

“If you touch my thigh again, you’ll be dealing with broken fingers.” You reply dryly while tightening the bandage.

He winces dramatically removing his hand. “Ah—delicate and commanding. You’re an enchantress.”

You step away and snap your gloves off. “You're bandaged. Don't sprain the other one fishing for compliments.”

He chuckles. “You’re delightfully fierce. It’s very flattering.”

—

The second time, he arrives cradling his side and groaning.

“Cursed quill,” he announces. “Exploded mid-sentence while I was autographing a fan letter. Nasty thing. You wouldn’t believe the magical backlash.”

“Sounds harrowing,” you mutter, inspecting the small burn that easily could have healed on its own.

You turn before getting the burn salve.

“I think your touch alone could heal me.” He winks.

You grit your teeth trying not to smack the grin off his face. “I am trying to do my work here.”

“No one’s ever looked at me like that while applying burn salve,” he says, tone heavy with faux intimacy.

“Get. out.”

—

The third time, you hear him before you see him.

“Slipped on a stair,” Lockhart exclaims, limping dramatically into the Hospital Wing. “Right foot caught the edge, spun me around—nearly cracked my spine!”

You glance up from your logbook. “You walked in here just fine.”

“I have a high tolerance for pain,” he says with a wink. “Wouldn’t want to cause a fuss, especially not when it means I get to see you.”

You sigh and rise. “Let me check your back.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and, with unnecessary flair, peels his outer robes off his shoulders. “Right here,” he says, tapping between his shoulder blades. “Might need a healing salve... or a massage.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you pull out your wand, cast a diagnostic charm, and mutter, “Nothing’s bruised. Not even strained.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Your presence alone must be curing me.”

You deadpan, “I’m giving you five seconds to get off this bed before I summon Peeves and tell him you’re hiding lemon drops in your pockets.”

—

The fourth time, he walked in the Hospital wing.

You were with Severus. He had come to restock the Potions cabinet that was tucked in the corner of the Hospital Wing. You had just finished when he pulled you close and kissed you.

Slow. Lovingly.

That's when the door slammed open. 

Gilderoy’s voice boomed, carrying cheerfully through the space. "I’ve been meaning to stop by all morning, I’ve had the strangest cramp in my shoulder after breakfast—could be a sign of magical strain, perhaps even a touch of curse residue. Thought I’d get it looked at by Hogwarts’ finest."

You and Severus froze mid-kiss, mouths still close, breath mingling. Together, you turn your heads and fix him with identical, unimpressed stares.

Gilderoy was stepping into the ward, grinning like a fool, a stack of autographed portraits tucked under one arm and his wand waving vaguely in the other.

You and Severus exchanged a slow, deadly glance.

Yours said: Is this man serious?

His said: I will kill him.

Severus’s hand flexed where it rested on your hip.

You exhaled sharply. “Unless that shoulder pain is fatal, turn around and leave.” 

He stepped into the corner and hesitated when he saw Severus. "Oh, apologies, was I interrupting a... discussion?"

"A discussion," Severus said flatly, not moving, one hand still on your waist, the other clenched behind your back. His voice was taut silk—the kind you could strangle someone with. "Is that what it looks like?"

Lockhart blinked, glancing between you both. Finally, recognition flickered in his eyes. 

For a moment, he looked at Severus. Then at you. Then back again. His grin faltered slightly. 

“Of course. Right. Message received.”

He gave a theatrical bow and backed toward the door, nearly bumping into a supply trolley as he turned. 

The door clicked shut behind him a moment later.

He didn’t get the message.

One afternoon in the staff lounge a few days later, Lockhart corners you with tea and pastries.

"You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—have you ever considered modeling for a book cover? The way you carry yourself—it’s spellbinding. We could use a healer heroine. You’d be perfect."

"Absolutely not," you say.

"You mean now, of course," he smiles. "You just haven’t seen the right concept yet."

You’re saved only when Severus enters, eyes flicking between you and Lockhart with lethal calm before making his way over to you with slow, calculated steps.

"Ah, Professor Snape!" Gilderoy beams. "I was just telling your charming Woman about how she would be perfect modeling for a book. I do believe she’s intrigued."

Severus stares. "I am certain she isn't."

You try not to laugh leaning against Severus. He looks down at you his gaze softening slightly before pressing a kiss to your head.

Gilderoy watches the interaction an almost sly grin appearing on his face.

„Severus I was meant to ask," Lockhart says. "You and I. We could perhaps do a duel demonstration for the students? of course if you dare to take it up against me.“

You sent Severus a warning look but he ignores it and gives Gilderoy a pointed glare.

"When and Where."

The dueling demonstration is announced two days later. The Great Hall is transformed: long tables replaced with open space, a raised platform, students gathered at every corner.

Lockhart appears on the dueling platform in absurdly shiny periwinkle robes embroidered with gold runes and rhinestones. His cape flares dramatically as he turns, soaking in the applause like a rock star on tour. He bows once—twice—thrice, flashing a grin so bright it has to be charmed.

Across from him, Severus stands stone still. Cloaked in his usual severe black.

You stand just off to the side of the dueling platform, flanked by Minerva, Pomona, Poppy, and Filius. The student body buzzes with excitement around you, but the staff area is noticeably more tense.

Minerva’s arms are crossed, her eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like I’m about to witness a homicide?” she mutters under her breath.

“Because you might,” Poppy says flatly, glancing toward Severus, who stands utterly still—arms crossed, wand already in hand, gaze locked on Lockhart like a predator waiting for the excuse to pounce.

“He looks... extra broody today,” Pomona offers carefully, sipping her tea with both hands. “More than usual.”

“He didn’t speak once in the lounge this morning,” Filius adds quietly, peering over his spectacles. “Just glared at Lockhart like he was calculating how to vanish a body without leaving magical residue.”

Minerva snorts. “He probably was.”

You cross your arms, staring toward Severus—shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“I’m worried he won’t hold back,” you say.

Minerva hums. “I’m worried he’ll hold back too little.”

Filius sighs. “At least we’ve got four trained magical adults here in case something explodes.”

“Or in case we need to restrain Severus,” Pomona adds brightly.

You all go silent as Lockhart calls out, voice booming across the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen! Today, you will witness an elegant display of defensive magic. A Duel in style, precision, and power! Of course, I’ve agreed to duel our own Professor Snape—though he insists on no applause until after he gets up.”

You exhale slowly. “Merlin help him.”

Minerva mutters, “He’s going to need more than Merlin.”

Severus doesn’t react to Lockhart's taunt.

He simply raises his wand—slow, controlled, deliberate. His dark gaze locks onto Lockhart with the kind of intensity that makes the hair on your neck rise.

Lockhart grins wider, clearly mistaking Severus’s restraint for hesitation. “Now, students, observe closely. This is what a seasoned professional looks like in a duel. Grace under pressure. Style with strength—”

A sharp flick of Severus’s wrist sends a shimmering blue arc of magic whipping across the space. It hits Lockhart square in the chest.

He stumbles back, robes flaring, nearly tripping over his own feet. The charm doesn’t harm—it’s designed not to—but it’s enough to rattle him. He straightens, laugh loud and forced.

“Ah! A bold opening move from Professor Snape! Very clever. I let him have that one, of course. All part of the show!”

Severus's eyes narrow. His wand twitches again.

This time the jinx is faster. Tighter. It whistles through the air, forcing Lockhart into a desperate duck and roll. He hits the platform hard with a theatrical “oof”.

Still, he tries to play it off, scrambling upright with a lopsided grin. “Ah, testing my agility! That’s right. Stay limber, students!”

Severus says nothing. His movements are surgical. Controlled. He steps forward once, casts a nonverbal binding charm that winds toward Lockhart like a silver ribbon.

Lockhart jerks back, barely blocking it with a flamboyant pirouette and a muttered counterspell that shouldn’t have worked.

Your brow furrows.

That spell should’ve locked him down.

You glance at Severus.

He’s already clocked it.

A heartbeat later, Lockhart pulls something small and glittering from the cuff of his robe—quick, subtle, but not subtle enough. A charm crystal, preloaded with a burst spell.

He mutters an incantation under his breath and slams it to the ground at Severus’s feet.

The explosion of light blinds the front row of students.

Gasps erupt. Several stumble back.

Severus staggers back shielding his eyes. When the glow fades, he’s still standing, unharmed—but his expression has shifted.

Cold. Flat. Lethal.

“Cheating,” Minerva mutters under her breath from beside you. “Dear Merlin, he actually tried to cheat.”

The next spell from Severus is not theatrical. It’s not for show.

It’s fast. It’s sharp. It knocks Lockhart backward with enough force to drop him to one knee.

Lockhart wheezes, trying to mask his panic with another grin. “Aha! Professor Snape keeping me on my toes! Just—testing reflexes! No need to worry!”

But his eyes flick toward you.

And winks at you before blowing a kiss.

An actual kiss.

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, taking deep breaths and shaking your head in disbelief.

“Oh dear,” Minerva mutters softly beside you.

“That was stupid even for him,” Pomona says into her hand.

Filius doesn’t speak. He just shakes his head once with a sigh like he’s mentally preparing for a funeral.

Poppy, seated just behind you, whispers, “Is he suicidal?”

Severus hasn’t cast again. Not yet. But the shift in his posture is clear: his stance tighter, one foot forward, jaw locked. His grip on his wand has gone white-knuckled.

You know what it means.

That’s the moment right before he stops pretending to care about consequences.

You barely have time to process before Severus casts again.

This one slices the hem of Lockhart’s cloak and splits the air with a snap loud enough to make the students flinch.

You step forward just as he is about to cast again.

His eyes snap to yours. The fury in his gaze wavers—not gone, but caged. For now.

You don’t break eye contact with him as you give him a shake of your head and you keep holding it until you see his shoulders drop by half an inch.

His next spell is slower. Measured. A soft, almost lazy disarming charm.

Lockhart’s wand flies from his hand and clatters across the platform.

He stares at it, red-faced and panting. There’s a long, stretching silence.

Then Gilderoy forces a chuckle and turns to the crowd of wide-eyed students.

“And that, children, is why you must always stay alert in a duel! Quick reflexes, good posture—never underestimate your opponent!” He laughs as if he hadn’t tried to cheat mid duel and lost anyway.

You glance at Severus. He lowers his wand, but his shoulders are still tense. His eyes—when they flick toward you—are burning.

There’s a beat of silence before cheering erupts from the students.

You exhale, watching how Severus descends from the dueling platform in measured strides, cloak billowing behind him, expression cold enough to freeze stone. His eyes are fixed on you—not in anger, but in singular, furious purpose.

You don't hesitate and move instinctively toward him.

Lockhart hops down from the platform, dusting off his robes as if he'd done more than stumble through the duel. He cuts across the floor with a speed that doesn’t match his usual saunter, clearly determined to reach you first.

„That was quite the Duel wasn’t it?“ he says breathlessly, inserting himself between you and Severus like he’s the hero of this story.

He flashes that ridiculous smile, eyes still glimmering with self-congratulation. “You looked a little anxious back there. But I assure you, I had a dozen counters lined up—just didn’t want to overshadow Severus too badly.”

You arch a brow. „You barley stayed on your feet at all.“

“I had everything under control, of course. Just a few... strategic slips.” He steps closer to you.

You stare at him, expression flat. “You cheated.”

He laughs, waving it off. “Misdirection! Classic dueling technique. Very advanced. Don’t worry, I’m absolutely fine. No need to fuss over me—though I wouldn’t say no to a quick evaluation later, if your hands aren’t too full.”

Then—like he hasn’t just lost a duel, cheated, and nearly earned himself a coffin—he reaches for your hand.

Minerva, standing nearby with her arms crossed, mutters, "Don’t do it, Gilderoy."

But he does it anyway.

Before you can pull away, he is bowing theatrically to kiss your knuckles.

Severus moves instantly. He’s beside you in two steps, hand shooting out to grab Lockhart’s wrist. Hard.

The entire Hall goes quiet.

Severus leans in, voice low and lethal. “Touch her again and you won’t have a hand left to sign your fan mail.”

Lockhart swallows.

You can feel the tension pulsing off Severus’s body like magic ready to snap free.

You gently lay your hand on Severus’s arm—not to stop him, just to remind him you’re still here. You don’t pull him back. You just anchor him with touch, not command.

He releases Lockhart’s wrist and storms out of the Hall, cloak snapping like a thunderclap behind him.

The silence he leaves in his wake is heavier than any spell.

Minerva exhales quietly, glancing toward you. “Well,” she says dryly, “that’ll be a storm in the dungeons.”

The other Professors just nod in agreement as you make your way to follow Severus.

—

The last straw came on a late afternoon in the staff lounge. Sunlight slants through the tall windows, casting warm gold across the old rugs and worn armchairs. 

Minerva is knitting with sharp precision in one of the armchairs, Filius reading the Daily Prophet at the table, while Pomona sipping tea with a warm biscuit in hand. You’re flipping through a medical journal in relative peace when the door bursts open.

Lockhart enters with his usual flourish, arms full of what appear to be newly printed photographs of himself mid-duel.

"Ah! There you are," he says, striding toward you, ignoring the eyes that flick his way with mild disdain. "I’ve wanted to come back to you about a proposal I made not long ago. You’d be perfect for one of my upcoming book covers."

"No," you reply without even looking up.

"Come now, don’t be so quick to dismiss it again," he insists, dropping into the seat beside you. "It’s a series on famous magical duels—what better face for the healing heroine than yours? Poised, intelligent, alluring. Readers will fall in love with you by the end of the introduction."

You exhale slowly and close the journal. 

"Lockhart, I am not interested in being on any of your books. Or being near you. and if you truly believe that I would then you are more delusional than your Fanclub."

He winks. "You’re funny when you’re flustered. Very photogenic, too. I’ll have to talk to my publisher—"

"Don’t," you cut in, voice like steel. „Just leave. I was trying to enjoy the quiet afternoon."

Flitwick doesn’t look up from the Daily Prophet. "And we were enjoying the quiet too, before you arrived."

Gilderoy grins, undeterred, and sits far too close, leaning in. "Just five minutes of your time. I thought perhaps we could schedule a photoshoot? We could try a few poses—maybe something by the lake? Windswept hair, dramatic expression, healer robes slightly open—"

„I said I’m not interested."

"Oh, come now. You’re far too stunning not to be on a cover. I thought perhaps we could chat about it over tea? Or dinner? I simply meant to say I admire you—and I’d love to get to know you better. Properly, I mean."

From the corner of the lounge, Minerva speaks up her tone a warning, "Gilderoy. You know she’s with Severus.“

"Yes, yes, of course. But can’t blame me for trying. If he truly cared, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?"

"He is," comes a voice low and venomous from the doorway.

The room stills.

He crosses the lounge in slow, lethal strides. Before Lockhart can retreat, Severus grabs him by the collar and yanks him away from you.

"Don't you know to keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you?" Severus snarls, each word laced with fury.

Lockhart stammers, cheeks pale. "S-Severus, it was just a bit of harmless fun—"

"You will not touch her. You will not look at her. You will not speak her name. She is mine."

No one in the lounge moves. Minerva lowers her knitting slightly, watching but not interfering. Flitwick raises an eyebrow slowly folding the newspaper. Pomona sips her tea completely unbothered.

Severus releases Lockhart with a shove and turns to you, expression still thunderous. He takes your hand and, with that same silent authority, he pulls you up from your chair and out of the lounge, fingers laced tightly with yours, cloak billowing as you disappear down the corridor together.

Severus doesn’t speak a word as he leads you into your quarters. His grip is ironclad—unyielding, uncompromising. You watch him closely knowing that whatever is going to come from him, he needs it.

The door clicks shut behind you, and something in Severus breaks.

No words. No warning.

He grabs your face and kisses you like he’s drowning—like the only way to breathe is through your mouth. His hands are bruising on your jaw, his tongue insistent, almost violent. It’s need—sharp, feral, possessive.

You moan into the kiss, dizzy from the force of it, from the way he moves like he’s starved. Your fingers knot in his robes as he backs you into the wall with relentless purpose. His hands are everywhere at once—gripping your waist, sliding up under your blouse. 

His mouth trails to your throat, the bite he sinks into your skin is sharp, punishing. You gasp—and then his tongue follows, softening the sting, marking you with care wrapped in cruelty.

“Mine,” he snarls, voice wrecked and dangerous against your neck. “He looks at you like he has a right. Like you’re something he can claim.”

Your breath stutters, but your answer is instant, sure. “I don’t want him. I want you. Only you.”

He lifts you into his arms and carries you to the bed like a man who can't bear a second of space between you. 

Clothes are ripped, not removed. His fingers tear through fabric with a purpose that borders on cruel. You’re bare in seconds, and he doesn’t give you time to shiver. He mutters a spell and with a flick of his wand, silken ropes snake from under the bed, coiling around your wrists and ankles, binding you spread wide to the four corners of the mattress.

And then he stares. Drinks you in like you’re the last thing keeping him sane.

“Fucking perfect,” he rasps, crawling onto the bed between your legs. “Tied open for me. Nothing you can hide. Nowhere to run.”

He leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“Everything I’m about to do to you—he’ll see it on you tomorrow.”

You shiver at the sight of him above you—his eyes black with hunger, the furious flush in his cheekbones, the way his chest rises like he’s trying not to tear you apart too fast.

“You’re mine,” he growls, crawling over you like a predator. “Say it.”

“I’m yours, Severus. Only yours. Body, soul—everything.” you whisper, your voice shaking with need.

His mouth crashes into your neck and he bites—hard enough to bruise. You cry out, but it turns into a moan as his tongue follows, licking and sucking, leaving hot, dark hickeys blooming across your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach.  

His mouth works you like he’s stamping every inch of you with his claim. And you’re panting for him, back arching, tugging helplessly at the restraints as heat coils hard in your belly.

His hand moves between your thighs sliding two fingers through your slick folds.

“Already dripping,” he growls, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “And I’ve barely started. All this because you know you’re mine.”

He circles your clit—slow and tight—never breaking eye contact as he watches you squirm, moan, beg. He builds you up with cruel precision, rubbing you faster, harder, until your hips are bucking, legs trembling. 

“Don’t even think about holding back,” he says. “You’ll come when I say. And you’ll keep coming until I say stop.”

You gasp, thighs trembling. “Please—”

“Now.”

It hits like fire.

Your back arches off the bed, wrists yanking against silk that doesn’t give. You scream his name as your orgasm tears through you, long and sharp and blinding.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause.

He leans down, mouth sealing around your clit, tongue flicking with devastating force while his fingers plunge into you—fucking your soaking cunt through the aftershocks, dragging them higher.

He fucks you on his fingers until you come again—louder this time, hoarse and wrecked and trembling uncontrollably.

“Like a Goddess,” he croons, voice gone dark with lust. “So greedy. So desperate. Taking everything I give you.”

He pulls back. Your body limp and completely undone. Standing above you, he strips—piece by piece. His outer robe hits the floor, followed by his frock, then his shirt—each movement slow, calculated, deliberate. He’s peeling away the layers, the armor, everything that’s ever separated you from the storm of him.

And then you see him—stripped bare, cock in hand, already thick and leaking. The hunger in his eyes is savage.

“Beg for it. Beg for me.”

“Please, Severus, I—I need it—need you—make me yours.”

He groans like he’s breaking.

“Good girl.”

He climbs back between your thighs, presses the head of his cock to your entrance—and slams into you with one brutal thrust.

You cry out and your back arches hard off the bed, wrists pulling helplessly against the silk restraints. You’re wide open and trembling beneath him, every inch of you laid bare.

He hears the sound of your bindings stretching—your desperate, futile attempts to escape the unbearable pleasure—and it only spurs him on. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You feel like heaven. So tight. So perfect. You were made for me.”

Severus watches your face twist in pleasure, in helplessness, in surrender. And it breaks something in him. He braces himself above you, elbows on either side of your head, nose brushing yours, his cock driving deeper. Every muscle in his body screams to be closer, to bury himself inside you so thoroughly that you forget anyone else ever existed.

The only thing you can do is take it. You’re nothing but sound and sensation—bound, open, filled again and again until your thoughts scatter like ash and you’ve never felt more wanted.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” he growls into your ear. “How much I want you. How much I need you. My sweet treasure... all tied up, helpless, aching for me.”

Another thrust, brutal and precise, leaves you sobbing into the sheets.

“Mine.”

“Yours!” you cry, barely coherent. “I’m yours, I’m yours—”

He kisses you then—rough and possessive, swallowing your words as he pounds into you harder, the bed rocking beneath you with the force of it. 

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning down to bite at your breast, sucking hard until another hickey darkens your skin.  “Give yourself to me. You want this—every thrust, every inch. You want what my body’s doing to you.”

You sob his name, already feeling how yet another orgasm builds. Severus watches every reaction. Every twitch, every sob, every gasp fuels the heat surging through him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls against your neck. “You love this. Love the way I make you feel. You’re so needy. So vulnerable. Only for me. I own you. Every fucking part.”

You can’t answer. All you can do is cry out as he slams into you, over and over. Your head turns to the side, mouth slack, eyes glassy. Every thrust punches a sound from your lips. Your wrists pull at the ropes again, but you’re not trying to escape—you’re trying to survive the pleasure.

“You’re taking it so well,” he breathes, almost reverently. “So fucking well.”

He leans down and grabs your chin, turning your face toward him. “Look at me.”

You do—barely—and he kisses you again before thrusting harder, deeper, rougher. One hand slides between your thighs and finds your clit.

You cry out, shaking.

“Yes. That's it,” he murmurs. “You’re so close. Let me feel it. Come for me. Again.”

