#very clean feeling and easy to read at a glance

[superhoeva]

𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid. 

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.” 

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.” 

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not  sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[ebodebo]

"Come to bed," Jason calls out, his voice a low murmur as you stand in the bathroom, carefully brushing your teeth. 

He’s lounging shirtless in your shared bed, the sheets barely draped over the sweatpants he’s wearing.

"I'll be there in a minute," you call back, your voice muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth.

He groans at the response, and you giggle.

You're sporting his oversized, worn-out tee that reads, "Property of Gotham City," paired with just a set of daring red panties.

You can feel his eyes on you, his gaze like a warm caress on your skin. In the mirror, you catch him stealing a cheeky view of your panties as the shirt rides up, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Bad boy,” you playfully scold, reaching for a magazine on the back of the toilet and holding it up to browse through.

He throws his head back against the headboard, overwhelmed with despair. "You’re killin’ me, Baby."

You let out