Your third orgasm hits like a lightning strike—your legs shake violently, hips jerking as you sob his name. Your body clenches around him, back arching off the mattress so hard the ropes creak. 

But there’s no relief. No mercy. Severus doesn’t stop—doesn’t slow. He fucks you through it, harder than before, every thrust deep and punishing, pulling gasps and sobs from your throat.

“That’s three,” he groans. “Still not done my love. You’ll be too sore to walk tomorrow. He’ll see what I’ve done to you. You’ll wear me like a damn medal all over your skin.” 

He licks a stripe up your neck, sucks just below your jaw until the bruise blooms like a signature.

You can’t speak. You’re shaking, every nerve lit up, too sensitive and too needy all at once.

He shifts just enough to get closer, to press more of himself onto you—his forearms bracketing your head, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. His hips never stop, cock slamming into you with feral rhythm, thick and hot and insistent.

His voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “Look at you. You’re shaking for me. Writhing. Crying. And you’re still taking me.”

You moan—a broken, pleading sound—as his hand slides back down your stomach, between your thighs.

“Too—much—can’t,” you whimper, your body twisting against the ropes.

“Yes,” he hisses. “You can. You will.”

His fingers return to your clit—merciless. The contact makes your whole body jerk, overwhelmed, desperate, breath stuttering in your throat. You can’t pull away. Can’t run. Can’t do anything but take it.

“You’ll give me every drop of yourself,” he growls. “Until you can’t think. Until all you know is me. Until your body forgets anything but the way I own it.”

You scream. The pressure is building again—impossibly fast, impossibly much. You thrash your head against the pillow, tears streaking your cheeks, your hands white-knuckling the ropes.

Severus leans down, mouth at your ear, voice low and cruel.

“I want you ruined. Fucked so deep into this bed you forget what it’s like to walk. I want my cock to be the only thing you remember. You can take it. You’re my good girl. You’ll give it to me.”

“I—I can’t—” you sob.

“Yes,” he snarls. “You fucking can.”

His thrusts turn brutal, his cock slamming deep over and over. The rhythm is punishing, his grip on your hips bruising, grounding you as he takes every inch of you.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his mouth dragging down your neck. “This cunt is mine. Your cries are mine. Your fucking soul—mine.”

Your fourth orgasm rips through you like a goddamn detonation—violent, unbearable, unholy. You scream, full-throated and raw. Your vision whites out, your back bows off the bed, ropes straining with the force of your body’s helpless reaction.

Severus groans loudly as you clench around him, his own body starting to unravel.

“Fuck—yes, that’s it, that’s it—” His voice is hoarse, falling apart. “You’re so fucking perfect—so tight—taking me so well—mine—fucking mine!”

He slams in one last time, deep and rough and final, with a growl so raw it sounds like a roar.

His cock pulses deep inside you, spilling heat in long, desperate bursts. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just presses deep and stays there, shaking with the force of it, his hands gripping your thighs like anchors.

You’re shaking violently, tears streaking your cheeks, body twitching from the aftershocks. Sweat slicks your body, and your skin is painted with his marks. 

You feel owned. You feel loved. You feel his.

Severus doesn’t move right away. He slumps over you, panting hard, his body shielding yours like a second skin and his forehead pressed to yours.

His voice is hoarse, ruined. “Mine,” he whispers. “My good girl. My perfect, ruined girl.”

You’re trembling, boneless beneath him. With a whispered word from him, the ropes loosen.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your swollen lips.

“He will never dare touching you again,” he breathes and holds you tighter. “You own my heart and life."

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose. His hands cradle your face.

You try to say his name, but your throat catches—raw from moaning, from screaming, from sobbing out every piece of yourself for him.

His hand cups your cheek instantly. “Shh.” he whispers, voice wrecked but warm. “Don’t move. Let me take care of you.“

He slowly eases himself from your body with care that borders on reverence. You whimper at the loss, at the sensitivity, at the way your body clenches instinctively in protest.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. My love I got you.”

Severus slips from the bed, and for a moment you feel cold—empty—but then he’s back, cradling you in his arms. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, holding you close and carries you to the bathroom.

He murmurs soft spells as the tub fills with warm, jasmine-scented water. Candlelight flickers to life around the room, casting everything in gold. Eventually sinking into the tub with you in his lap, your back against his chest, arms around your middle.

You can barely keep your eyes open, but you feel him everywhere.

He reaches for a soft cloth and begins to gently wash you—between your legs, down your thighs, over every bruise he’s left behind. Each touch is careful, like he’s trying to kiss the soreness from your skin through his hands.

“My gorgeous love,” he whispers, cloth gliding over your stomach. “I love you. I love you like I’ve never loved anything in this world.”

He tilts your head back against his shoulder and kisses your temple. „I’m yours, You own me, love. Completely. You’re my everything. You’re my peace.“

When he’s rinsed you off, he lifts you again—drying you with the fluffiest towel you’ve ever felt, dabbing between your legs with exaggerated gentleness. He doesn't miss a mark. Not one. He kisses your rope-burned wrists, your bruised thighs, your shoulder.

Then he whispers a warming charm into the fabric of one of his old and worn shirts and slips it over your head. His hands glide down your arms, smoothing the material like he’s wrapping a gift.

You’re almost asleep when he carries you back to bed, tucks you under the sheets, and climbs in beside you. He curls himself around you, chest to your back, arms tight around your waist.

“I meant it,” he says, voice low, full of weight. “You are my peace.”

You murmur his name, voice slurred from exhaustion.

He nuzzles into your neck. “You gave me everything. Now rest my love I will watch over you.”

He kisses your shoulder one more time.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek.

Then your lips.

Over. And over. And over.

Until your breath slows. Until your eyes finally close. Until sleep takes you again in the safest place you know.

His arms.

—

You are very late the next morning.

The staff room door creaks open and you step inside—slowly, carefully, like every step sends another jolt of soreness through your thighs. Severus is right beside you, his stride perfectly composed, while you walk with a limp that’s impossible to disguise. Your face is unreadable, but your eyes flick sideways, shooting him a glare that he pointedly ignores.

He looks smug—obscenely so.

You, however, are doing your best to maintain dignity, clutching a book against your chest and pretending your body isn’t on fire. You’re dressed in one of Severus’s black button-downs, oversized on you, falling just to mid-thigh, and hangs off one shoulder as if even fabric knows it shouldn’t try to contain you today. The collar is wide, stretched, slipping low to reveal your throat and collarbone.

Your neck is an unapologetic canvas of possession. The hickeys are bold and brutal—angry red and dark violet, the kind of bruises left by a man who needed the world to know you were his. Some are sharp, singular bites of color just beneath your jawline; others are sprawling, almost violent in their spread, traveling in a map of passion from your throat to your collarbone and disappearing beneath the parted buttons of Severus’s shirt. They’re layered—some overlapping—proof that he returned to the same spots again and again. There’s no mistaking what they are. And there’s absolutely no effort to hide them.

Every head in the room turns. There’s a ripple of quiet laughter. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just amused. A little impressed. And entirely unsurprised.

Your voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t. Just... don’t ask."

Severus peels off and moves toward the corner, his robes sweeping behind him. With casual precision, he starts preparing tea with an unmistakably smug gleam in his eyes.

Minerva hums, her eyes meeting yours, and one finely arched brow rises in dry, wicked amusement. "Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, dear. We all know Severus."

Poppy looks you up and down with practiced healer eyes, noting every limp and mark with a knowing smirk. "Honestly, darling," she says, half amused, half teasing, "you should take the day off. Merlin knows you've earned some bed rest."

Pomona chuckles warmly behind her teacup. "Well, that explains the noise ward I noticed around the dungeons last night."

Filius nearly chokes on his own tea, coughing into his sleeve with suspiciously twinkling eyes.

Then the door opens.

Gilderoy Lockhart strolls in, humming as if he owns the place and sees you from behind.

"Ah, there you are! I was looking for you last night—wanted to clear up that little misunderstanding. Surely we can start fresh—"

You turn around to face him.

He stops mid-step and eyes widen at the sight of you.

Before you can speak, Severus does.

"She was busy," he says simply, not even looking up from preparing tea.

You shoot Severus another glare as you limp toward your usual seat. You lower yourself into your chair with a soft hiss. He meets it like a man wholly satisfied and just calmly pours another cup of tea, adding a potion from his robes and sets it down on the table in front of you. He stays standing right beside you.

Gilderoy blinks. "Right. Yes. Of course.“

His eyes flick from your neck to Severus’s face—and linger. There’s a beat of tension. A challenge unspoken.

Severus meets his stare, cold and unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. His gaze alone says it clearly: 

Try, and see what happens.

For a second, Gilderoy almost looks like he might. His mouth opens, the glimmer of a smirk starting to form—as if he thinks this is a game.

You cut him off with a hoarse voice sharp enough to slice.

"If you try to flirt with me again after everything that’s painfully obvious right now, you’re even dumber than your smile suggests."

The smirk dies. Gilderoy’s mouth snaps shut.

"I’m with Severus, and I don’t want anyone else so whatever fantasy you’re clinging to—kill it. Publicly, if possible."

Minerva lets out a quiet, impressed hum, the corners of her mouth twitching despite her best effort to appear composed. Filius hides a cough behind his hand that sounds suspiciously like a poorly suppressed laugh, his shoulders shaking with barely-contained mirth. 

Pomona lifts her teacup in a silent toast of amusement, while even Poppy lets out a snort.

Severus lifts his teacup to his lips, slow and deliberate, smug eyes still locked on Lockhart.

Gilderoy backs away with a forced smile and a muttered, "Quite right. Understood. Perfectly clear.“

He turns sharply and leaves without looking back.

Laughter bubbles again around the room—quiet but no more hidden.

You sip your tea letting the potion in your tea soothe your raw throat, and allow yourself one small, smug smile as you lean your head against Severus’s side.

He leans down pressing a gentle kiss to your head.

[torawro]

royal knight!caleb & princess!reader.

cw ━━ ! minors, ageless, and blank blogs DO NOT INTERACT. reader is written / portrayed as a curvy, thick black woman but you do not have to imagine it that way ! anyone and everyone is welcome to read <3. historical / medieval au so there will be use of language & rhetoric relative to that era ( i.e., aye = yes or indeed . . . . i did my best doing research ). caleb is a high ranking knight in the kingdom they live in and is referred to as 'sir' because of his status. reader is a princess of royal status. mentions / descriptions of blood and injuries, and contains violence sprinkled with a little bit of gore (???). depictions of murder / character death. a liiittleeee bit of religious imagery & references, not sure but adding it just in case. hints at caleb having psychological issues and / or mental instability. kind of yandere(ish) behavior if you squint; caleb is obsessed with & in love with the reader. he is also a wee bit condescending ( not to reader ). instances of caressing ( groping? ) and slow, sweet kisses. veryyy subtle manipulation (?) via intentional omission of the truth. sorry if im exaggerating with these tags lol. directly based off this post i saw a few weeks ago. i tried my best to proofread at 1am pls excuse any errors. let me know if i missed anything!

word count ━━ ! 3.9k

notes ━━ ! man…..🚬🚬🚬 i can’t believe i wrote this lmaaaoooooooooo like what. where did this come from even.....anyway hi everyone i’m back with another (short-ish) fic <3 my apologies it's been another two months since my last published work, you know what it is: it takes longer for me to put things out and i wanna make sure i put my best foot forward every time >< but whoop whoop here's to my second fic of the year! as u can see i have gotten into lads during this past month and some change....... and i swear, i really had no intention of writing for any of the guys any time soon, let alone the newest one..... i took a pause from working on my longer projects to write this LMFAOOOO. i honestly thought that if i really did have a burning desire to write about them, my first lads fic would have been about sylus cause he.....anyway i won't go on a tangent about him, but i sincerely hope u guys enjoy this one!!!!!! obviously this is my first time writing for any lads character so pls be kind to me. i also want to apologize if this characterization of caleb is weird or ooc, i haven't unlocked him yet but i have seen a lot of content of his story in relation to the mc, his lore, his voicelines, etc so i hope i did him justice!! reblogs + commentary are HEAVILY appreciated ♡♡♡.

THE SKY REMAINED DARK, BUT a deep navy hue began to seep into the heavens, soon giving way to the dawn; the early hours of the morning was nigh. The castle was silent— obviously, but still eerily so despite the hour. There was a draft that seeped through the miscellaneous cracks of the stone, the shutters, and the windows of the castle that had not been properly shut, and the brisk breeze that flowed inside caressed the walls with a whisper— quiet but forceful enough to sway the small flames of the candles. The unsteady flickering of the flames grazed and dimly illuminated the walls behind them. Upon its surface were fresh stains, which would permanently seep into the stone if not cleaned in time. The stains were red.

It was blood.

In the many corridors of the castle was a figure, trudging through the halls like a corpse that had risen from its resting place, exhaustion weighing down his every step down to the marrow of his bones. He was injured— not gravely enough to make him lose consciousness but enough to reopen the wounds he so haphazardly patched himself before returning to the kingdom.

His chambers in the keep, along with all the other higher-ranked Knights, was on the other side of the castle grounds. He should have made a left the moment the portcullis closed behind his heels so he could at least get patched up again, get some water, and something else for the pain. Instead, the soldier walked straight ahead, onward to the main structure of the castle, down the stretches of its veins, up the stairs– a path he had memorized after spending many a moon traversing it, sometimes without your knowledge.

But he needed to see you, and he was unsure if he would be able to wait until the sun’s ascension in just a few hours time to do so.

The knight was tired, and that slowed him down, but eventually he made it to your private quarters. He made sure to quiet his labored breathing and footsteps as much as he could; the king would have his head before he even made it to your chambers if he were to be discovered.

You laid underneath a thick blanket, the warmth of the fur against your clothed skin protecting you against the brisk cold. As comfortable as you were, however, tonight you had trouble staying asleep. It would greet you kindly, only to slip away from your embrace if you held it too tightly. Your eyelids were half-open, finally on the verge of drifting close again, when an abrupt but muffled thumping noise resounded on the wood of your door.

The sound caused your eyes to snap open with alertness, any waves of sleep that were about to wash over you retreated at the sound. You laid still, absently wondering if you were hearing things, but the noise reverberated in the air again, then three times— it was soft, as if the source of the sound was being careful not to be too loud.

As the sleepiness of the late hours continued to melt away, you began to remember what day it was, and your pulse quickened as a result.

He should have returned today, you thought. But could it be? It cannot possibly…

And yet, that possibility is what tugged your body forward to sit up and straight, and slide your legs out from underneath the layers of blankets. That possibility is what led you to slide your bare feet into your slippers, and move to swing the long, woolen robe on top of your nightgown. That possibility is what pulled you to the thick door of your chambers, and opened it by an inch to peek through the cracks.

The relief and subdued elation you felt when you saw the familiar features of Sir Caleb’s visage on the other side washed over you.

But that feeling faded as quickly as it came when you noticed the state Sir Caleb was in. While it wasn’t abnormal for him to have a deep scratch or a bruise somewhere, he looked . . . worse, somehow. And whatever it was seemed to reach deeper than just his physical injuries.

Without exchanging any words or outwardly questioning him, you carefully— for he winced at nearly every graze of your fingers on certain areas— led him into your room, allowing him to use your body as a crutch. Caleb let out strained puffs of air, both in relief that he didn’t have to carry the weight of his own body alone anymore, and with increasingly dwindling self-restraint. 

He had hardly stepped foot in your bedchambers before; only about four steps past the threshold of the doorway at most, out of fear that his mere presence when he visited in your absence would become a noticeable, tangible thing. Like you’d be able to sense if he ventured too far in for too long, too many times.

Everything smelled like you. Your unique flowery scent was almost palpable with how it clung to every surface of your living space, even the air itself. The contrast between the fleshy softness of your body pressed against the cold, angular ridges of his armor was enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his pulse to miss a beat. 

“M…milady.” Caleb croaked, his throat significantly lacking moisture to the point it almost ached to speak. At this point, the remaining strength in the knight’s body had become completely nonexistent; the sword he didn’t even have the strength to place back in its scabbard tumbled from his loosening grip onto the ground, the sound sharp and uncomfortably punctating. 

“Sir Caleb”, you gasped, your grip tightening on whatever area of his stocky, towering figure you could reach. Both the suddenness of the sound of metal colliding with stone and your delayed realization of how serious his injuries were pulled your nerves all the more taut, the worried furrow in your brow growing more prominent.

Caleb’s legs gave out next, all while his heavier form still partially hung from your sleep laden frame. His arm slipped from around your shoulder as he descended to his knees, the movement clumsy enough to slightly throw you off your balance. The room was still dark enough that you did not readily see nor notice the blood that now permeated the folds of your nightdress. 

The honorable knight— who did not quite look so on his knees like this— absentmindedly grasped at your calves, pulling another surprised noise from the back of your throat. It was as if making physical contact with you would steady his mind that swirled endlessly with fragmented thoughts, stained with the dark horrors that crawled from the depths of his subconscious, and keep him tethered to the plane of consciousness. The blood loss would soon catch up to him.

Silence descended upon your room, save for Caleb’s ragged breathing and your quiet, frayed inhales. He still held onto your lower legs like it was his lifeline, the mesh underside of his metal gauntlets sending a subtle shiver with each miniscule movement he made, but you did your best to silence any hitch in your breath or twitch in your muscles. Worry still festered underneath your skin, so much so that you were afraid if you moved, or even spoke, that Caleb might fall apart at your feet, considering his current state. 

“Milady…” Caleb tried again, his voice still rough but a muted veneration was present underneath his words, as if your title was the beginning of a prayer. It was a thought that spurred another shudder to crawl across your flesh. “Milady, I have returned. The war with the kingdom to the east—Havencroft—  is over now.”

The knight turned his head slightly so that his cheek was resting on the fat of your thigh, your nightdress being the only barrier between his skin and yours. Another stain of crimson leapt from the side of his face that rested on your leg to your clothes, but you could not see it from this angle. Caleb almost resembled a wounded animal, marking the territory that was once his after enduring an attack– not much for your sake, but purely for his own, as a reminder of sorts.

Even through the linen, you could feel the uneven puffs of warm air from his mouth fan across that small area on your thigh. Like a magnet attracted to a metal of the opposite affinity— a force yet to be explained or explored— your palm gravitated towards the knight’s armored shoulder. Whether it was an action of acknowledgement and commendation, to silently urge him off his knees, or as a means to steel yourself was unclear even to you.

“The enemies… have been defeated.” Each syllable felt delayed, each word tumbled from Caleb’s lips like a wispy trail of smoke from burning incense, and the casual hold you had on his steel shoulder imperceptibly tightened when you felt his gloved hands trail up the back of your legs. His movements were slow—almost reluctant and experimental— but deeply rooted in reverence, as if this was the first and last time he would be able to touch you so boldly.

The knight below knew better. He was well aware that his actions more than just bordered on bold, they fully reveled in it– embraced it, even. But he was having a significant amount of  trouble caring enough to stop himself. It was always a difficult task reasoning with the thing that resided in the folds of his unconscious— especially and specifically when it came to you. 

Caleb awaited you to halt the soft caress of his palms, either verbally or by action, but neither came. You were rendered silent, breath slightly restrained as you stared down at him from on high, your palm still resting upon his armor. A part of you was swayed by the currents of curiosity to see what he’d do next, just to see what might happen you allowed this moment to persist a bit longer. 

And the other part…might have enjoyed this. It might have enjoyed the sight, the sound, the sensation of his iron skin, the subtle yet unknown metallic aroma that washed over your senses, mixed with his signature musk.

So he resumed, both his movements and his speech, which were languid and slowed. “Those that wished… to do harm to the kingdom, to you…They have been slain.”

The way his head shifted against your leg was like a cat nuzzling itself against its human companion. The weight of his body pressed upon you like this was even a bit endearing, and it began to melt your heart. Caleb’s hands glided from the backs of your knees down to the base of your ankles, only to carefully ascend back up the valleys and shores of your legs. In his ascent the hem of your dress got caught in between the gaps of his fingers, causing it to steadily rise like a curtain and expose the bare, supple brown skin hiding beneath it. 

His touch was so gentle, like dragging the sharpened edge of a knife against one’s skin in fear of accidentally cutting it. As someone who has done so much damage and has scarcely been shown this kind of gentleness, it was a bit jarring to see himself embody it so naturally.  “...The lot of them. I made sure of it.”, he continued, the knight’s noble heart raced so frantically about his chest, he thought it might reverberate and echo against his chest plate if it were to beat any more intensely.

Even with the sizable gauntlets weighing down his hands, Caleb was still able to tell just how delicate and cushiony your flesh was, and he released a barely-there, shaky exhale of his own when his fingers lightly clenched around it. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he was on the brink of death and was kneeling before the gates of heaven.

It was nearly impossible for you to distinguish the sensation of the carmine substance being smeared against your bare skin with each inch Caleb caressed, because your nerves had put all its effort into focusing on his breath fanning across your legs and the cold surface of his armor. At some point, the hand laying on his shoulder levitated to rest atop his head instead, the area unadorned without his helmet; a shiver rolled down the knight’s spine at the gesture. Sweat dampened the rich, umber strands of his hair, and the heat radiating from the crown of his head rivaled the one building underneath your face and chest.

“The army of the east kingdom, boasting numbers of over eight-thousand men, have all…. fallen. All of their strongest knights…”

Caleb’s words sounded a bit muffled as his mouth was slightly pressed against your leg, his pillowy lips continued to trail across the expanse of increasingly exposed limbs, “...their battalions, their village militia units…”

By this point, Caleb’s strong sense of rationale, his logical consciousness that usually never steered him wrong had finally caved in on itself. The void that it left in its absence would now be filled and controlled by the iniquitous thoughts that plagued him day in and day out. Such immoral, perhaps unhealthy, thoughts that always had you at the front and center of it all.

“...Even the gentry. Witnessing them …attempting to wield a polearm was almost pathetic. I would have pitied them, but one way or another, they would have attempted to harm you and our kingdom in some way, at some point…” 

There was a brief pause, the surface of his parted lips and that of his artificial armor took turns savoring the feel and smell of you, even being so brash as to place tender almost-kisses across your thigh. You gasped silently at that, and the reflexive clench of your fingers in the tufts of his hair brought forth something of a purr that vibrated in the back of his throat. Embedded within that imperceptible purr in his deep voice lurked something more dangerous you did not notice— sharp, like having a dagger pressed against one’s jugular.

“And I cannot allow that.” 

Caleb continued to murmur about his achievements of war into your chestnut-tinted skin as if he were talking directly into it and not you— as if it were actively listening. And with the way your nerves sparked and crackled with each syllable he pronounced, you could easily become convinced that it was.

Aye, he could not even pretend to spare an ounce of compassion for Havencroft’s  gentrymen, or their local militia, their skilled battalions and armies, nor their most honorable knights. Not after their plans and intentions were discussed amongst the king’s council just months prior, which served as the reason why he and the rest of the kingdom’s army were dispatched there in the first place.

Swine, the lot of them.

The same could be said for his own king’s council members— your father’s most trusted political companions and advisors— that had the gall to speak ill of and scheme against the king and his realm.

The balls to speak ill of you when they believed there were no listening ears around; about how your future ascent to the throne would be this kingdom’s downfall, about how His and Her Majesty should have tried for more children in hopes of a young lad.

He could only thank the gods that he returned from his knightly travels when he did, for the dark-haired soldier knew within seconds of overhearing such idiotic arrogance what his next course of action should be.

Like some kind of cunning animal whose only purpose was to hunt and kill, Sir Caleb watched and waited for the opportune moment to present itself before closing in to strike. And that moment arrived when he realized the two men were making their way to the western-most side of the main castle, where the kitchen and laundry rooms were located. He sneered at how clever they thought they were being, choosing that specific place because they were aware most of the help and servants had retired for the evening.

Without a moment’s hesitation, when he had heard enough drivel, he attacked, administering two swift but fatal slashes to their vital points— one for each man. The pain from moving like that when his injuries had been previously reopened nearly caused his legs to buckle, but he remained steady and quick. This had to be quick, for it would be troublesome if they made noise or if he was too sloppy with his timing and execution. Blood splattered on the nearby walls from the sheer force of his swing, the blade cutting through the councilmen like a cleaver cutting through a slab of tender meat. He made a note to himself to come back and clean any remnants that remained later.

The councilmen fell to their knees, staring and cowering from Sir Caleb in confusion, shock, and unadulterated fear at the realization that their lives might end that very night, and that someone might have heard them.

Surely they blathered on in hushed voices, demanding to know the meaning behind his actions, begging for the knight to spare their lives, frantically questioning him if he had heard them say anything particularly controversial. But Caleb paid no mind and did not bother responding. All he did was stare at them, his eyes as empty as a weathered piece of parchment with no ink on it, his salmon-colored lips resting in a straight line that spoke nothing of his true thoughts. 

Caleb’s gaze alone deeply unsettled them, for they had never seen him look like that before.

On his honor as a knight, Caleb would die before he let any harm— relative or distant, real or perceived, indirect or direct— fall upon you if it was in his power to prevent it. Because not only did he pledge his allegiance to the ruler of this land, but to you as well. And in performing his obligatory duties as a knight— guarding you from near and far, being graced with your kindness, your wit, your smile—it was inevitable that he would fall in love with you at some point along the way. 

And wasn’t it a good thing, a true virtuous thing, a normal thing to do what you can for the one they loved? To keep them safe?

And so, with that resolve embedded in his heart, the knight Sir Caleb would do what he could, and did what he must when the steel of his blade at last collided with the mens’ uvula. The last thing those so-called loyal councilmen saw was his void eyes, and the slightest upturn in the corner of his lip.

But you need not worry or be privy to the gritty details. All you needed to know was that he fulfilled his duty in protecting you, in protecting this kingdom you loved dearly and would govern someday. He would see through this role until the day he could no longer.

Aye, you did not need to know that the blood that had now seeped into the fabric of your pretty lilac nightgown and smudged on his face was fresh; you did not need to know that in some other part of this very castle, two people that had been around since your youth had drawn their last breath, never to be seen again; you did not need to know that the faintest hint of guilt and regret for his actions was snuffed out the moment his eyes met your visage. You did not even need to know of the tender affection that he harbored for you– at least, not yet. A separate time for that should arrive soon, he would pray on it.

And now, all Caleb needed was to hear it from you. That you were proud of him.

“I hope my efforts in battle were satisfactory to you, milady. That my efforts …in keeping your safety and interests of the monarchy at heart pleases you.” 

The knight's lips continued to drag across your skin in a lackadaisical manner, its touch at some point turning into undeniable kisses— pecks so light and fleeting you could have imagined it.

But you weren’t. You knew it to be so because the phantom sensation that was left behind after each one was as real as the ground you stood upon.

You were indeed proud of the knight before you, on his knees revering you with his mouth like you were some kind of holy thing that might disappear into thin air. For all of his years here, you have seen the scrapes, the faded scars on his ungloved hands, a limp in his gait or a straggle in his step, and you felt sympathy for him. You sympathized with him for having to sustain a number of different injuries in the name of your kingdom and its values. But seeing him hurt also inspired a great deal of gratitude within you, and you always made sure to take time at night before you fell asleep to thank the Lord above for uniting your paths– even though the two of you were on slightly different social standings. You secretly hoped that one day, that fact might change.

This is why you had no problem in saying that, “From what you have told me, Sir Caleb, your endeavors in battle are indeed quite….satisfactory to me,” Your words were momentarily interrupted with a sound that sounded suspiciously close to a pleasurable sigh, your fingers absently combing through his hair as you continued to speak, “So I must thank you, for doing your duty so well, and apologize that you were so badly wounded in the name of this kingdom. I truly appreciate all that you do.”

The words of sincere gratitude that spilled from your plush lips only excited the muscle beating wildly in Caleb’s chest, and they were enough to spur his heavy hands to glide higher underneath your gown, moving to the backs of your thighs once again. As his lips persevered in its affectionate assault of your legs, his palms mindlessly cupped the full roundness of your buttocks and gave it a slight squeeze, effectively losing himself in the suppleness of your curved body.

His name, without the proper prefix, was about to fall from your tongue, but you swallowed it down in exchange for something else. “This kingdom is— I am quite fortunate to have someone so capable…so strong and valiant at our disposal. Thank you, Sir Caleb, you have done well.” 

And that was all it took for a quiet groan to be pulled from Caleb’s throat. A part of him hoped you didn’t hear it, he was already behaving so shamelessly.

But another part hoped that you did, so maybe then you’d realize without him having to potentially embarrass himself how much he cared for you, craved you, and impacted him so deeply.

“Thank you, milady. You are too gracious to me. I am unworthy of your praises, but will humbly accept them.” One palm resumed its directionless roaming to map out your lower body while the other remained on buttocks, interrupting his own reply by offering your skin doting, airy kisses in between. His reddish violet eyes were somewhat hooded when his gaze flickered up to look at you once more.

“I will continue to do my utmost…to serve you and your kingdom.... to the best of my ability.”

( # ) @smiley-babe @ramonathinks @dollwrites @valentineluvu @rinsko . my apologies if u did not want to be tagged. let me know if you want to be tagged in my future works!

[trippinsorrows]

dreamland: the rough patch

authors note: idk. i wanted to write something. this is what came out of my opening google docs. been sitting on this concept for a while anyway, so why not?

not really tagging anyone, cause idk, this is too short for a taglist. if ya see it, ya see it. 😭

warnings: angst

*** gif belongs to @dejameflorecer ***

words: 1.7k (see, i can write short shit!)

The door being closed does nothing.

It muffles, but it doesn’t sound it out completely. Doesn’t provide the soundproof barrier prayed and hoped for by Leya who sits on her bed, her baby sister pressed up against her side, the story book of the night on her lap.

Though something tells her that Aroha isn’t paying attention to the tale of a beautiful princess and the handsome prince who came to save her.

She’s paying attention to something else entirely.

“And the princess said to the prince—”

“Leya?” 

The minute Aroha’s soft voice interrupts Cataleya from finishing her sentence, she knows what’s about to be asked. She just does.

Leya does her best to maintain her smile. “Yes, Roro?”

Aroha’s previously neutral expression slips into something solemn and almost fearful. “Why are mommy and daddy fighting again?”

Leya’s eyes shut. 

She knew it.

Knew it was only a matter of time before it was asked. Aroha may only be five, but she has eyes. Eyes that can see every time their parents avoid eye contact or minimally interact when in the same room. Can see every time it’s Leya who knocks on her door to read her a bedtime story cause mommy and daddy are “busy.” Ears that can hear the arguing that’s transpired more often than usual for their parents. 

Arguing that’s been happening the past two weeks. Increasing in frequency. And intensity.

But, Aroha is also only five, thus she doesn’t need to know all the ins and outs. Truth be told, Cataleya doesn’t either. She tries not to think too much about it, as it spikes her own anxiety. Causes her to face what could be a devastating reality. 

A knock on the door leads to it opening, followed by a set of faces. Leya and Aroha’s siblings. All of them. 

And, they all look the same sans Tama and Lina.

Worried.

Wordlessly, the kids load into Leya’s room, Lina closing the door behind them. Samaria is the first to speak.

“They’re fighting again.”

Leya casts a glance over to her twin, grateful for her sudden presence. Lina has always been much better at handling things like this.

“Couples fight sometimes, Aria,” she supplies, forcing a small smile. Leya and Tama see right through it. “It happens.”

Koa is the first to speak up, poking a hole in the defense. “But, they’ve been fighting a lot.” He looks over at his twin, prompting Kai to supply his own counter as well.

“And mom and dad never fight.”

Leya doesn’t say anything. That’s not necessarily true. She’s definitely seen them argue on an occasion or two. 

But….never like this.

It’s never been like this.

“They’ve just got a lot going on, you guys.” Tama attempts to cheer up his younger siblings, seeing the worry on all their faces. “That’s all.”

But, it’s Aroha who says and voices what all of the Reign’s kids are secretly thinking, just afraid to say.

Looking up at Leya, Lina, and Tama, her biggest siblings, she asks in the most innocent, heartbreaking voice, “are mommy and daddy gonna get a divorce?” Just hearing it makes Leya’s stomach drop. A shared sentiment for all the kids.

Still, she does her best to remain calm. “Aroha….” Cataleya closes the book, pulling Aroha onto her lap as the rest of the kids sit on the edge of her bed and the seats spread across her room. “Where—where did you learn about that?”

Aroha pouts, her voice so soft and sweet in nature. “My friend Raya’s mommy and daddy got a divorce, and now she only sometimes sees her mommy and sometimes sees her daddy.” Aroha’s eyes begin to water, followed by sniffling. “I don’t wanna live with mommy or daddy. I wanna live with mommy and daddy.”

“Oh, Roro….” Cataleya welcomes her into her chest, allowing her to silent cry, to let out her emotions. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Mom and dad would never get a divorce….right?” A tentative, nervous question asked by Samaria but issued to the OG’s. 

“They would never split us up,” Kai says with a level of conviction that wavers and fumbles as he too falls victim to his fears. “Right?”

It’s only then when the indecision washes over to Lina that she takes charge. “No.” She says, voice firm, drawing the attention of everyone to her. “Mom and dad are not going to get a divorce. No one is separating us. We’re a family, and that’s never going to change.”

Tama nods, recognizing that even if he’s struggling with his own anxiety about the unexpected onset of his parents' marriage problems, there’s no need to worry his siblings more than they already are. “Lina’s right. Mom and dad love each other. They’re just going through something. They’ll figure it out.”

Words that seem to somewhat settle Samaria, Koa, and Kai. Aroha requires a little more consolation from Leya, gentle kisses pressed to the top of her bonnet covered head. 

But, as the Reigns’ children work to comfort each other, the cause of said distress continues, thrives, prolongs longer than necessary down the hall, behind closed doors but never out of hearing distance.

Not from the children.

“Roman.” Solana closes her eyes and rubs her temples. This all feels so circular. “I don’t understand what you’re not understanding.” Because, she truly doesn’t. “I’m just asking you to commu—”

“Communicate with you, I know,” he cuts her off. Solana focuses on him. He looks just as exhausted as she feels. “I heard you the first time, Solana.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?” She snaps, shaking her head. “Why do I have to keep repeating myself?” Without giving him a chance to respond, she continues, pointing out, “it takes five seconds to text me and tell me you’ll be home late—”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I don’t have five seconds, okay?” He cuts her off once more, running his hand over his face. “I text you when I can, Sol. I always do.”

She scoffs, looking away before crossing her arms. “A half hour after dinner time is not soon enough, Roman.” She points out what was an issue once again just earlier this evening. “I’m worried about you. The kids are wondering where you are—”

“They should know I’m working,” he counters, adding with a level of a defensiveness. “You should tell them I’m working, so they don’t worry.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll just add it to the list of the other 50 million things I’m doing.” Solana says with all the sarcasm before switching back to seriousness. “Roman, I am stretched so thin right now—”

“And you don’t think I am?” He challenges. “Why do you think I’ve been getting back so late?”

Solana hesitates to respond, readying for a generic answer but ultimately settles on the truth. “I don’t even know anymore.”

If she didn’t have her husband’s attention, she most definitely has it now. Roman’s face drops. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She doesn’t say anything at first, partially wishing she hadn’t let the intrusive thoughts win. But, with the genie out the bottle, there’s no backing away from it now.

“You’re secretive. You come home much later than you have before. You….you don’t talk to me like you used to, and and you—you haven’t touched me—” She stops herself, hating the emotion building up. One minute she was angry with him, and now she’s on the brink of tears. “I just don’t know what’s going on—”

“What are you accusing me of, Solana?” A pointed, straight-forward question that he answers for himself, the devastation, hurt, and anger all palpable. “What, you think I’m fucking cheating on you? Is that what you think?”

Solana shakes her head, standing up from the bed. This is too much. “I can’t do this right now, Roman.”

“No.” He stops her, moving before her, blocking her path from the bathroom. Her destination. “We’re gonna have this discussion right now—”

“I said I don’t want to, Roman.”

“I don’t care.” 

The wrong answer, because as saddened as Solana was before, she’s irritated now. Stepping past him, she stalks over to her dresser, pulling out a change of clothes. “I said no, Roman.” Swallowing, she turns around and matches his intense gaze. “You used to listen to me when I said that.”

A slap in the face. It’s evident in the hurt that flashes in his eyes. That’s heard as he replies, evenly, “and, you used to trust me.”

A devastating blow. On both ends. One that renders both silent for a good moment or two, before Roman is back at it.

“Solana, we need to talk about thi—”

“I can’t, Roman—”

“Avoiding it isn’t going—”

“They found something when I went in for my mammogram.”

Probably the most unexpected thing to leave either set of mouths and most definitelysomething Solana didn’t want to share. Not right now. Not like this.

Because the look on Roman’s face is something she can barely stand to tolerate. His tone and volume have shifted almost entirely. “Wh—what?” She looks away, the tears finally spilling over. “What do you mean they fo—”

“I have follow up testing next week, but in the meantime, I need to not deal with all this stress.” She clasps her hands together, taking a deep breath, voice cracking at the end. “So, when I say I can’t deal with this shit right now, Roman…I can’t deal with it.”

Solana could and maybe should give him more than that. Should elaborate on what is easily the biggest bombshell he—and she—have faced in a while. If, she’s even facing it, because the fact that she’s been sitting on such a thing for almost two weeks speaks volumes. Roman’s correct in that they need to talk, need to sit down and actually try to conversate without it turning into an argument. 

But, not tonight.

Tonight, she can’t and won’t think about anything. 

Because thinking about it means confronting what could easily be a terrifying reality. 

One she refuses to acknowledge.

Not….not unless it becomes something.

[the-meme-monarch]

are there any tiny bits of info nobodys picked up on/ things you wanna say abt your dandys world animatic?

i rlly rlly like your animatic and all the characters look so malleable /POS

(link to it :]) thank yous !

but so hmmm a couple things no one's pointed out, as of my noticing,

-when the mains are looking at the newspaper about gardenview's shutdown, astro is looking at dandy, not the paper

-a lot of poeple noted the progression in the frames of delilah and the toons, but i don't think anyone's pointed out the sharp decline delilah has, like she got noticeably weak after creating finn, she's fallen down after making rodger, him trying to offer to help her(he was the only toon to notice something was wrong with her), the ichor stain on the floor when razzle and dazzle were made, (though it's plenty ambiguous, like maybe she spilled some ink/ichor my intention was that she threw up (threw up Before r&d were actually Made, it’s a stain she just hasn’t covered up yet)) and the stain is covered up with a rug when teagan is made. she's also wearing her glasses on her face more regularly as she makes them, and is sitting/leaning more often

-also some people thought shrimpo punched delilah here for no reason or just bc he’s angry/violent, but as the frames progress it goes from Immediately after the toon’s creation to Going to leave the room to introduce them to the others, he punched her bc he had Just been brought to life and she was in his face. scared him by accident <:]

-also arthur only got to be there for a small number of the toons creations, bc delilah was getting worse and she didn’t want him to see her like that

now a lot of delilah’s Deterioration comes from my own preconceived headcanons about toon creation from my ocverse that I’m just applying here for fun, but so: making a toon is extracting a fully formed and cognizant Thing from your heart and mind, your soul. a toon is generally going to be about as smart as you are, plus everything you intend for them to be. so that kinda takes a physical toll on you if you're making So Many and especially in a pretty short time frame. she's still making every toon on a different day but she's certainly not giving herself enough of a recovery period.

-i also don't think anyone's pointed out the first frame is a redraw of the secret page from the merch store :] imsogladtheyrefriends.com or imsohappytheyrefriends.com i don't remember the exact word

-in shelly's interaction with her twisted, she's trying to do the 'moving really slowly so it won't notice me moving at all' thing from like. all dinosaur media HDHSJSJ. she still has a bandage going back to the elevator though :( it noticed

-rodger also got hurt by his twisted, bro got beam attacked. did not get away fast enough after throwing the capsule back at it

-people technically Have noticed this but a lot of them misinterpreted what it was, vee is holding a seltzer prayer with the intention of spraying and short circuiting her twisted ! it does belong to looey though, which people did get right. she's giving it back to him going back to the elevator:]

-shrimpo and rodger are the last to the elevator (besides astro for narrative reasons) bc they’re the slowest toons in the game, rodger is pushing shrimpo ahead of himself to make sure he doesn’t fall behind :’] and toodles has bandages bc she helped patch their injuries

[ts4-poses]

NEWS IMPORTANT I'm back from my vacation! But there is a huge backlog waiting for me! So please be gentle with me, I will be adding everything in the queue, you only have to be a little patient! <3 Are you tired of understanding T.O.O.L. mod for your poses and don't want to use the move/rotate function on WW poseplayer? There is an easier way to move/rotate your posed sims! Try the mod 'Pose Alignment Interactions' here

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KNOWN POSEBUGS Eyelids Eyelids are still not fixed by EA after the Lovestruck patch, so it could be that eyes are not entirely closed in many poses due to this EA bug.

PLEASE UPVOTE THIS TOPIC Thank you for the immense response! Child/toddler/infant height presets Child/toddler/infant height presets for poses are sadly, after the Business and Hobbies update, broken. Topic to upvote HERE (@/electricwhims found a workaround for their newborn infant preset, so this works for poses again! Make sure to download the updated preset again!)

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[enemiestolovershoe]

Bandaged Hearts

Noah Sebastian x fem!reader

Summary: YN, a nurse, joins Bad Omens on tour and quickly finds herself patching up chaos. Especially when Noah keeps needing her help more than anything.

Words: 13.3k

Warnings: mention of blood and burn-out, noah crying a lot, smut p in v, oral male recieving, mention of alcohol and drunk people, probably wrong medical stuff

A/N: Some of you may know that I struggled with burn-out not long ago and wanted to write down my feelings in a story

Disclaimer: While the characters in this story are inspired by real people, the events and interactions are purely fictional and not reflective of reality.

When you decided to become a nurse after high school, you never imagined you’d one day find yourself on tour with four rock stars. Yet, somehow, here you were.

Bad Omens had decided they needed a nurse on tour. Mostly because Noah, along with the others had a bad habit of getting hurt during their Europe leg. In addition to that, there was an unusually high number of fans passing out at shows. Matt, their manager and sound engineer, figured it was time to bring someone along full-time. Someone they could trust.

And that’s where you came in.

You and Matt had known each other since high school. You weren't inseparable, but you'd been close once. Over the years, life got in the way, and your conversations had dwindled down to the occasional “Happy birthday” or “Hope you’re doing good” over DM. Nothing serious. So when Matt’s name popped up in your inbox one evening, it caught you completely off guard.

At first, you stared at the message for a solid five minutes, wondering if he sent it by mistake.

mattxdierkes: hey, random question. u still a nurse?

Your brows furrowed. Was he sick? Did he need help? You typed back, thumbs quick on the screen:

You: hey lol yeah i am. everything okay??

The typing bubble popped up immediately.

mattxdierkes: yeah! all good. actually, i might have a weird offer for you.

mattxdierkes: you busy for the next one and a half months?

You sat up a little straighter, heart kicking up.

You: uhh depends?? why?

mattxdierkes: wanna come on tour with me and bad omens? we need a nurse. for real lol.

You: wait WHAT??

mattxdierkes: seriously. think about it. it's chaos out here. noah’s been hurt like 5x already. fans are passing out left and right.

You laughed under your breath, already feeling the rush of adrenaline. Without thinking twice, you fired back:

You: YES. absolutely yes. get me out of this hospital pls.

Matt sent back a string of clapping emojis and a "let's goooo."

You weren’t exaggerating. You were desperate to get out of the hospital you were currently working at. The place was a mess. Short-staffed, overworked, and management was a nightmare. Touring with a rock band felt like a once-in-a-lifetime kind of escape.

And honestly? You needed it.

Which led you here, standing awkwardly at LAX next to the guys from Bad Omens, waiting for your flight to the first stop of the tour. Your suitcases, packed half with your own stuff and half with an overwhelming amount of medical supplies, getting a lot of suspicious looks from security.

A TSA agent flagged you down, pointing at your gear. “What exactly are you transporting, miss?”

You fumbled to pull out your hospital badge. “I’m a registered nurse," you explained quickly. "I’m touring with a band. It's all first aid stuff, I swear.”

The agent wasn’t impressed. "We're going to have to check everything manually."

Cue you, practically begging, “Please, I have to have this. I can show you everything. I’ll unpack it here if you want. Just, please, don’t throw anything away.”

Luckily, after what felt like a lifetime and some intense pleading, they let you through. You shuffled back over to where the band was lounging near the gate.

Noah, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a hoodie pulled low over his eyes, looked up and smirked. "That took forever. Are you smuggling something in a portable hospital or something?"

You rolled your eyes, dropping into a seat beside Matt. "If you keep getting hurt, you're gonna thank me for every Band-Aid in those bags."

Jolly, who was scrolling on his phone, glanced up and grinned. "She’s right. Noah’s a walking disaster."

Matt chuckled, bumping your shoulder with his. "Told you we needed her."

Bryan, sipping a coffee, added, “Just wait till Tomorrow. You haven't seen chaos yet.”

You laughed, already feeling strangely at ease with them.

The flight itself was long but mostly uneventful. You spent most of it flipping through your notes, double-checking that you had packed everything you'd need. When you finally landed and made your way out to the tour buses, you expected to be loaded onto one with the rest of the crew. Other techs, assistants, security. Instead, Matt threw his arm around your shoulders and steered you towards a different bus. “You’re with us,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Wait, with you? Like... with the band?”

Matt laughed. “Yeah. Better to have you close. Trust me, they’re gonna need you."

You climbed aboard, a little stunned, and found a spot by the window. The bus was nicer than you’d expected. Still cramped, but cozy, lived-in. Guitars leaned against the walls. There were random shoes, hoodies, and open bags scattered around. It smelled like cologne and Red Bull.

As the sun dipped lower over the Colorado landscape, painting the sky in oranges and pinks, you settled in, staring out the window in awe.

You didn’t get long to soak it in.

"Uh, nurse!"

You turned to see Noah jogging toward you, clutching his nose, blood streaming down his upper lip.

You scrambled up. "What the hell happened?!"

He grinned sheepishly, blood smeared across his teeth. "Got hit in the face with a soccer ball. Bryan’s got a hell of a kick."

You burst out laughing despite yourself. “Wow, that was fast. Matt didn’t lie about you being a magnet for disaster.”

Noah wiped his hand on his hoodie. "Yeah, well... consider this your welcome gift."

You ushered him over to a bench, pulling out your kit like second nature. "Sit. Tilt your head forward. Not back, you’ll swallow it."

He obeyed, and you expertly pinched the bridge of his nose, grabbing gauze from your bag. “You think you broke it?” you asked, examining the angle.

"Nope. Still pretty," Noah said, grinning at you under his hands.

You rolled your eyes. "Debatable."

Nicholas came up behind him, laughing. "Five minutes on the road and you’re already getting patched up. New record, man."

Jolly leaned against the doorframe, watching. "Should we start a bet? How many times Noah ends up in her care before the tour’s over?"

Matt clapped his hands together. "I’m saying... twenty."

“Twenty?” you gasped, laughing as you taped gauze under Noah’s nose. “You think he’s gonna survive twenty incidents?”

Matt winked. “Optimism, baby.”

Once Noah was fixed up, he sprinted off after the others like nothing happened, yelling about a rematch.

You shook your head, chuckling, wiping your hands with sanitizer. “I’m gonna need hazard pay,” you muttered.

Matt dropped into the seat next to you, tossing you a water bottle. “You’re gonna need a vacation after this tour.”

As the bus rumbled to life and pulled onto the highway, you leaned back, heart hammering in a mix of excitement and nerves. Tomorrow was the first show. You couldn’t lie. You were thrilled... but also kind of terrified.

You’d heard most Bad Omens fans were incredible. Sweet, loyal, passionate.

But you’d also heard the horror stories. The ones who crossed the line. Who could get a little too intense.

You swallowed hard, trying not to overthink it. You were here for a reason. You could handle it.

Before you could spiral into anxiety, the steady hum of the bus and the exhaustion from the day caught up with you, and you drifted off to sleep with the Colorado sunset burning behind your eyelids.

May 4th, 2023. Greenwood Village, CO

It was the first night of the US leg of the tour.

The show had just ended, and the air was thick, electric with adrenaline, sweat, and that heady buzz that only comes after a live show. Voices echoed in the distance, roadies shouting instructions, the hum of equipment being packed up filling the background.

You were near the stairs, crouched down, carefully repacking your first aid kit. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad night. Only two fans had fainted. Way less than you had mentally prepared for.

You blew out a quiet breath, feeling the tension slowly start to leave your body. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be as crazy as you thought.

But then you heard it.

Folio's voice was sharp and low. Cutting through the noise.

"Noah, dude. Are you fucking bleeding?"

Your head snapped up so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash, the ice pack you were holding slipping from your hand and hitting the ground with a soft thud.

The others turned too. Jolly, who had been laughing with Nicholas a second earlier, immediately went serious. Bryan swore under his breath and started making his way over. Matt was already striding across the floor with a grim look on his face.

You rushed forward, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Noah was limping slightly, the hem of his shirt torn and stained dark. A deep, ugly gash ran along his left side just under his ribs. Blood was soaking through the fabric, the red spreading fast, and though his face was mostly stoic, you caught the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw was clenched.

"What the fuck happened?" you demanded, pulling on gloves as you closed the distance.

Noah gave a lopsided shrug, the movement making him wince. "Crowd was fucking insane. I went down to the barricade and..."

He hissed as you pulled the hem of his shirt up to inspect the damage.

"Someone had sharp rings or something. I don't know," he gritted out.

"Jesus, Noah," you muttered under your breath, already reaching for antiseptic.

You eased him down into a nearby folding chair, steadying him with a hand on his good side. He sank into it with a grunt, his fingers curling tightly around the seat.

As you peeled the bloodied fabric back more, you got a better look at the wound. It was deep. Deeper than you’d hoped.

"This needs stitches," you said, your voice firm.

Noah tensed the second the antiseptic touched the wound, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth.

"I’ll be fine," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Just slap a Band-Aid on it."

You shot him a look so sharp it could cut through steel. "Yeah, not happening."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, cocky and stubborn as ever. But the pain was starting to show through now, flashing in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

"Stay still," you ordered, reaching for your suture kit.

Around you, the other guys hovered. Nicholas running a hand through his hair, looking stressed. Folio pacing a few steps away, muttering curses. Jolly standing silently with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in worry. Matt leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded, watching with a grim set to his mouth.

"You need to be more careful," you muttered under your breath as you threaded the needle, your fingers steady despite the adrenaline thrumming through you.

"Some of your fans are sweet," you said, glancing up at him as you tied off the thread. "Some of them are psychos."

Noah chuckled low in his throat, though it quickly morphed into a grimace of pain.

"Please," he said, gritting his teeth as you pushed the needle through his skin, "you sound like Matt now."

Matt snorted in the corner, shaking his head. "Because I'm right."

You focused on your work, the neat, practiced rhythm of stitching. "You keep playing tough with them, you’re gonna run out of skin to patch," you said under your breath.

Noah was quiet for a second.

Then, softer, he said, "Good thing I’ve got you then."

You felt your face heat up slightly, but you didn’t let it show. You just smirked a little to yourself, tying off the last stitch with a neat knot.

Behind you, Matt groaned dramatically. "Oh my God. I’m gonna puke," he said, rolling his eyes so hard you were sure he saw his own brain.

Nicholas barked out a laugh, and even Jolly cracked a smile.

You sat back, snapping your gloves off with a satisfied little pop.

"There," you said, giving Noah a pointed look. "You're patched up. Try not to get stabbed again for at least twenty-four hours."

Noah grinned at you, lopsided and a little too charming for someone who was literally dripping blood a few minutes ago.

"No promises," he said.

Matt muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "fucking idiot," under his breath, but there was no real heat behind it.

You grabbed fresh gauze and tape, wrapping Noah's side carefully while the others started gathering their stuff for load-out.

The adrenaline was still buzzing in your veins, but under it, there was something else too.

Something steady.

A feeling that maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

May 6th, 2023. Atlantic City, NJ

Two days later, chaos found you again.

The bus door slammed open with a loud bang, rattling against the hinges. You jerked your head up from where you were sitting, surrounded by a mess of supplies. You were halfway through reorganizing your gear case.

Noah stumbled inside, grinning like an absolute maniac, breathing hard like he’d just sprinted across the lot.

"Yo!" he gasped, practically bouncing on his heels.

You narrowed your eyes immediately, already suspicious. "What?" you asked, your voice wary.

Noah didn’t say anything right away. He just lifted his shirt.

Your stomach dropped.

Three of the stitches you had so carefully placed had split open. Blood welled up, fresh and vivid, a dark smear against the pale skin of his side.

"Noah..." you groaned, your voice filled with exhausted disbelief.

He winced, but still somehow managed to look smug. "I was just messing around with Nick and Jolly," he said, like that somehow made it better. "Someone shoved me."

You dropped your forehead briefly into your hand, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself into motion.

"You're unbelievable," you muttered, already snapping on a pair of gloves and grabbing fresh gauze from your kit.

Noah flopped down onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, spreading his arms over the back like he hadn’t just reopened a literal wound.

"You need to be more careful, Noah," you said, voice sharper now as you knelt beside him.

He shrugged one shoulder, the motion stiff. "It didn’t hurt at first," he admitted, watching you work.

"That's because you're running on fumes and pure stubbornness," you said, pressing gauze firmly against the bleeding. He winced but didn’t pull away.

This time, the mood shifted.

Noah grew quieter, less cocky. The air between you softened, humming with something you didn’t dare name yet.

He watched you from under his lashes as you cleaned the wound carefully. His voice, when he spoke next, was softer. Almost shy.

"I like it when you fix me up," he said, almost whispering.

Your hands faltered for a fraction of a second before you quickly busied yourself threading the needle again.

"Stop needing to be fixed," you muttered back, not daring to meet his eyes.

You placed the last stitch with careful, practiced movements, tying it off neatly. You grabbed a large band-aid from your kit and smoothed it over the fresh stitches with a gentle touch.

Just as you were finishing, the bus door swung open again.

Matt stepped inside, sunglasses perched on his head, a coffee in one hand and pure exasperation written all over his face.

"Seriously, Noah? Again?" Matt said, staring at the scene like he was physically in pain.

Noah immediately pointed an accusing finger at the empty air behind Matt. "Nicolas shoved me!" he blurted defensively.

Matt snorted, completely unimpressed. "Yeah, and I'm sure you were being a perfect angel, huh?"

Noah grinned wide, still unapologetic.

Matt turned his gaze to you, raising his coffee cup slightly in salute. "Well, Y/N, good thing I brought you along," he said, shaking his head with a laugh.

You finished taping down the bandage and sat back on your heels, glaring playfully at Noah.

"At this rate," you said dryly, "I'm gonna need a punch card for every time I patch him up. Free coffee on your tenth visit or something."

Matt laughed, ruffling Noah’s hair roughly as he walked by.

"Just try not to need a full body cast before the end of the week, alright?" Matt called over his shoulder as he disappeared toward the back of the bus.

Noah looked down at you, a lazy smile pulling at his mouth, the trouble still glittering behind his eyes.

"No promises," he said, his voice low and teasing.

You shook your head at him, trying and failing to hide the little smile tugging at your lips as you began cleaning up your supplies again.

May 12th, 2023. Oklahoma City, OK

It started subtly.

At first, you almost missed it.

Noah still laughed, but a little less each day. His smile was still there too, but it no longer touched his eyes.

He pounded back energy drinks like they were oxygen, but his untouched plates after catering told a different story.

The dark circles under his eyes deepened, blooming like bruises only you seemed to notice.

So you started watching him. Closer.

During soundcheck, you kept your gaze on him between pretending to organize your kit.

Backstage, when the others joked and killed time, you caught him zoning out.

Even during the shows, when you usually hung out by the side of the stage, half-watching, half-on alert for emergencies. Your eyes always found him.

You saw it happen once. Just once.

A missed cue.

No one said anything, and the fans probably didn’t notice.

But you caught the way his whole body stiffened, the way his jaw clenched like he was trying to hold in a scream.

You didn’t say anything then. Not yet.

Tonight wasn’t any different.

Noah hadn’t eaten a single thing all day.

You noticed.

And from the look Jolly shot him as they prepped for the show, you knew he noticed too.

"Yo, dude. You good?" Jolly asked, keeping his voice casual but his eyes sharp. He was standing a few feet away, bass slung over his shoulder, adjusting his strap absently.

Noah barely looked up from where he was tuning his mic.

"You look like you haven't slept in like a month," Jolly added, his tone light but his frown deepening.

"I'm fine," Noah said immediately, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

You crossed your arms, leaning against a case of cables.

"You've said that every day," you muttered under your breath, not even bothering to mask the doubt in your voice.

For the first time, Noah really looked at you.

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to call him out. Like he hadn’t realized you'd been watching him this closely.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching up automatically, but it didn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.

You caught Folio’s eye across the room as he slipped his sticks into his back pocket.

He gave you a small nod, subtle but clear. He saw it too.

"Watch him tonight," Folio said quietly, lowering his voice as he moved closer to you. His shoulder brushed yours briefly, grounding you in the buzzing chaos of the backstage area.

"He's burnin' at both ends," Folio murmured, his eyes following Noah’s hunched figure as he adjusted his mic stand again, like if he just tweaked it a little more, maybe everything else would fall into place too.

You nodded slowly, feeling that same knot tighten in your chest.

"He’s been like that for a while now," Folio added, his voice almost lost under the thrum of bass leaking from the stage monitors.

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching Noah’s hands tremble slightly as he tightened a strap that didn’t need tightening.

Something had to give.

You just hoped you noticed before it did.

May 17th, 2023. Birmingham, AL

The venue was pure chaos.

Crew members shouted over each other, cables snaked like vines across the floor, and Matt was in the center of it all, pacing back and forth with his headset slipping off one ear, practically vibrating with frustration.

"I swear, if this rig doesn’t work..." Matt barked into his iPad, jabbing at the screen like it personally offended him. His voice was sharp, his free hand tugging at his hair as he disappeared backstage again, still muttering threats under his breath.

You caught Noah sitting off to the side, slouched deep into the corner of a battered leather couch, a strange calm settled over him.

Too calm.

You made your way over, weaving through the equipment cases and stressed-out techs, and dropped down beside him.

Without thinking, you reached out and ran your hand gently along his arm, grounding him, needing the contact almost as much as he did.

"Relieved?" you asked quietly, keeping your voice low so it wouldn’t get swallowed by the madness around you.

He shrugged, a hollow, almost resigned gesture.

"If we can’t play," he said, his tone light but empty, "I can’t fail tonight."

Your stomach twisted sharply.

"Noah..." you said, leaning in closer, wishing he would really hear you. "You don’t fail. You play your heart out. You are human, Noah."

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric like he needed something to do with his hands.

"Some nights," he finally said, voice low, almost like he was talking to himself, "it’s all muscle memory. I’m not even there anymore."

The admission hit you harder than you expected.

You wanted to say something. Anything. Anything to pull him back from wherever his mind was spiraling.

But before you could find the words, Matt stormed past again, looking like he was two seconds from throwing the iPad across the venue.

"We go live in twenty or we cancel!" Matt barked, whirling around. "I need a decision, Noah!"

Noah didn’t even flinch.

He just kept staring at the floor, like Matt’s voice was miles away.

He didn’t answer.

You bit your lip, heart pounding. You reached out again, this time catching his hand, lacing your fingers through his. You squeezed gently, trying to anchor him back to you, to now.

"Are you okay?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

For a second, he just looked at your hands, at the way your fingers were twined with his.

Then he lifted his gaze to yours.

All the walls he usually kept up. The jokes, the stubbornness, the cocky smiles. They were gone.

Just him. Raw. Tired. Frayed at every edge.

"No," he said quietly.

And the honesty in that one word nearly broke you.

May 18th, 2023. Chattanooga, TN

The day was brutal.

The kind of heat that clung to your skin like syrup, thick and heavy, making it hard to even think about moving.

It was 103 degrees outside and somehow even hotter inside the venue.

Everyone was soaked through, faces flushed, moving like they were dragging invisible weights behind them.

Everyone except Noah.

He tore around the place like a man possessed.

Running from soundcheck, to fan meet-and-greets, to helping the crew set up some lighting rig he probably had no business touching.

You watched him dart past again, carrying a case that looked twice his size, face red and sweat dripping down his neck. Like he thought if he just moved fast enough, he could outrun the exhaustion setting into his bones.

You snapped.

"Hydrate or I’m taping you to a chair!" you yelled, loud enough that a few heads turned.

Noah barely even slowed down.

He shot you a breathless grin over his shoulder.

"After the set!" he called back like it was a promise and not a blatant lie.

You let out a frustrated groan and turned, locking eyes with Jolly across the stage.

He gave you a look. One of those yep, he’s gonna crash and burn looks.

You returned it with a sharp nod.

Jolly wasn’t stupid. He knew it too.

Noah was running on empty, stubbornness, and whatever caffeine he could find lying around.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, feeling the heat and the headache building behind your eyes.

You needed to talk to Matt.

You wanted to talk to Matt.

You had tried, more than once.

But every time you cornered him. Backstage, by the bus, anywhere you could grab five minutes, something pulled him away.

A tech problem.

A schedule change.

Another fan emergency.

And meanwhile, Noah just kept pushing himself harder, burning brighter, burning faster.

You clenched your fists at your sides, watching him disappear into the maze of cables and crew.

You were running out of time to stop him before he finally broke.

After the final chord of the set rang out, the lights dropped, the roar of the crowd echoing through the venue like a heartbeat.

And so did he.

One second Noah was standing behind the curtain, the adrenaline still buzzing off him in waves.

The next, he crumpled to the floor.

For a moment, everything else stopped.

The world narrowed to a single point.

Folio was the first to move.

"Shit! Someone get over here!" he shouted, his drumsticks clattering to the ground as he dropped down beside Noah.

You sprinted across the stage, heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt.

"Hydration tab, now! Get water! Cold towels!" you barked, voice slicing through the confusion.

Jolly didn’t hesitate, bolting toward the coolers.

Nicholas was already shouting at the nearby staff, waving them frantically over.

You dropped to your knees beside Noah, hands moving without even thinking.

You pressed your palm to his cheek and forehead.

It was burning hot, skin flushed and damp with sweat.

"Noah," you whispered, leaning close. "Hey, come on, open your eyes."

Slowly, like it physically hurt him to do it, his eyelids fluttered.

Glassiness swam in his gaze as he tried to focus on you.

"Fuck..." he croaked, voice hoarse and ragged. "Did I pass out?"

You exhaled sharply, part relief, part frustration, part absolute panic.

"Yes, you did," you snapped, yanking a cold towel from Jolly’s hand the second he reappeared.

"And next time you ignore me," you added, pressing the towel to the back of Noah's neck, "I'm dragging you off stage myself."

A weak, lopsided smile ghosted across Noah’s lips.

"Can’t tell if you’re mad or worried," he muttered, trying to joke, but even that sounded strained.

"Both," you said, voice cracking despite yourself.

The tears stung the corners of your eyes but you blinked them back fiercely, refusing to lose it here.

You heard Matt cursing under his breath behind you but you barely registered anything except Noah.

He let his head loll back, breathing shallow and uneven, trusting you to put him back together again.

Back at the bus, you didn’t leave his side.

You hovered like a ghost, silently switching out cold towels, forcing him to sip water every twenty minutes, even when he tried to bat your hands away with sleepy protests.

Every time he drifted too far, every time his skin stayed too hot for too long, your chest tightened painfully.

You watched him carefully, the way someone watches something precious they are terrified of losing.

Because no matter how stubborn he was, no matter how much he tried to hide it...

Tonight proved it.

He wasn’t invincible.

May 19th, 2023. Asheville, NC

You couldn’t find Noah anywhere after the soundcheck.

It wasn’t like him to just vanish.

Not unless something was really wrong.

You asked around but no one had seen him.

Finally, Folio caught your sleeve as you passed, his face creased with worry.

"Check the hallway behind the storage crates," he said quietly. "He’s... he’s not doing great."

Your heart dropped.

You moved quickly, weaving past cases and gear and tangled cables until the hallway narrowed and dimmed.

And there he was.

Curled up in a corner, half hidden by towering crates, hoodie pulled up over his head like a shield.

His hands were trembling visibly.

His knees were drawn up to his chest, and his face was buried deep into his folded arms.

It looked like he wanted to disappear.

You sank slowly beside him, careful not to startle him.

"Hey..." you said softly.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t lift his head.

Didn’t even flinch.

"I brought snacks and sarcasm," you added, trying to coax a smile out of him. "Best of both worlds."

Still nothing.

The silence between you stretched long and thin.

You hesitated for a second, then reached out, placing your hand gently on his shoulder.

He flinched but didn’t pull away.

And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, he whispered,

"I don’t feel like me anymore."

Your chest ached so fiercely it hurt to breathe.

You squeezed his shoulder, grounding him.

"You don’t have to feel okay all the time," you said, voice barely above a whisper.

"You just have to let someone in, Noah."

He finally lifted his head a little, just enough for you to see his face.

Red-rimmed eyes. Tear tracks glistening on flushed cheeks.

The kind of broken look that cracked you right down the middle.

"I’m fine," he rasped, but his voice was so raw, so hollow, it shattered the lie before it even finished leaving his mouth.

"You’re crying," you pointed out softly, not accusing, just stating the truth he didn’t want to admit.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t make some sarcastic remark to deflect.

He just wiped at his face angrily with the sleeve of his hoodie, like he could erase the weakness if he scrubbed hard enough.

"I don’t know how to keep up anymore," he whispered, voice cracking.

"Every night I feel like I’m falling apart. And I still go back out there... like it’s nothing. Like I’m supposed to pretend it doesn’t feel like everything inside me is breaking."

You slid closer, closing the distance between you until your knees bumped.

You didn’t say anything yet.

You just sat with him in the dark.

Letting him know he wasn’t alone.

He let out a shaky breath, hands digging into his hair, gripping it like he was trying to hold himself together by sheer force.

"It’s like... like no matter what I do, it’s never enough," he choked out.

"I scream my lungs out and I still wonder if they even hear me. I give everything and I still feel empty. I get up there every night and... it’s like... it’s like I’m screaming into a void that doesn’t care if I bleed."

The words tumbled out faster now, years of pressure cracking wide open.

His whole body was shaking.

You could see how hard he was trying not to completely fall apart.

But it was too much.

Finally, finally, the dam broke.

Noah pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of the sobs he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Harsh, broken sounds ripped from his chest, and you didn’t hesitate. You pulled him into you, wrapping your arms around him tight, letting him bury his face into your shoulder.

"I’m right here," you murmured, rocking him slightly as he fell apart in your arms.

"You don’t have to do this alone. You’re not alone, Noah."

He clung to you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling through the cracks.

May 21st, 2023. Myrtle Beach, SC

Matt scratched the back of his neck, wincing like he was about to get punched.

"Okay, uh… so I messed up the hotel reservations," he said, not meeting your eyes.

You blinked at him.

Noah, standing beside you, crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"How bad?" Noah asked flatly.

Matt grimaced. "You two have to share a room."

Noah's brow lifted higher, amused. "One bed?"

Matt nodded, looking thoroughly miserable. "Yeah. I booked a room too less. It’s either share or one of you sleeps in the hallway."

You exchanged a glance with Noah. He shrugged, not looking particularly bothered.

"Fine by me," he said, already grabbing his bag. "Not the weirdest thing that's happened this week."

Later that night, the room was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioner.

You lay in bed, facing the ceiling, your body exhausted but your mind buzzing.

Across from you, you heard Noah tossing and turning, the sheets rustling with every frustrated movement.

You turned your head toward him.

"Noah?" you whispered into the dark.

No answer.

Only the faintest sound of whimpering.

You sat up quickly, heart tightening painfully in your chest.

He was thrashing lightly, trapped somewhere deep inside a nightmare.

You reached out, gently placing your hand on his arm.

He jerked awake with a sharp gasp, body tensing under your touch. His eyes were wide and wild, chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air.

"Hey, hey," you said softly, keeping your voice low and soothing. "It’s just me. You’re safe. I’m right here."

He blinked rapidly, trying to reorient himself.

Sweat clung to his forehead, and his whole body trembled.

"I’m here," you repeated, sliding a little closer so he could see you clearly. "You’re okay, Noah. It’s over."

He nodded shakily and laid back down, but you could still see the way his hands fisted into the sheets, how hard he was breathing like the fear hadn’t left him yet.

You hesitated, then asked gently, "Wanna talk about it?"

He didn’t answer right away.

For a moment, you thought he might brush it off like he usually did.

But then, voice rough and broken, he whispered,

"I dreamt... I dreamt that I was on stage and the lights were so bright, I couldn’t see. I kept singing but... no one was there. The whole place was empty."

You listened, heart breaking all over again.

"I screamed until my throat bled," he continued, voice cracking. "But there was just... silence. Nothing. No one cared. I was just... standing there, bleeding and screaming into nothing."

His voice broke completely then, a sharp, aching sound he couldn’t hide.

Tears slid down his cheeks, and he angrily wiped at them, frustrated at himself for crying.

Without thinking, you shifted closer and pulled him gently into your arms.

At first, he stiffened, like he wasn’t sure he deserved the comfort.

But then he sagged against you, all the fight draining from him.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, letting him bury his face against your shoulder.

He clung to you like a lifeline, silent tears soaking into your shirt.

"I’ve got you," you murmured into his hair, one hand stroking slow, steady circles across his back.

"You’re not alone, Noah. You’re never alone."

He didn’t speak again.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, his body relaxing bit by bit as exhaustion pulled him under.

You stayed awake a while longer, holding him, making sure the nightmares stayed away.

May 23rd, 2023. Raleigh, NC

Noah had stormed off after the set, slipping away before anyone could stop him.

Now, hours later, the exhaustion was bone-deep.

You and Folio had spent the night combing the streets around the hotel, scanning alleys and bars and parking lots with growing desperation.

Jolly and Nicholas stayed back by the bus, just in case Noah circled back on his own.

Matt paced the hotel lobby, phone glued to his ear, barking into voicemails that never got answered.

By 2 AM, you and Folio finally dragged yourselves back to the lobby, shoulders slumped, defeated.

Matt sat hunched in an armchair, head buried in his hands. He looked up at the sound of the doors swinging open.

"Nothing?" Matt asked, voice raw.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the hotel door creaked again.

Everyone's head snapped toward the entrance.

Noah stood there.

Eyes glassy and distant.

Blood dripping from his hand.

His hoodie was half-off one shoulder, his knuckles scraped raw.

"Noah," you gasped, breaking into a sprint. You reached him first, hands hovering, unsure where to touch. "What did you do?"

He gave a crooked, exhausted smile.

"Got into a fight. With a wall. I think the wall won."

You turned sharply to look at Matt, then at Folio.

"Noah… are you drunk?" Matt asked carefully, stepping closer.

Noah shrugged, swaying slightly on his feet. "Maybe?"

Without another word, you took his arm. Gently but firmly and started leading him toward the elevators.

Matt and Folio were right behind you.

"I’m gonna text Jolly and Nicholas. Let them know we found him," Matt muttered, pulling out his phone.

In the elevator, the silence was heavy.

Noah leaned against the wall, eyes half-shut, a thin trail of blood still dripping onto the floor.

You squeezed his arm lightly, a silent reassurance.

Back in your hotel room, Noah slumped down at the end of the bed without needing to be told.

Folio dropped onto the mattress beside him, keeping a steady hand on Noah’s back to ground him.

Matt helped you drag out your medical kit, spreading gauze, antiseptic, and bandages across the desk.

"Alright, superhero," you said softly, kneeling in front of him. "Let’s see the damage."

You pulled a pair of gloves on and gently took his hand. His knuckles were split open, deep enough that the blood still oozed slow and steady.

You cleaned the wounds carefully, muttering soothing nonsense under your breath.

Noah hissed once when the antiseptic hit, but otherwise stayed quiet, gaze locked somewhere far away.

You stitched him up slowly, methodically, threading needle through torn skin while Folio kept a steadying hand on his shoulder.

You wrapped his hand tightly in clean bandages, smoothing the tape down with extra care.

Just as you were finishing the last knot, Noah’s voice broke the silence.

A whisper. Barely audible.

"I can't do this anymore."

Everything in the room froze.

Matt’s head snapped up. Folio’s hand stilled against Noah’s back.

You looked up at him, heart thudding.

Matt was the first to speak. "Do what?" he asked, voice rough with confusion.

Before Noah could choke out a reply, you answered for him, standing slowly, your hands trembling with the force of your emotions.

"Matt," you said sharply. "Don’t tell me you didn’t notice."

Matt blinked at you, confused and tired.

"Notice what?"

You turned, pointing gently toward Noah, who sat crumpled and small at the edge of the bed.

"Matt, he’s completely drained. Burned out. He needs to rest. He’s been running himself into the ground for weeks. And no one said anything."

As you spoke, Noah’s shoulders shook silently.

At first, none of you noticed.

But then Folio’s eyes widened slightly, and he reached out, pulling Noah into a side hug.

You dropped down in front of him again, placing your hands carefully on his upper arms, grounding him, anchoring him.

You could feel the way he trembled under your touch.

Silent tears streamed down Noah’s face, raw and unguarded.

He buried his head against Folio’s shoulder, his entire body curling in on itself like he was trying to disappear.

"Hey, Noah," you whispered, voice thick with emotion, "it’s gonna be okay. We’re here. You have us. You’re not alone."

Matt knelt down beside you, guilt etched deep into his face.

"Dude… I’m so sorry," Matt said hoarsely. "I didn’t notice. I should’ve seen it. I’m sorry, man."

Noah didn’t answer, just shook harder.

Matt reached out too, squeezing Noah’s other shoulder gently.

"We’ll figure something out," Matt promised quietly. "Together. I swear. You’re not gonna carry this by yourself anymore."

The four of you stayed like that for a long time.

No one in a rush to move.

No one willing to leave Noah alone in the dark again.

May 24th, 2023. Raleigh, NC

Matt had cleared Noah’s schedule for the day. No meet-and-greets, no soundcheck, no interviews. Just rest.

You were relieved. Honestly, both of you were. Noah had barely been holding it together lately, and today felt like a breath finally being let out.

Now, you sat side-by-side on the roof of the tour bus, lemon sodas sweating in your hands, the metal warm beneath you from the day’s heat. The sunset dripped pink and orange across the horizon, smearing the sky like someone had taken a paintbrush and dragged it carelessly. It was beautiful in that messy, aching kind of way.

Noah had slept nearly the whole day. He needed it, that was obvious. Even now, he still looked tired. His hair was messy, pushed back by the breeze, and he hadn't even bothered with shoes, just socks against the roof.

For a long time, you didn’t speak. The cicadas buzzed somewhere off in the trees, the distant hum of the city behind it. Noah tapped his thumb slowly against the side of his can, staring off at nothing.

Then, quietly, like he was almost afraid to say it aloud, he said,

"I’m feeling like I’m watching my dream rot."

You turned immediately, heart squeezing at the sound of his voice. The way it cracked slightly at the edges. He wasn’t looking at you; he was staring down into the opening of his soda can like it held the answers.

"I love this," he added after a second, almost like he had to defend himself. "I do. But... I’m crumbling."

You shifted closer without thinking, setting your can down with a soft clink against the metal. You reached for him, your fingers brushing against his knuckles first before you threaded your hand through his and squeezed gently. His skin was a little cool from the drink, but his grip tightened around yours immediately, like he’d been waiting for something to anchor him.

"Hey," you said softly, squeezing again until he finally looked at you. His eyes were tired, rimmed in faint red, but they were open. "You’re not crumbling. You’re tired. There’s a difference."

Noah let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but not quite.

"Feels the same," he muttered.

"It’s not," you insisted. "You’re not failing. You’re just... human. Even superheroes get tired, you know."

Noah smiled a little at that. Small, crooked. But it was the first real smile you’d seen from him all day.

"I don’t feel very super lately," he said, voice low. He leaned his head back until it rested lightly against your shoulder. You didn’t move, just adjusted slightly so he’d be more comfortable.

"You don’t have to be," you murmured, looking out at the sky as it deepened into darker pinks and purples. "You just have to be Noah. That’s more than enough."

He didn’t say anything for a moment. You felt the slow, steady pull of his breathing. The way he let himself be with you, no expectations, no pressure. Just the two of you, lemon sodas, and the endless Carolina sky above you.

"Thank you," he said finally, so soft you almost missed it.

You turned your head slightly, resting your cheek lightly against his hair. "Always."

Noah smiled again. Wider this time, the kind that touched his eyes and squeezed your hand back.

May 25th, 2023. Columbus, OH

The yelling echoed through the venue, sharp and unignorable even from the other side where you sat at your makeshift med station, repacking the first-aid supplies from the night before.

You didn’t need to hear every word to understand the heart of it. Voices cracking against the high ceilings, desperate and worn.

"Pressure,"

"Unfair,"

"Fucking tired."

The words carried like smoke, seeping through walls, curling around you even though you tried to focus on your work. You bit your lip, glancing toward the heavy curtains that separated you from the chaos.

Then. A shift.

The curtains stirred, and there he was.

Noah.

Eyes glassy, face pale, shoulders hunched in defeat like the weight of the whole world was tethered to his spine. He looked smaller than usual, like the fight had finally drained out of him.

"I didn’t know where else to go," he said, voice cracking halfway through.

You didn’t think. You dropped the gauze onto the table and immediately opened your arms.

He stumbled forward without hesitation, collapsing into you with the kind of force that made you take a step back to steady both of you. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist like he was trying to hold himself together through sheer will.

You held him tightly, hands splayed across his back, anchoring him to you.

"I’m losing everyone," he whispered, the words trembling against your skin.

You shook your head, speaking firmly even though your heart was breaking for him.

"You haven’t lost me," you said, brushing your hand up and down his back in slow, soothing motions. "And you won’t lose the others, Noah. It’s just... it’s hard for them to see you breaking down. They don’t know how to help yet. But they love you. They're just scared too."

He clung tighter at that, fingers bunching into the fabric of your shirt like he was afraid letting go would mean unraveling completely.

"I don’t want to be broken," he choked out.

You pulled back just enough to cup his face between your hands, forcing him to look at you. His cheeks were damp, lashes clumped together. You wiped the tears away with your thumbs, gentle but sure.

"You're not broken," you said, voice steady. "You're hurting. There's a difference. Broken means you can't be fixed. And you're still here, Noah. Still fighting. That’s not broken. That’s brave."

For a second, he just stared at you, breathing unevenly. You could see the battle in his eyes. The part of him that wanted to believe you, and the part of him that was still drowning.

Then. Noises from the hallway.

Heavy footsteps. Voices calling out.

"Noah?"

"Bro, where are you?"

"Come on, man, just talk to us!"

You turned, still keeping a steadying hand on Noah's back as the curtains shifted again.

First Nicholas, looking frantic and guilty. Then Matt, Jolly, and Folio right behind him.

They all stopped short when they saw you holding him, the tension immediately dropping from their shoulders.

"There you are," Matt breathed, stepping forward. His voice was soft, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

Nicholas scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting from Noah to you, clearly unsure how to start.

"We didn’t mean to..." Jolly started, but faltered. "We’re just worried, man."

Folio stepped in next, crouching slightly to be on Noah’s eye level even though he wasn’t sure Noah would look up.

"You’re not losing us," he said, voice thick with emotion. "Okay? You’re stuck with us, like it or not."

Nicholas took a tentative step closer, heart in his throat.

"We get it now," he said, voice rough. "We should’ve... we should’ve seen it sooner. You’re not alone in this, Noah. You never were."

Matt gave a small, almost sad smile, hands in his hoodie pocket.

"You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, dude. Let us help. Let us be here for you."

Slowly, Noah pulled his face from your shoulder, blinking like he was still trying to process that they were really there, that they meant it.

"Even if you’re tired... even if you feel broken..." Jolly added, "We’re still here. Always."

For a beat, nobody moved.

Then Nicholas crossed the space first, wrapping his arms around Noah from the side. Matt and Jolly followed, piling into the hug, Folio throwing his arms over all of them. You felt yourself getting caught up in it too, squeezed between them, the warmth and pressure a tangible reminder: he wasn’t alone. Not even close.

Noah let out a wet, shaky laugh against your shoulder, a sound somewhere between relief and disbelief.

"I’m sorry," he muttered.

"Don’t be sorry, bro," Matt said immediately. "We’re sorry for not seeing it sooner."

"We love you, man," Nicholas added, squeezing his shoulder tightly. "Nothing’s gonna change that."

Noah sniffled, a real, soft smile finally pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Love you guys too," he said, voice hoarse but real.

They all held on a little tighter at that.

May 26th, 2023. Grand Rapids, MI

The final note still echoed through the venue, vibrating through the floorboards and into the bones of everyone there. The crowd’s deafening roar followed it, washing over the stage like a tidal wave. But to Noah, it sounded far away, muted, like he was underwater.

He strode offstage, mic still clenched tightly in his hand, each step toward the wings making his chest pull tighter, breath harder to catch.

You were waiting just beyond the curtain, heart hammering painfully in your chest as you caught sight of him.

Noah barely made it two more steps before he sank to his knees against the wall, the mic slipping from his fingers and clattering softly onto the ground. His shoulders trembled, silent sobs already racking his body.

Without thinking, you dropped to your knees beside him, gathering him up into your arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t resist. He folded into you immediately, forehead pressing against your collarbone, fists clutching weakly at your shirt.

A handful of crew members stopped nearby, uncertainty written across their faces. Nobody quite knew whether to step in or give space.

Then Matt rounded the corner, jogging lightly toward the commotion, and stopped dead when he saw Noah crumpled in your arms. His face paled, concern flooding every line of his body.

"Noah?" Matt whispered, voice breaking the stillness like glass.

Through the haze of tears, Noah just shook his head fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. His voice, when it came, was barely audible:

"Too loud," he choked out. "Too many eyes."

You tightened your arms around him, pressing a soft, grounding kiss against his temple. His skin was clammy under your lips, and your heart ached.

"You were incredible tonight," you whispered, close enough that only he could hear. "You always are, Noah. Every single night."

Noah shuddered, and then his whole body seemed to go limp against you, the fight bleeding out of him all at once.

You rocked him gently, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing soothing circles into his back.

"It’s okay to break," you murmured, lips brushing against his hair. "I’ve got you. Always."

Matt dropped to his knees opposite you without hesitation, already pulling his radio up to his mouth to quietly call for a water bottle and a towel. His movements were quick but careful, trying not to overwhelm Noah more.

Nicholas appeared next, his face tight with worry. He fumbled for the tissue packet in his back pocket and held it out with shaking fingers.

Jolly knelt down too, resting a broad, steady hand on Noah’s trembling shoulder, grounding him without crowding him.

Folio crouched on Noah’s other side, not saying a word. Just placing a firm, reassuring hand on Noah’s knee, a silent I'm here.

For a few moments, the world outside the curtain didn't exist. Just the soft clatter of the crew moving quietly, the distant thrum of the leaving crowd unaware of the scene unfolding backstage, and the fragile, heavy breathing of the boy in your arms.

Noah finally lifted his head slightly, blinking hard against the tears still clinging to his lashes. His red-rimmed, glassy eyes found yours first, locking onto you like you were the only steady thing in a world still spinning too fast.

"Thank you," he rasped, the words raw but full of meaning.

You brushed his hair back from his forehead gently, giving him a soft, reassuring smile.

"Always," you whispered back. "Always, Noah."

The others stayed close, creating a protective circle around him without ever making him feel trapped.

The room was suffused with a kind of tender, unspoken hush. A reverence for the moment, for the break in Noah’s armor, for the way love sometimes looked less like loud declarations and more like quiet presence.

You tightened your arms around him slightly, feeling the subtle way he leaned into your touch, trusting you, trusting all of them.

Here, in the dim backstage of a roaring venue, you held him steady. Not in secret, not hidden. But right in front of everyone who cared more than they had ever admitted out loud.

And they would be here, you all silently promised, for as long as he needed.

May 27th, 2023. St. Louis, MO

It was just past 2AM when a soft, hesitant knock at your bunk pulled you from the edges of sleep.

You blinked groggily, heart already tightening a little because you knew exactly who it would be.

"Hey," came Noah’s voice, a rough, trembling whisper through the thin fabric. "I can’t sleep."

You reached out, pulling the curtain open just enough to see him standing there barefoot, in sweatpants and a hoodie that looked a size too big on him. Eyes glassy, skin pale in the dim blue emergency lights lining the bus hallway.

You didn’t hesitate. You patted the little empty space beside you, lifting the blanket invitingly.

"Hop in," you said softly, your voice still raspy from sleep.

Noah didn’t need to be told twice. He ducked his head and slithered under the covers with you in the way to tight bunk, moving slowly, like he was trying not to break something fragile.

As soon as he was close enough, you shifted to make room, wrapping an arm securely around his middle and pulling him into your chest. His body was stiff at first. Wired with exhaustion and whatever storm still brewed in his chest. But the second your hand splayed across his back, he melted against you.

"Your hoodie smells like home," he whispered, voice muffled against your shoulder. His cheek pressed into you, seeking every ounce of comfort you could give.

You smiled softly, threading your fingers gently through his hair, letting your nails scratch lightly at his scalp the way you knew soothed him.

"I’m right here," you murmured, pressing your lips to the top of his head.

Noah breathed in. Sharp at first, a stuttering inhale like he was trying not to cry again. Relief. Exhaustion. Safety. All wrapped up into one broken, beautiful breath.

You tucked his arm securely across your waist, holding it there with your hand so he’d feel anchored, tethered to something solid.

"Sleep now," you whispered against his hair. "You need it, Noah."

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t need to.

Within minutes, you felt the change. The way his breathing evened out, slow and steady, his body growing heavier against yours as sleep finally, finally claimed him.

You stayed awake a little longer, unwilling to move, unwilling to break the fragile peace that had settled around the two of you like a blanket.

Your hand drifted in slow, lazy circles across his back, tracing invisible patterns, grounding him even as he slept.

And as you lay there in the dark, listening to the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, you found yourself silently, fiercely grateful, that tonight, you could give him this.

Peace.

Safety.

Home.

All the things he deserved, wrapped up in your arms.

May 28th, 2023. Fort Wayne, IN

The morning was quiet on the bus, the kind of sleepy peace that came after too many late nights stacked together.

You stood at the little counter in the cramped kitchen, carefully measuring out ingredients for pancakes, trying not to jostle the bag of flour too hard and send it puffing everywhere. A bowl of chocolate chips sat within reach, waiting to be folded in.

You barely noticed when Matt stepped in until you felt him hovering.

He leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching you a little too intently.

"Hey," he said finally, voice easy but edged with something more serious.

You glanced up, giving him a questioning look without pausing in your measuring.

Matt scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight. "I’ve noticed you two," he said, tone gentle, almost teasing. "Getting pretty close."

You froze mid-pour, batter dripping slowly from the measuring cup.

"I’m just helping him," you said quietly, setting the cup down and wiping your hands on a dish towel. There was no defensiveness in your voice. Just honesty.

Matt exhaled through his nose, a small, knowing grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t accusing. He understood.

"Good," he said after a beat. "Because he needs you right now. But..." He pushed off the doorway, stepping closer. His expression softened, voice dipping lower, more protective. "Don’t let him lean on you so hard that you break too."

You turned fully to face him then, meeting his steady gaze without flinching. The sincerity there — the quiet worry for both you and Noah — settled heavy in your chest.

"I’ll let you know when I need a breather," you promised, giving him a small, reassuring smile.

Matt studied you for another moment, then nodded, satisfied.

"He trusts you more than anyone," he said. "Just... make sure he doesn’t forget how to trust himself too."

You bit your lip, emotions swelling under your ribs.

Wordlessly, you reached into the bowl of chocolate chips, scooping a spoonful, and held it out to him like a peace offering.

Matt chuckled, the tension breaking. He leaned forward and plucked a few off the spoon before popping them into his mouth.

"Deal," you said, voice lighter now.

Matt clapped your shoulder. A solid, grateful kind of touch. One that said more than words ever could.

"Thanks for being his anchor," he said, squeezing once before letting go.

You watched him walk away, disappearing back down the narrow hallway toward the bunks.

As you turned back to the batter, stirring it gently, a quiet realization settled into your bones:

The band didn’t just rely on Noah.

They were starting to rely on you, too.

And somehow, without even meaning to, you had become part of the thread stitching them all together.

You glanced toward the hallway where Noah was still sleeping, and smiled softly to yourself.

You wouldn't let any of them fall apart alone.

Not if you could help it.

May 30th, 2023. Des Moines, IA

The next evening, the green room was almost empty, filled only with the low hum of a distant air vent and the quiet rustle of supplies as you sat cross-legged on the carpet, reorganizing the first-aid kit.

Bandages, antiseptic wipes, gauze. You methodically checked every box, every roll, hands moving out of habit more than thought.

You didn’t hear Noah approach at first.

It wasn’t until he cleared his throat. A small, uncertain sound.

He stood just inside the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the post-soundcheck shower. There was a hesitancy in the way he hovered, like he wasn’t sure if he should interrupt.

Without a word, you shifted to the side, making room on the floor.

Noah crossed the room and sat down across from you, mirroring your position, his legs folding awkwardly under him. His gaze found yours almost immediately.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You went back to stacking supplies, giving him space to find the words he was clearly working up to.

Finally, Noah broke the silence, his voice small but steady:

"I don’t think I ever properly thanked you," he said.

You set down the box of gauze you were holding, giving him your full attention.

"You don’t have to," you said quietly, meaning every word.

But Noah shook his head, almost fiercely, leaning forward across the scattered first-aid supplies. His hand reached out, tentative at first, then firmer as he took yours, cradling it between both of his.

The touch startled something warm and aching in your chest.

"No," he said again, voice thick with emotion. "I do."

He squeezed your hand lightly, grounding himself. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knuckles, like he needed the connection just as much as the words.

"You saved my life," he said, the confession tumbling out in a breath. His eyes, wide and dark, searched yours with a rawness that made it hard to breathe. "On stage. Off stage. In flights. In hotels. Everywhere. You never left."

Your heart clenched painfully. You swallowed hard, forcing back the lump rising in your throat.

You tightened your hand around his, steady and sure.

"We’re a team," you whispered, voice catching slightly. "You would’ve done the same for me."

Noah didn’t look away. His fingers laced tighter with yours, like he could somehow say the rest of the things he didn’t know how to voice through touch alone.

"Thank you," he said again, softer this time, like a prayer. "For everything."

The air between you buzzed. Not heavy, not uncomfortable but thick with all the things words would never fully capture.

You gave his hand one more reassuring squeeze and offered a tiny, trembling smile.

"You don’t have to thank me," you repeated, just as quietly. "Just stay. That’s all."

And Noah nodded, a promise written all over his face.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Neither were you.

June 1st, 2023. Omaha, NE

The bus rocked gently beneath your feet as you padded down the narrow hallway, the soft hum of the engine and faint chatter from outside lulling the world into a late-night haze.

As you passed the little kitchen nook, you spotted Noah standing there, half-shadowed in the dim lighting.

The overhead bulb cast a soft, almost golden glow across his features highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged under the weight of everything he'd been carrying.

He lifted his head when he saw you, something tender and vulnerable flickering in his gaze.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked, voice low, almost hesitant.

You immediately shifted your path toward him, offering a small smile.

"Of course," you said. "What's up?"

Noah didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, fingers curling around your hand. His grip was warm, steady, but you could feel the tremor underneath like he was holding onto something delicate and precious.

Without letting go, he tugged you gently toward the front of the bus, pulling you into the living room where the couches and worn coffee table sat in cozy disarray.

He didn't let go of your hand even as he sat down heavily on the couch, looking up at you with an expression so open, so raw, it made your heart ache.

You sat down beside him, turning to face him fully, your knees brushing his.

Noah took a deep breath, visibly gathering himself. His thumb rubbed a nervous pattern across the back of your hand.

"I’ve been wanting to say this the whole day," he began, words tumbling out in a rush. "But... I couldn’t find the right words. I kept overthinking it and—" He broke off, shaking his head.

You squeezed his hand gently, silently telling him to just breathe. Just talk.

He inhaled shakily.

"You..." he said, voice cracking slightly, "you saved my life. Not just the night in Raleigh, or Grand Rapids, or anywhere in between. You saved me every day. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you sat with me when the world felt too heavy to move. Every time you told me it was okay to not be okay."

Your chest tightened, emotion building under your ribs so hard it hurt.

"You made me want to stay," Noah whispered. His fingers tightened around yours, like he was afraid if he let go, he'd lose his nerve. "You made me smile again. You reminded me that... even when I felt broken, I wasn’t unlovable. That I was still worth something."

He looked up at you then, and the sheer vulnerability in his eyes stole the breath straight from your lungs.

"You made me feel like I could be more than my sadness," he said, voice trembling. "You made me feel like home wasn’t some place I’d lost. It was right here, in you."

Your breath caught audibly in your throat.

"Noah," you whispered, barely able to get his name past the tightness in your chest.

He shifted closer, so close now you could feel the heat radiating off his body. His hands. Both of them came up to cradle yours, thumbs brushing soothing, reverent circles across your skin.

His eyes never left yours as he said, in a voice so full of certainty it made you want to cry:

"I love you. In every stitch. In every scar. In every broken, battered piece of me... you’re my home."

Tears pricked sharply at your eyes, blurring your vision. You let out a shaky, broken laugh, overwhelmed, heart splitting wide open in the best way possible.

"I love you too," you choked out, no hesitation, no fear. Just truth.

For a heartbeat, you both just stared at each other, emotions laid bare between you like a map of every scar and every healing wound.

Then Noah moved. Slow, careful, giving you every chance to pull away. And when you didn’t, when you leaned in just as eagerly, he closed the distance.

His lips met yours softly at first, like a secret being shared for the first time.

You sighed against him, melting into the kiss, arms sliding up around his neck as he pulled you closer, closer, like he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between you.

The kiss deepened gradually, growing surer, more desperate, like all the things you hadn’t said, all the moments you hadn’t touched, were finally pouring out.

The world outside faded into nothing. The engine’s hum, the distant noise from the venue, even the flicker of the bus lights.

There was only Noah.

Only you.

And the quiet, beautiful truth that had been waiting between you all along.

June 2nd, 2023. Kansas City, MO

The next morning, the bus was already stirring with soft laughter and the smell of brewing coffee when you and Noah finally emerged from the hallway.

His hand was wrapped tightly around yours, fingers intertwined like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You made your way toward the little dining booth at the front of the bus where the rest of the guys were already gathered, sleepy-eyed but lively.

As soon as they spotted you, Jolly let out a low, teasing whistle.

"Well, look at you two lovebirds," he drawled, smirking over the rim of his coffee mug.

Nicholas, still nursing his first cup of caffeine, lifted it in a lazy toast, his eyes twinkling.

"Congrats," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Matt, who had been sprawled out across the bench, immediately straightened up, grinning so wide it nearly split his face. He slid into the booth opposite you two, leaning his elbows on the table with exaggerated excitement.

"About time," he said, shaking his head like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

You ducked your head, cheeks warming, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Noah squeezed your hand beneath the table, grounding you with that quiet, steady touch you were already so hopelessly attached to.

He cleared his throat, glancing at the guys, voice thick but certain.

"She saved me," he said, giving your hand another gentle squeeze, "and so did you guys. Thank you... all of you. So much."

There was a beat. A soft moment where everything stilled, like the gravity of his words deserved space to settle.

Then, as if they’d rehearsed it, all four of them said at once, voices overlapping with easy, unfiltered affection:

"Of course."

Folio, who was leaning back in his seat with his arms stretched over the back of the booth, tipped his head toward you both with a smirk.

"Just so you know," he said, his voice teasing but fond, "I called that from the second she stitched him up back in Colorado."

You laughed, unable to hold it back, the memory flashing through your mind. Noah wincing, you hovering over him with shaking hands, neither of you realizing that something bigger had already started that night.

You leaned into Noah’s shoulder, hiding your grin against the soft fabric of his hoodie. He tilted his head slightly, pressing a small, secret kiss to the top of your hair.

The guys erupted into cheers, clinking glasses, mugs, and even a random water bottle together in a loud, messy, absolutely perfect celebration.

The teasing was relentless. Jolly pretending to wipe a tear, Nicholas fake-offended that no one placed bets, Matt loudly announcing he better be the best man if there’s a wedding someday. But it was warm, easy, and wrapped in all the chaotic love that had built itself between you all without even trying.

As you sat there, tucked into Noah’s side, his hand still clutching yours like it was the only thing keeping him steady, you realized something beautiful. This wasn’t just a relationship.

It was a family.

And you had never been more at home.

June 3rd, 2023. Memphis, TN

The air backstage buzzed with the low hum of crew chatter, the faint rumble of the crowd bleeding through the walls like a living heartbeat.

You weaved through the maze of cables and cases, scanning for him and there, by the monitor world, you spotted Noah.

He was adjusting his in-ears, fingers fumbling slightly, his shoulders wound tight with nerves.

You moved toward him quietly, not wanting to startle him. When you reached him, he looked up, the tension plain in his face.

"I’m nervous," he admitted, voice low, almost sheepish, as if confessing a secret he wasn’t proud of.

You stepped closer, into his space, feeling the familiar magnetic pull between you. Gently, you reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering a second longer than necessary.

"You’ve come so far," you reminded him softly, your voice steady, sure, "Remember that night? The one when I found you crying in the corner after the show? You were convinced you couldn't do this anymore."

He let out a breath that trembled at the edges, his gaze dropping for a moment, like the memory still hurt to touch.

You hooked your finger under his chin, guiding him to look at you.

"Look at you now," you said, smiling gently.

His eyes, dark and uncertain, searched yours.

"I never thought I’d make it," he whispered, almost like he didn’t believe it even now.

Your heart squeezed. Without thinking, you cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble there, grounding him.

"You did," you said fiercely, "Not just because you had to. Because you chose to. You’ve been stronger than you ever knew, Noah."

He leaned into your hand like it was the only thing holding him up, eyes shimmering with the kind of gratitude that words could never fully carry.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, "for believing when I couldn’t. For staying."

You smiled through the emotion thickening your throat. Leaning up on your toes, you pressed a kiss to his lips. A soft, lingering kiss that was part promise, part prayer, part I’m with you, always.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead lightly against his.

"I am so, so proud of you," you whispered. "Now go out there. Show them the real you. Show them the heart they fell in love with. The same one I did."

Noah exhaled, a deep, steadying breath. You watched as the tension slowly uncoiled from his frame. He nodded, a small but sure smile curving his lips.

"Okay," he said, squeezing your waist gently, grounding himself in your touch one last time before he had to let go.

He squared his shoulders, standing taller, a light coming back into his eyes.

And without another word, he turned and strode toward the stage, the roar of the crowd growing louder, swallowing him whole.

You stayed back, hand pressed to your chest, heart full, watching the man you loved step into his light. A light he had built from the ashes, with your hand in his.

June 4th, 2023. Wichita, KS

It was the last night before you would fly back home to LA.

The final show had ended in a haze of cheers and lights and raw magic. Better than either of you could have dreamed. It felt untouchable, almost surreal.

Hours later, in the dim, quiet hotel room, the adrenaline was still humming beneath your skin, refusing to settle.

Noah closed the door softly behind him, locking the world out. His eyes found yours in the low light, and that unspoken tension. The one that had been simmering between you all day finally snapped.

He crossed the room in two strides, hands cradling your face as he kissed you hard, like he was starving, like he couldn't get close enough.

You barely made it to the bed before he was guiding you down, hovering over you, his weight a comforting pressure you needed more than air.

You kissed for what felt like hours, slow and deep, the kind of kisses that made you forget what day it was, what your own name was.

You tugged gently on the hem of his shirt, breaking the kiss just enough to whisper, "Take it off."

He hesitated, breathing heavy, forehead pressed to yours.

"Are you sure?" he rasped, voice thick with tension, hope, and a trembling restraint that made your chest ache.

You nodded, thumb brushing the sharp edge of his jaw.

"More than sure," you breathed. "Please, Noah."

He kissed you again, softer this time, almost reverent, before peeling off his shirt and tossing it somewhere into the dark.

Every touch after that felt sacred. His fingers trailed along your collarbone like he was memorizing you, while your hands mapped the planes of his back, the dip of his spine.

You let out a low moan when his fingers found your chest through your shirt, pinching your nipple gently.

You arched into him, reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head in one fluid motion.

Noah sucked in a breath, eyes devouring you.

He carefully unclasped your bra, letting it fall away, leaving you bare under his gaze.

"You're so damn beautiful," he whispered like a prayer, tracing his thumb over your exposed skin. "How do I even deserve you?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not with the way his words cracked something open inside you. Instead, you tugged him down into another searing kiss, hands threading through his hair.

You kissed your way down his throat, his chest, his stomach, taking your time, feeling every shiver he gave you.

When you reached the waistband of his jeans, you glanced up at him, asking for permission without speaking.

He gave the softest nod.

You undid his belt slowly, teasing him, hearing the hitch in his breathing. Then you tugged his jeans and boxers down in one swift, confident motion.

You pressed slow kisses to his thighs, feeling him tremble under your touch.

When you finally took him into your mouth, his reaction was instant. A deep, guttural groan that made heat flare between your legs.

You licked the tip first, swirling your tongue, before taking him deeper, bopping your head in a steady rhythm.

After a few blissful moments, his hand found your hair, guiding you gently but urgently, hips stuttering.

"Shit, I’m so close," he gasped, voice wrecked.

You let him slip from your mouth with a soft pop, a string of saliva connecting you still. His desperate whine nearly undid you.

"Why'd you stop?" Noah asked, breathless, wide-eyed.

You climbed back up his body, straddling his hips, smirking against his flushed skin.

"Because," you whispered against his ear, "I want you to cum inside me, baby."

Noah let out a groan so raw it made your whole body shiver.

"Are you trying to fucking kill me?" he growled, but his hands were already gripping your hips like he’d die if he let go.

You kissed him hard, stealing the rest of his sanity, before pulling back just enough to shimmy out of your skirt and panties.

Noah’s eyes darkened as he took you in, hands roaming like he couldn't decide where to touch first. He slid one hand down to where you were aching for him, rubbing slow, teasing circles that made you keen.

"Noah," you whimpered, rocking into his hand, "I need you. Inside me. Please."

He didn't make you beg twice.

Guiding you carefully, you sank down onto him, both of you letting out broken, desperate sounds as he filled you.

You moved slowly at first, adjusting to the sweet stretch of him, your forehead resting against his.

His hands gripped your waist, and then he was meeting your hips with his own, thrusting up into you hard enough to punch moans from both of you.

"Fuck, you feel like heaven," he groaned, lips ghosting over your throat.

You rode him like it was the only thing that mattered, skin against skin, messy and beautiful and real.

The room filled with the sounds of your bodies. The wet slap of skin, the choked off moans, the whispered praises, and quiet, breathless laughter when you bumped noses or fumbled, too drunk on each other to care.

You fell over the edge together, clinging to each other like a lifeline, gasping each other's names into the space between your mouths.

Afterward, you collapsed against him, hearts pounding wildly in sync.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, holding you like he’d never let go.

You pressed a kiss to the inked skin of his chest, right over his heart.

"I'm always gonna be here for you, Noah. No matter what," you whispered, voice cracking with the weight of how much you meant it.

He tightened his arms around you, resting his forehead against yours.

"And I’m always gonna love you," he murmured back, sealing the promise with a soft kiss.

You lay there like that for a long time, tangled up in each other, breathing the same air, sharing the same future.

After a while, Noah brushed your hair back and looked at you with something new in his eyes. Something scared and hopeful all at once.

"I know it’s still fresh," he said quietly, "and it’s extremely early... but... will you move in with us? With me?"

You blinked, tears stinging your eyes for a whole different reason this time.

Grinning wide enough that it hurt, you cupped his face between your hands.

"Of course I will, Noah," you said, voice shaking with happiness. "There’s no place else I’d rather be."

He kissed you again, smiling against your lips.

Later, you lay together, already talking about which room would be yours, how you’d make it a real home. Not just for Noah, but for you both.

The future didn't feel so scary anymore.

Taglist: @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @courta13 @lacy1986 @bloody-spades @take--me--first

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[starlightsreigns]

get it together | s.sikoa

summary ⇢ emelie wants to work it out, she love's sefa too much to give up, but he needs to meet her hallway. word count ⇢ 2.1k tags ⇢ minors, do not interact. angst(kinda) and explicit language. author’s corner ⇢ thank u for the request, @bratzzzdoll this was an absolute thrill to write and hope you like it! x "i don't really wanna stay, i don't really wanna go."

Emelie brushes her hair into a neat ponytail. She stares into her vanity for a long moment, takes in her facial features then gently brushes under her eyes and takes a deep breath. Emelie feels tired, she looks tired, but she presents a front to the world where everything is perfect. There was a time when everything felt perfect, but perfect doesn’t exist in this life.

Downstairs, Emelie stands in the kitchen, prepping dinner. Cooking is her safe space and anytime she needs a moment to herself, she can’t help but cook a random meal she found online or bake so many sweets she’d have to ask her friends to come over and take them before she eats it all.

The house is quieter than usual, deciding against playing music tonight so she can be fully alone with her thoughts.

Sefa should’ve been home by now, but as of late, he’s come home later and later.

What has become of their relationship? There used to be a time when he’d be home the second he was done with training or with work. He’d burst through the door and wrap his arms around her and smother her in kisses then they’d eat dinner on the couch. Yet, now, he’d stay out late with his friends and she’d barely get a kiss.

They’re complacent.

Several years down in their relationship, nothing is progressing past the point of being boyfriend and girlfriend. They don’t officially live together, there’s no talk about the future and what’s to come.

Emelie gets it, truly, she gets it. WWE is demanding and he has relationships to foster through that tight schedule, but she’s taken the back seat in his life — on the totem pole, she’s found herself at the bottom.

How do they reconcile this?

“Emz?” His voice reverberates through the house.

“In the kitchen,” Emelie shouts as she moves to a different sauce pan. She hears the kitchen door open. “Hey, baby.”

Sefa peeks over her shoulder at the food, “I’ve had a long day.” He groans.

“Oh? What happened?” Emilie focuses on the fish she’s cooking.

Without a kiss, or acknowledging her, Sefa goes on to complain about his training and the myriad of other issues with his upcoming storyline. There’s a point where Emilie zones out, looking up and out of the window at the sink.

“I’m sorry it was so bad,” Emelie rubs his shoulder and sets his dinner in front of him. “Want a drink?”

“Nah, actually, Imma go shower and put the game on.”

Emelie watched him stand from the table with his plate and walk away. She takes a step forward then immediately stops. For a moment a pang hits her chest and she wants to say something, but instead she goes to finish the dishes in the sink. Her hands work roughly on the pans as her breathing quickens. She wants to kick, scream, and cry for him to see how she feels.

The simplest route is the hardest one and it rings in her ear: Emelie just leave.

She loves Sefa more than anything. They’ve gone through so much together, they’ve been through rough patches and those were easier than the pain she’s suffering now. This isn’t the love they’ve grown through the years. It makes her question whether or not there’s someone else.

“There’s no one else.” Emelie says aloud and drops the pan in the sick. The thought shocks her. It wasn’t a safe or healthy thing to ponder. She knows deep down in her heart that Sefa wouldn’t do that.

After setting the pans to dry and cleaning up, Emelie walks into the living room to see him in front of the TV. Sefa glances back at her then goes back to the TV. She stops behind the sofa and clocks the plate still filled with food.

“You not hungry, Sefa?” Emelie questions softly.

“Nah, I had dinner with the twins earlier.”

Emelie waits for a moment, waits to see if he’ll say anything else, but continues up towards the stairs where her purse sits in the first step. If she didn’t go home tonight, she’d lose her mind. Emelie ponders on it but goes up the stairs. She doesn’t want to leave, but she needs to leave… no, she doesn’t want to leave.

In the bedroom, she stares into the mirror and decides she needs to make a point. If she doesn’t go home, Sefa will think this is okay.

“Emelie?” Sefa clears his throat as he watches her put her jacket on downstairs. “Where you goin’?”

“I’m going home.” She speaks softly while tying her shoelaces. “I need to go home.”

Sefa stands up, “Emz, what’s going on?”

Emelie whips towards him, “Get it together, Sefa, I need to go and if it’s forever is up to you.”

A quick escape is nearly impossible when he rushes in front of her. Emelie stares at him, but it’s not a look filled with anger, it’s one of sadness. She doesn’t want to do this, but her back is against a wall.

“Emelie, baby, talk to me.” Sefa holds her cheeks in the palms of his hand. “What’s going”

“Why do you treat me the way that you, Sefa, we’ve been dating for almost five years and you treat me like I’m a house lady that takes over your space when you’re here. You don’t even come home and kiss me and spend time with me anymore.” Emelie looks down to keep the tears at bay. “And now I’m begging you—”

Sefa wipes a tear off her cheek, “Baby, I’m so sorry that I’ve made you feel like that.” He whispers softly and pulls her against his chest. “Please don’t leave, Emz.”

Emelie shuts her eyes for a second, “I just need to go home for the night, Sefa, I need a second.”

“i’m fed up with you not being here with me”

Her house feels colder. Emelie, for the past three years, spent most of her time at Sefa’s house. It was just easier for them to be there. She lived almost an hour away and her job was the midpoint. It was a convenient thing —but he never truly asked her to move it, so much so that she had to pack her bags for weeks at a time. Yet, the past three hours in her own home makes her slightly uncomfortable.

Emelie sits on the edge of her bed on her phone. She sighs at a text message from Sefa. She’s not going to break up with, she loves him too much for that, but Emelie just wants him to understand that there needs to be something more.

The text message makes her smile softly.

sefa: emz, i love you so much and im sorry i haven’t made you feel like i do. but baby, you the love of my life and i promise you’ll never question it ever it again. okay? can you please come home?

Emelie sighs. A second message makes her get out of bed.

sefa: emelie, will you come home? come open the door.

A silly look passes on her face as she makes her way to her front door. She opens it slowly. Sefa stands there with a bowl. He opens it slowly and Emelie can’t help but laugh softly. In the bowl is what looks like some semblance of food, but she’s not sure what.

“I cooked you dinner, and I’m hopin’ we can eat it at home together.” Sefa gives her a sincere grin. “Emelie, forgive me baby and I’ll never take you for granted ever again.”

Emelie stares at him for a second and nods. “I forgive you, baby,”

Sefa sets the bowl down then pulls Emelie into him and plants a soft kiss on her lips. She melts into him and smiles until they pull away.

“I know this is a couple years overdue, but Emz, I want you to move in. I want you to feel comfortable. It’s always been our home and you should feel like it is.” Sefa moves her hair out of her face. “Is it a yes?”

“I just want us to have better communication,” Emelie searches his eyes. “But yes, I’ll move in with you, baby.” She smiles brightly, jumping into his arms.

“You know love is all I need”

Emelie stares into the mirror as she nitpicks her outfit. She spent over an hour trying to figure out what to wear until she landed on a little red dress Sefa bought for her years ago, she paired it with the highest heels she owns, and allowed her curls to fan out over her shoulder. Emelie smiles into the mirror. In all honesty, Sefa hinted at wanting to see her in the outfit tonight, so she obliged.

“Good enough to fuck,” she laughs at herself.

Since moving in, things have been… a work in progress. Things don’t change overnight, but Sefa is better at his communication and it’s made things easier to work on. Most days are easier than others, but five years makes you immune sometimes.

Tonight, Emelie decided to surprise him. In her sexiest outfit, she made his favorite meal, his second favorite dessert and kept his favorite dessert (her), ready to go.

Yet, the clock reads 10 and Emelie finds herself sitting alone at the dinner table. She looks down at her phone with a deep breath. She opens her text messages and sends him one message.

Emelie: hey baby, you coming home soon?

… then another fifteen minutes later.

Emelie: hey, are you okay?

… and another.

Emelie: Sefa. Just let me know you’re alive and safe.

Once the clock reads 11:45, Emelie is past the point of anger. He was supposed to be home at 8:30. She glances at her phone when he finally texts back and her jaw drops.

Sefa: damn emzzz, im otw

A ticking time bomb activates inside of her. She pushes her chair back and grabs the plates of food from the table. Emelie practically kicks down the door of the kitchen and marches to the trash can. Through the anger, she drops the food and the plates into the trash.

“He really must have me fucked up.” She grits.

Emelie paces the kitchen in hopes to calm herself down. Finally, she takes a massive breath and exits the kitchen in time to see Sefa walk through the door. Her eyes zeros in on him and he can see the anger in them.

“Baby, please, just come here.” He immediately runs towards and takes her hand. “Emz, lemme explain and I swear it’ll make sense.”

She doesn’t respond. Emelie can’t find a word to describe her anger nor her disappointment. Everything has been going so good and he goes and fucks it up like this.

“First of all, I’m sorry I ain’t text back or called before.” He cups her face. “I’m sorry about the dinner I know you cooked for us.” Sefa glances back at the table.

Emelie pouts softly as she feels the tears coming, “Sefa, what the fuck is up with you?”

“Baby, just come with me and I’ll show you.”

As hesitant as Emelie was, she followed him out to his car. It wasn’t too long of a drive and confusion knits on her face when they pull into a neighborhood. The houses are extravagant, not that Sefa’s house wasn’t already insane, but these were just insane!

Sefa opens the passenger side door and helps Emelie out.

“What are we doin’ here?” Emelie looks at him. “Whose fucking house is this?”

A look passes on Sefa’s face. He stares at Emelie then smiles, “This our house, baby.”

Emelie doesn’t move and she doesn’t say a word. Her mouth hangs open as she turns to look at it. It’s a house out of her pinterest board dreams.

“You’re fucking lying,” Emelie gasps and walks up to him. “You’re lying, is the bitch you’re fucking living here?” She jokes.

“Baby, the only person I’m fucking is you, and we live here.”

It was all too much. Emelie pulls him closer and crashes her lips onto his. The tears that were at bay earlier fall like a waterfall onto her cheek. Sefa hugs her waist tightly and hums.

“I know I’m not the easiest to love, Emelie, but you deserve this and more.” He peers into her eyes whilst holding her up. “I love you.”

Emelie rubs her nose against his, “I’ll always love, Sefa, no matter what.”

“Wanna go see inside?” Sefa whispers against her lips. “I think you gonna like the bedroom.”

Emelie bites her lip, “Of course.”

this was very fun to write, hope you all enjoyed it x

send your request, as usual, and i'll try to get them done!

[thenightwolf51]

So i originally had this idea when i reblogged this post by @saphushia but i wanna just seperate it out as its own little prompt.

A quick context is that Danny seems to be roaming around Gotham like some homeless cryptid, kinda Bus to Nowhere style but with more vigilante interaction and casual offerings of first aid. And the batkids are keeping their adoption bait First Aid Cryptid(tm) secret from Batman.

One set of tags in the reblogs from @little-pondhead caught my attention

I came up with both funny answers and an angsty answer for that "#why?" but here's the angsty one (though i promice i actually envision it to be more hurt/comfort with a lot of family fluff)

Actual Prompt⬇️⬇️

Something happens, maybe a reveal gone wrong, maybe he got capture by the GIW, maybe he lost Jazz and his parents somehow.

Whatever it is, it leaves Danny with a need to escaped to a new dimension which just so happens to end up being the DCU. He winds up in Gotham and is just trying to start over, easier said than done but at there's plenty of heros around so he doesn't need to go ghost and he can still patch up the local vigilantes to feed his obsession. He's just not up to being Phantom yet and he's still recovering from whatever happened in Amity, whether it be mentally or physically.

Plus these vigilantes are kinda fun to mess with. Danny can practically see the gears turning as they try to put together and make sense of his little "lore drops", that Red Robin almost reminds him of Wes in a way.

Its not like he really needs to hide anyways. There's no GIW here, no Anti-Ecto Acts, if it really comes down to it he could probably pass as meta and fall under those protection laws. Judging by Signal, Danny's pretty sure Batman's bluffing on the whole "hating metas" thing anyways.

It takes awhile before Danny actually does meet the big bat himself and the reaction he gets is nothing anyone was expecting.

You see theres one little detail danny couldn't have been warned about, and its that there just so happens to be a version of Jazz here.

Except this Jazz lost her Danny when they were in high school, as in full on dead and gone Danny, no halfas here, the portal simply did not work and it was just regular ole lethal electrocution that hit her little brother.

What if she grew up with a young Bruce somehow, whether it be because CPS took her from the Fentons after her Danny's death or Amity Park simply doesn't exist in the DCU making Gotham the city with the thinnest veil and thus where the Fenton's chose to settle down.

This Jazz is an adult in her 40s but was once a kid smart enough to go to Gotham Academy on scholarship (or maybe the Fenton's had enough money from patents?). A kid who took one look at young Bruce's grumpy little face and decided he needed a honest friend, one that wasn't after status or money.

This Jazz grew up being a secondary voice of reason for Bruce, ganging up with Alfred in their own crusade to enforce healthy habits on him in between their weekly tea sessions.

This Jazz lost her brother and could not only understand Bruce's resoning on a minor level but encouraged his planned "journey of self discovery and healing". (Though the bat costume he made when he came back was unexpected and she gave him a look to rival Alfred for it)

This Jazz grew up to be a social worker because if anyone had cared enough to take her away from the Fenton's sooner then her brother might've still been alive

This Jazz being the one Bruce calls when he first gets Dick because holy shit he has no idea what hes doing and "Jazz, i just became a father, help!"

This Jazz being a sort of aunt to all the Batkids and is a major influence that has led to their dynamics being similar to Wayne Family Adventures

Bruce goes pale and later calls Jazz after he finally gets a glimps/meets the so called "First Aid Cryptid" his kids have been obsessed with. Because this kid that he's looking at with the barely visible lichtenberg scars... that's a face he hasn't seen in little over 20 years, that's his old friend's long dead baby brother.

Bruce sees danny and his mind rapidly jumps to all sorts of possibilities. Is this a clone? Is this a trap? Are the Lazarus pits involved somehow? Time travel? He does consider a ghost but this kid is too solid and they're nowhere near the old dilapidated Fenton Works building

Eventually, down the line when they get the full story of Danny being from an alternate dimension, Jazz might try to adopt him. Which has potential to be unhealthy but i fully believe Jazz would be aware enough not to project her decades old grief on this Danny, who is so similar but so different to her brother.

(Because I think a Gotham raised Danny would've been similar to a young Jason in street smarts so this Amity raised Danny is noticeably different)

Danny on the other hand... not sure if i could say the same, especially if he just lost his Jazz before winding up in the DCU. But again, this is an adult Jazz in her late 40s with professional experience dealing with traumatized kids, and she'll do her best to help him through it

Im imagining Jazz and Bruce to have a more platonic friendship, maybe even see each other as family, but you could go with Parent Syndrome if you want

(And because i love to see other peoples ideas and opinions, @omnicrafts @ailithnight @atiyasnake @hdgnj @nelkcats @nerdpoe @im-totally-not-an-alien-2 @dcxdpdabbles. Sorry i tag you guys so much but i like your writing, im eager to offer ideas, and your posts have been major sources of joy while ive been hyperfixating on DPxDC)

[writing-rat]

Drunk On You

Pairings: Sam Carpenter X Reader

Content Warning: Thigh grinding, Blowjob, Hand job, Rough sex, Titfucking, Drunk sex, Sam Carpenter has a penis

Summary: Sam wants to get drunk, which is fair after the events of Scream 6 when you interact with her...

WC: 1609

It was a week after the New York Ghostface attacks, and she was tired. She wanted to just drink it away, and she would. That was the main reason why she was at one of the local gay bars, ordering and paying for drinks. Well, that was the plan at least. She was enamoured with you once you sat down next to her. This was because no one wanted to sit next to her, even if her reputation was improved to hero again but also because of how you looked. “Hello?” you asked, confused as to why she was just staring. “Uh hi,” she spoke, quickly looking away and drinking her beer, her cheeks red. 

“Sam right?” you asked, tilting your head. Sam just glanced over before she was nodding. “Yeah,” she spoke, her body stiff. She wasn’t aware, jumping when you touched her arm. “Relax, don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. I just want to commend you for your bravery. I’m Y/N. Here, let me buy your next drink,” you spoke. Sam blinked, letting her walls down easily as you looked into her eyes. She nodded. 

You just grinned, talking to her while you both drank, her paying for your drinks sometimes. “Hey, wanna get out of here?” Sam eventually asked after 6 drinks. You just blushed and nodded to agree, looking her up and down. “Just so you know, I didn’t just talk to you for sex,” you confirmed, the drinks affecting your brain. Sam nodded. “We can definitely talk tomorrow, I promise,” Sam spoke, and you were nodding before you held each other’s hand. She led you down to her new apartment, which was much bigger. You had heard that Gale paid for it in the news actually. 

“No one is here, be as loud as you want,” Sam grunted out, pinning you against the wall before she kissed you deep against the door. You moaned out loud, nodding as you were gripping her sides, her hands against the wall beside your head. 

You were soon grinding against her thigh, unable to help it as you were bumping against her bulge on purpose. You could tell she was loving it as you heard her gasp whenever you did it. Eventually, you were picked up, stopping your grinding, for the time being, Sam not kissing you on the lips anymore. Instead, she was kissing you on the neck, sucking marks as well. You couldn’t help but gasp and moan as you threw your head into her neck, grinding against her stomach this time. That was at least until you were set down in her lap after.

“Keep grinding,” she practically growled out. You nodded, shocked at her dominance but you guessed the reason why. She wanted to control something in her life at least. You obeyed her command, grinding against her thigh, reaching her bulge as she was marking up your neck, soon taking off your shirt, and revealing your chest. You weren’t wearing a bra, and you were thankful for that at that moment as she was sucking on your nipples and breasts. “Good girl,” she moaned out, as you were grinding against her bulge all the time then. You wanted to make her cum in her jeans and boxers after all. She was loving it clearly from the sounds she made as she bit and marked your collarbones. You were getting close meanwhile, and was rapidly speeding up before you came in your underwear. At the same time, you felt Sam tense up and you were sure she came to then. It was proven when she suddenly pinned you down, a lustful look in her eyes as she quickly sat up again, taking off all your clothes finally.

“This isn’t fair. You are still naked,” you teased. Sam just smirked, taking off her shirt, and revealing her black sports bra and her boxers strap. “Better?” she teased, seeing how your eyes were drifting down to her bulge and the wet patch on the strap of her boxers.

“No,” you practically whined out.

“What do you want removing?” she proceeded to ask, tilting her head just like she didn’t know. “Please take off your boxers and your jeans. Please, need you right now, wanna see your dick, suck you off, anything!” you begged out needily. Sam smirked as she was taking them off eventually, as you licked your lips. “You can suck me off first before I fuck you. You may masturbate to get yourself ready for me in the meantime unless you want me to get you ready,” she spoke. “I wanna suck you off and get myself ready so we don’t have to wait too long,” you spoke before dropping onto the floor, getting on your knees as you were quick to prepare yourself. Sam meanwhile sat down and laid back, one hand rubbing your hair while the other was behind her head. 

Once situated comfortably to get yourself ready, you started to suck Sam off, your hand doing the other inches you couldn’t yet reach. You had started off teasing, however, getting payback and Sam knew that, but she let you anyway. She was enjoying it after all. You continued to bob your head up and down, looking up at her as you were moaning against her dick. You were masturbating after all. She proceeded to rub your hair, before making you go down further than her tip that you were just sucking and licking. You gasped, starting to suck further then, starting to stroke her less as you were still making eye contact with her. She couldn’t help but throw her head back as you were taking more and more, soon rubbing her breasts and stroking her still. Soon enough you were gagging 4 inches down, with 2 more to go. You could do it, or so you thought. She came before you could do it and she was holding your hair as she came before she was pulling you off gently, allowing you to swallow or spit. You proceeded to swallow it, looking at her as you showed how you had 3 fingers inside of you. “Good girl, come on up here and lay down. I want to fuck you right here and right now,” she demanded. You nodded, obeying again. You liked how she was praising you. “Call me Daddy now, don’t say my name,” she commanded as well, causing you to nod again. “Yes Daddy,” you even spoke, using your words. Sam just smirked before she was kissing you roughly, starting to enter inside of you as one hand was holding her up, the other groping at your chest then rubbing down and gripping your ass before she spanked it. You couldn’t help the loud moans as she was soon fully inside, letting you adjust at least. She was being gentle, kissing all around your neck then. “Just nod when I can move,” she murmured, groping your ass still. You panted, nodding to agree. After a moment, you nodded again. “You can move,” you confirmed. At that, she instantly started to move, being gentle and slow as she was biting around your shoulders, but not hard enough to bleed. Just hard enough to bruise. She was looking at you every now and then, making sure you were comfortable before she was moving her hand and rubbed your clit. 

You moaned even louder at that, throwing your head back, unable to help it as you were looking at the kitchen now. She smirked, taking that as her sign to go faster and rougher, to which you gasped, covering your mouth, ashamed at how loud you were. Sam growled, still thrusting and moaning. “Move your hand,” she demanded. You blushed hard, nodding as you were moving your hand, moans coming out unmuffled this time. Sam smirked as she was listening, soon hitting your G-spot.

“Oh god!” you moaned out loudly by accident, and Sam panted. 

“Fuck, good girl,” she moaned out in return, hitting your G-spot harder and rougher as she was gripping at your breast with her other hand, the other rubbing your clit still. She was now holding you up with the grip on your breast, which you loved as you were grinding against her unable to help it. “I’m close Daddy,” you moaned out, unable to help it.

“After I cum, you can,” Sam grunted out. You nodded, agreeing as she was starting to go faster. She kept grunting louder and louder before she finally tensed up and came inside you. That’s when you came as well, holding onto Sam, unable to help it as you were panting. Sam panted as she was soon kissing your neck, keeping you held down before she smirked.

“I want to fuck your breasts,” she announced. You blushed, nodding before you let her as you laid down further on the couch. “Yes Daddy,” you whimpered out, wanting to please her as much as possible. That’s when she started to position herself, grinning as she did so before she pushed your breasts together, starting to fuck them. A few moments later, the door opened and a loud yell happened.

“Jesus Christ Sam! You better clean the couch after!” Tara had yelled out, holding another girl before bumping into walls, trying to find her room. Sam smirked, still going as you tried to muffle your moans. Sam made sure you didn’t, wanting ot torture her for all the times she had walked in on Tara and a few girls when they first moved here. 

You was just glad to be in her presence and please Sam. You hoped Sam would let you stay.

[juniemunie]

She's here!!! Say hello to Patchwork, she's my Errorink "kid".

She's a creepy lil puppet that does her own thing in the multiverse. She can't speak, but it's not like she has a need to communicate anyway since you rarely ever get to see her as she doesn't socialize... ever. You might see traces of her because she will always meticulously arrange any area she comes across to perfection.

As her name says, she patches up AUs and cleans up after her parent's messes. She doesn't appear to lean on either side and remains neutral.

Heres a short comic on how I think she came to be

Maybe ill make a part 2 who knows this was fun to make

If you wanna know more about her, feel free to read below:

How does she clean up exactly?

Welp, heres a lengthy explanation: I've always assumed that the multiverse is more or less data in a diskspace, and said disk contains all the data of the AUs.

For every new AU, it takes up space. For every destroyed AU, it frees up space.

Sometimes when a new AU uses the freed up space, there still isn't enough room, so the AU fragments itself to be placed somewhere else in the disk. This makes things harder for Ink (difficult to locate and assist, as well as causing "loading" issues and glitches) and for Error (harder to destroy completely because theyre all over the place).

Patchwork, lives up to her namesake by slowly and tediously stitching and arranging these fragmented AUs together, regardless if theyre going to be destroyed or not.

As for her interacting with other characters:

If she sees an incode outside of their respective AU, she will attempt to guide them back to their respective universe if it still exists. Pretty good right?

But if their AU doesn't exist anymore.... well. She doesn't like loose ends. [So yes, she is not allowed in the Omega Timeline.]

Other miscellanous info:

She can and will organize anything she can get into. Ink will find his once messy art studio cleaned to perfection and all of his sketchbooks arranged alphabetically and by date somehow. Error comes back to the antivoid to find his puppets lined up neatly and staring down at him which freaks him out. PJ's corner will have all the paintings straightened out. Even Gradient's laptop icons are all organized and cleaned up as well lmao

She moves like a slasher stalker. If you spot her, she will stare at you unmovingly. If you move your eyes away from her for even a moment, she will be gone.

[cupcakeslushie]

hii, i love your EW AU! and i want to ask you some questions about it, sorry for my bad english but i hope that you can answer me :)

how was Rapha's infancy? and how is he's phobia of being alone now that, well, he was alone for almost all his life. that have any change when he meets his brother or just start in that moment?

how are the interactions with big mama after free Mickey? especially the times that they have to ask her for help. how is the relationship of big mama and is "son"?

how is the relationship of Splinter and his sons?

and last one (srry if is too much) how is the redemption of Draxum? Does he have one? Mickey helps him after everything he did to his brother? Is Donie actually the one that helped him? how is their relationship after that?

thank you so much, i love the Aus that you do, you draw so pretty and sorry if you already answered these questions.

For Raph, he had a hard time with Savage Raph, immediately following his brother’s kidnapping, but he actively worked to suppress it, so he can take care of the injuries Splinter received about half a year later (the ones from his fight with Saki). It doesn’t really return until post movie, when the whole escape pods thing (not saying who gets taken) and then the Prison Dimension thing (not saying who gets trapped) trigger Raph’s fears of losing his brothers. In season 3 I have big plans for Raph and his issues with being separated from his brothers will be explored. We’ll see Savage Raph making a come back.

Big Mama and Mikey have a very transactional relationship. Mikey knows how she works now, and won’t be fooled by her…often. Though it can still be hard for Mikey to not be fooled.

Splinter and Leo probably have the most tumultuous relationship. It’s neither one’s fault, and when Leo is in his right mind, he’s perfectly polite (if painfully distant) but when his blood rage takes over, he can go into attack mode on a dime, and more often than not, Splinter is his main target, because of all the programming that Saki put him through into hating Splinter.

Draxum will get a big redemption! Donnie will be at the helm of it, but if it were up to Donnie, Draxum wouldn’t even have to do anything 😂. So Mikey will actually play a part and make sure Draxum isn’t falling off the wagon, and not disappointing Donnie. But Drax really does wanna patch up their relationship, so he takes all of the guidance Mikey’s willing to give. Meanwhile, Raph, Leo, Splinter, and Timothy are ready to beat his ass for any missteps.

[dylan-hayes]

A Visit to the Museum

Disclaimer: All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older, regardless of any situations, settings, or behaviors described. This work is intended for adult audiences only and is purely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The museum is quiet but full of life — murmurs of guided tours echo through high-ceilinged halls, and the soft hum of interactive exhibits adds a gentle rhythm to the day. The smell of clean air and aged wood mingles with the faint scent of coffee from the nearby café.

But this time, my little boy, Jamie, walks just a bit taller beside me.

No diaper crinkling beneath his shorts. No thick puff of padding between his legs. Just the soft rustle of his pull-ups — a quiet, proud compromise between toddlerhood and something slightly bigger. — murmurs of guided tours echo through high-ceilinged halls, and the soft hum of interactive exhibits adds a gentle rhythm to the day. The smell of clean air and aged wood mingles with the faint scent of coffee from the nearby café.

But this time, my little one walks just a bit taller beside me.

No diaper crinkling beneath their shorts. No thick puff of padding between their legs. Just the soft rustle of their pull-ups — a quiet, proud compromise between toddlerhood and something slightly bigger.

They’ve still got their favorite hoodie — the one with the dinosaur patch on the sleeve — and their little canvas sling bag with some crackers, a fruit pouch, and a small bottle of water. But this time, tucked discreetly in the side pocket, are a few spare pull-ups instead of the usual thick diapers.

“You’re doing great, Jamie,” I murmur as we slow to admire a model of the solar system, the planets spinning slowly above our heads. “You tell me if you need a break, okay?” as we slow to admire a model of the solar system, the planets spinning slowly above our heads. “You tell me if you need a break, okay.”

"This is only your 2nd day out while potty training so I'm not expecting you to be quite accident free just yet."

They nod, not quite meeting my eyes.

“I know,” they say softly, twisting the strap of their backpack. “But I wanna try.”

I let them. That’s the deal.

We pass through the ancient history wing — their favorite — and I watch them grin and point, almost bouncing in place as they stare up at a towering dinosaur skeleton. But as we move toward the nature diorama, I start to notice the signs.

The way they keep glancing around, fidgeting. One hand hovering near their backside. That quiet, inward look — like their mind is elsewhere, like they’re not really with the woolly mammoths or the fox den right now.

I slow my steps and gently take their hand.

“Cutie-pie,” I say quietly, “do you need to go potty?”

They glance up at me, red blooming across their cheeks.

“I… I’m okay,” they mumble. “It's just gas”

I nod. “Okay. But if you need to go, just tell Mommy and I will get you to the potty really quick.”

They nod again, almost imperceptibly.

But I notice something else too — the way they start pausing more often, lingering behind as if pretending to admire a display. There’s a small shift in their stance, a subtle crouch here and there, and every so often, a quiet little toot that makes their ears go pink. They’re trying — really trying — but it’s clear that holding it is becoming harder with each passing minute.

As we near the geology exhibit, they suddenly tug at my hand.

“Mommy, I’m gonna go look at the volcano rocks real quick, okay?” they say, already stepping back the way we came.

I raise an eyebrow. “Ok but are you sure you don't need to go potty?”

He gives a quick shake of the head, avoiding my eyes. “No, Mommy. I don’t need to go,” he says quickly. “I just… I really wanna look at the volcano rocks. That’s all.”

His voice is a little too fast, a little too bright — and I can tell there’s more to it. But I let him have that little bit of dignity, for now.

The geology exhibit is mostly one big open room, with plenty of space between displays. I’ll still be able to see them from nearly anywhere they go — and he knows it.

he hesitates. “Just real quick…”

I know what’s happening.

“Alright,” I say slowly, “but don’t go too far, baby.”

he nods and scurries off, ducking behind one of the large faux boulders near the rock collection. I keep an eye on him from a distance, pretending not to watch.

There’s a pause. Then a slight shift in their posture — knees a little bent, hand resting on the display like they’re just admiring it. But I can see the faint tension in their body. The telltale stillness.

A quiet moment. Then they stand straight again, looking around, eyes wide — making sure no one saw him doing his deed.

He waddles back over to me pretending nothing happened. I say nothing — just rest a gentle hand on his back — and we begin walking toward the fossil gallery. My heart tugs a little, watching the way he tries to keep his head high even as his steps grow more deliberate, slower. He’s trying so hard. And I know we’re not quite there yet. But this? This is part of it. Just as we arrive I begin to smell that earthy smell of a dirty diaper.

“Did you make a poopy, honey?” I ask gently.

I pause, glancing down. His shorts sit a little funny now — the outline of his pull-up more apparent, the waistband just barely puffier beneath the fabric. I gently place a hand on his back, then reach down and pull back the waistband of both his shorts and pull-up for a quick peek, just to check. "Yep, that is one poopy pull-up" I say little too loud.

Their eyes fill, their voice tiny. “I… I tried to hold it. But I… I couldn’t.”

I pull them into a hug, warm and safe.

“That’s alright,” I whisper into their hair. “That’s what your pull-up is for, remember? You don’t have to be perfect. You’re still learning.”

They nod into my shoulder, small and quiet.

“You didn’t want to stop and go to the potty did you?” I asked softly. He nods and smiles confirming what I thought. “Mommy loves you, Jamie. And Mommy doesn’t mind helping — even if that means I have to wipe your butt,” I say warmly, "Not ever.”

I stand, holding their hand again. “Come on. Let’s get you changed after we finish the fossils, okay?”

I whisper quietly as we move to the Hall of Fossil Marine Reptiles, “If you still need to go, just go ahead and use your pull-ups before we leave, okay?”

"Mommy won't be mad if you need to go more, I to have to change you anyways."

Jamie nods, and I watch as his body subtly shifts — that familiar stillness again, a quiet grunt, a tiny breath held as he lets go. His face softens, his shoulders relaxing as the tension fades. A quiet sigh escapes him, almost inaudible beneath the chatter of nearby families.

It’s not dramatic. Just a small, necessary surrender.

By the time we turn toward the family restroom, his steps are slower — wider. The change in his gait is unmistakable now. Each step carries that soft, telltale waddle, the squish of a pull-up no longer just damp, but full and heavy with the weight of trying… and the relief of knowing it’s okay not to get it right every time.

[chaichaiiskai]

Hi okay so if you're still doing a request can I get a (baki) Pickle x bottom male reader. So I want public sex where Pickle FuCks Reader Hard infront of everyone kinda like the reporter scene but you know with consent but if your not comfortable with that just normal rough sex in a bed room or forest since that's where Pickle is from.

If your not comfortable with this then that's okay i understand.

notes: OKAY, so, I did not see this until I wrote the last pickle request so I'm gonna connect this ask with that one— it's right here if ya wanna read it, deffo recommend it bc of lore :D hope ya enjoy this too !!! can't even lie, I'm thoroughly invested in the story of Pickle and Cucumber and I'm honestly thinking about keeping these two as reoccurring on my blog ngl.

warnings: mdni, homophobes do not interact, amab reader, he/him pronouns, violence against others that aren't reader, murder, blood and blood depictions, brief description of violence against woman and their wombs, mxm, pickle is very protective and basically yandere but who wouldn't be during the jurassic time period, rim jobs, lack of prep before anal, noncon mentioned but not against reader, reader is called cucumber by the facility and is basically a nickname, cumflation, belly bulge, size difference, very massive, very long, giant cock that is more weapon than genital, rough and unprotected sex bc duh they're both primitive men, hunting of animals, drugging // food tampering— I think that's it, lemme know if I missed anything.

The ultimate goal of the experiment was to further test the pure, raw strength of the primitive man when fueled by emotion and longing, going without food for a week. And their experiment proved to be true, far too true as a matter of fact. Multiple casualties would be forever staining the pages that reported the experiment and any sane person would have ended the experiment then and there to reunite the two lovers again.

However, a man at the top, who thought of nothing but himself, wanted to see just how far Pickle would go, even if that meant more casualties would have to be made. And so, the bloodbath ensued.

As Pickle roamed the facility halls, wave after wave came at him, rubber bullets aimed his way and raining on him that proved to have no impact on him whatsoever. He easily swiped aside the nuisances that are in his way, swiping away the small people until they go flying, hitting nearby walls— the sound of cracking bones, splattering, and coughing is sickening. So sickening that some of the scientists, though they love their jobs, find themselves going against the higher-ups.

One bravely moves in front of Pickle and holds his hands up, attempting to seem as if he was defenseless and then began to point behind him, pointing at a large door that was down the hall the primitive man was currently stalking down.

"He's there! There!"

He quickly announced, and then used his other hand to wave in the direction of the security camera he knew was currently watching the entire sight.

And on cue, the giant doors opened. To your surprise, the wall opening woke you out of your forced slumber that was brought onto you by a primitive form of depression sparked by your loss of companionship.

With heightened abilities, Pickle smelled you before he saw you, and as soon as he laid eyes on you, he was unable to make a sound, simply getting into all fours again and bounding towards you at full-speed. Despite being weakened by the lack of nutrients, you slowly sat up onto your hands and knees before feeling yourself being tackled back to the ground, bodies rolling until the two of your slammed against a tree, Pickle's back took the blow and nearly uprooted the thing. He rolled again onto a patch of grass, still holding you comfortably in his arms until you were in a patch of grass, dropping you onto your back while he buried his face into your neck, starting to nibble onto any part of it that he can reach, sharp fang-like teeth scratching over your skin and leaving indents.

The door to this new enclosure is shut and on the outside, the cleaning procedure begins, but not without some scolding to the researchers who went against the higher-ups. Cucumber and Pickle did not seem to care about whatever was going on outside of them, far more focused on each other and keeping each other close.

From then on, Pickle cannot be more than a foot away from you, and he can only sleep when he's on top of you, shielding you from whatever threatens the outside.

The only scientists he allows inside the enclosure are small, fragile-looking women. He'd already killed a few of the male scientists who dared to enter, a warning and a threat. And recently, in hopes to appease the two primitive men and get back on their neutral sides, wild animals have been introduced into the enclosure, giving the illusion of a hunt for the both of you, and unfortunately, your enjoyment in fruit had been ruined thanks to the scientists and their cruel, cruel experiment.

You were only able to eat what Pickle hunted, and in another week, you looked more alive again, even helping with the hunt and relishing in Pickle's presence yet again. So far, it seemed that Pickle seemed to enjoy crocodile meat quite a lot, whilst you had your own preferences. And once you were back at a healthy level of energy, Pickle immediately recognized it and let his instincts win, one could not blame him for feeding into such carnal desires.

After an especially filling meal, you find yourself being hunted just like your previous meal, but it's the kind of hunt that gets the hair on the back of your neck standing. Your primitive partner growls at you in a suggestive manner and suddenly, he's chasing you around the enclosure, getting the adrenaline pumping in your veins and his. And when he's had enough, he's got you pinned down onto the ground, pulling at the loin cloth that keeps you from him until it comes off, making him toss it aside. He's hurried and hungry, yanking his own loin cloth off as you roll onto your stomach, eager for him to mount you, hardened cock swinging between your legs while a bead of pre dribbles out the top. You're on your knees, propping your body up in the ideal position for— breeding essentially.

Pickle is eager himself, lining his massively thick, veiny dick up with your rim, nearly growling at the anticipation as he presses the head against it and starts to push. Every part of the tanned man is large, including his third leg that was just a few inches over a foot in length and thick like a world record-breaking, sizable anaconda. He tried to force himself into you, but you push him out, obviously because it's been a while and it seems to frustrate the beast, eliciting a growl from him as he eyes your little hole with his brows furrowed. Everytime you breathe, it winks at him, almost like it's taunting him and you can't help but to grow frustrated, huffing at him from over your shoulder, but he can't stop staring at your hole, curious eyes drilling themselves into your ass.

Then, yet another instinct comes over him as he leans down, shoving his tongue past the first ring of muscle, the fat thing nearly longer than his cock. The sensation is strange but it only makes more pearls of pre dribble from your tip, your own cock seemingly throbbing as his wild tongue throbs around inside of you from behind, forcibly stretching you with its width. The muscle thrashes around inside of you, wildly moving about, darting in and out of you like an excitable puppy drinking water from a lake. His tongue movements are uncoordinated and hungry, so much to the point that it's darting about with no clear destination, even causing a few stray licks to the underside of your balls that makes you flinch every time.

Pickle isn't particularly sure what he's doing or why he's doing it, but he couldn't stop himself from feeding into the curiosity. It surprised you as well, considering he's never done to you before and you had never felt so good down there like this.

Shamelessly, a group of researchers and scientists were watching this ensemble unfold in real-time, gathered around with food in their hands like shameless perverts watching an adult film.

For science! They would most likely say, ignoring their own instincts to shove a hand in their pants at the scene in front of them.

The licking, although pleasant, was becoming too much and there was a buildup you were feeling in your shaft that had you panting like a dog, clawing at the ground and smashing your skull against the dirt. For some unknown reason, Pickle took your sounds as a signal of sorts and he remembered his own issue, heavy uncircumcised cock seeming to throb and lift with eagerness. Yet again, he pulls himself back to position himself properly, lining himself up with your hole and then pushes the tip in, a chirp of excitement escaping him as he plunges in deeper, going in about halfway before you feel as though the insides of your stomach are literally being rearranged. Fertile balls are pressed up against yours as he manages to jam every inch into your awaiting hole, somehow you're able to take every inch, an impressive feat within itself. Perhaps, this is why he took you as a lover. A flash of memories comes to mind to both you and Pickle.

. . .

Pickle had his share of sexual partners— instinctually he went after women, who he ultimately killed by accident after ripping through their wombs with the deadly length between his thighs. He had found a woman once, able to take him fully, but she did not recuperate his feelings and escaped him after a session of breeding. Eventually, Pickle stumbled upon Cucumber, a man of smaller stature than him, but strong in his own way. Their first meeting was anything but friendly, both of them going after the same prey of a Jurassic animal, looking for their next meal, fighting each other while simultaneously fighting the creature in hopes of getting meat. Ultimately, they ended up killing the beast together and bregrundingly shared, taking from the hunted beast without acknowledging each other much after.

But through unfortunate events, you continued to run into each other at different points in both of your traveling journeys, but continued to ignore each other regardless. And on one of those fateful meet-ups, however, Pickle had made a mistake— a mistake that brought on a sense of fear that he'd never once had to deal with before.

Consuming a wasp.

The pain he'd felt from it made him more vocal than ever, scaring away beasts and other people alike. However, Cucumber was not fearful, instead, he went a pang of sympathy for the man who he'd considered somewhat of a companion.

Immediately jumping into action, tapping into a nurturing side that he sometimes would ignore, he wandered hurriedly to the nearest lake of water, cupped his hands and gathered a healthy amount of it into his hands and wandered towards the other man. He growled at that primitive man who was still in excruciating pain, opening his mouth in an attempt to get the message across to him and with tears in his eyes, Pickle obliged, reminding Cucumber of a whimpering babe who was hungry for milk.

Dumping the handfuls of water into Pickle's mouth, you watched as he held the water in his mouth for a moment and then spit it out, along with the wasp, coughing up quite a storm. You frowned as he coughed, hesitantly patting his back afterwards, and after a while, you left to gather something to soothe the residual burning— fruits, which you forced Pickle to eat, despite his disdain for eating things that he did not hunt himself. But when he did as you wanted, the burn disappeared and you were ready to take your leave after helping him— only to have the man hot on your tail, everywhere you went, following you closely from behind.

Surprisingly, you didn't shoo him away, and that was what began the true extent of your strange relationship. It didn't take much longer before he would develop something new, love, and you returned the feeling. And in a moment of intimacy one late night, under the stars, he'd mounted you for the first time like a woman and breeded you under the moonlight. It was somewhat romantic, even with the guttural sounds of pleasure and delight that came from you both. And when you took him in his entirety without complaint, he was even more infatuated with you than he'd already been.

. . .

The primal man is grinning at this point as he's able to properly mount you, beginning to thrust at a pace that has your body rocking back and forth, his mouth and the area around it shiny with his own saliva as he plunges further. You're lucky you're stronger than the average and modern man, claws digging further into the dirt to keep yourself from toppling forward. Pickle is pounding into you, thrusting his hips with a tenacity that's enough to shake the trees around you, you're lucky your body is built for the brutality.

Watchful eyes are carefully observing, even going as far as to have a discussion onto why the two of you had chosen each other as mates since there was no chance of either of you reproducing. Then again, did reproducing matter much to the primitive people of your time? Apparently not, though Pickle seemed to be /breeding/ you as if it were indeed, possible.

Poor Cucumber was experiencing the true strength of Pickle's excitement, quite literally being fucked into the ground by a beast of mass destruction. The researchers collectively feel a sense of great respect for you as you handle the creature on top of you with gritted teeth, groaning and growling as you take every inch. It's a rough experience that leaves you teary eyed, wobbly lipped, and whining, just like all the other times he has his way with you. Pickle doesn't seem to let up, not even when your teeth chatter as a familiar and growing pleasure comes over you, blossoming in your hips and cock, strings of white spewing from your tip and onto the ground beneath you in spurts that seem to last far too long. Your cock seems to soften after cumming a second time, though it continues to twitch and swing with the pistoning of barbaric hips that continuously drive you forward. Squelching and the sound of skin repeatedly colliding is nearly as loud as the proud growls Pickle does, his chest vibrating with an animalistic equivalent of pride when you cum, squeezing his erection enough to milk him just right.

And fortunately, your poor hole doesn't need to take much more abuse before Pickle reaches his edge as well, unleashing copious amounts of his load into you, cum spilling out the edges where your bodies connected, dribbling out in the dirt like lines of salt. You'd felt full like this before, never able to get used to the feeling but still enjoying it regardless, a strange after result is the slight pouch in your lower belly that is made due to an immense amount of cum. Pickle holds himself there for a bit before pulling out and he's /still/ coming, ropes of the sticky white landing on your back and your rear, the insane amount he's dumped into you beginning to spill out and trickle from your gaping, spasming hole. Your lover lets out an affirmative, satisfied groan and then lays down onto the ground on his side right next to you. He wraps one of his lengthy arms around you and pulls you towards him, your chest neerly flush against his, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder, panting as you attempt to catch your breath, almost as if you'd been running after an especially fast prey. Pickle shuts his eyes and rests his chin on top of your head as he slowly shuts his eyes, having been drained of energy. It's not long before he's asleep and his body naturally locks in place around you, almost like a protective barrier. One of his legs is draped over yours, hooked behind your knees, his monstrous cock nestled between your thighs while yours is squeezed between your stomach and his abdomen, lower bodies entangled where it's almost difficult to distinguish between limbs. His arm is still wrapped around your back, the other had joined, slipping beneath you as his hands interlocked behind your back. This position is new, he's usually laying right on top of you when he sleeps, completely covering you up like a shell on the back of a turtle, making it nearly impossible to see you beneath him unless one looked from very specific angles.

You're tired as well, hole still leaking with Pickle's cum as your eyelids grow heavy. Your body is hot and sticky with sweat, making your skin stick to his, but you always find comfort in his presence, snaking your own arms around the massive man's body the best way you can before you drift off to sleep as well.

To the researchers and facility crew who are still watching on the security cams, they see the cuddling session as wholesome— despite the previous actions of you both— and nearly coo at the cuddling session.

Perhaps they would need to adjust their research and find different questions to think about...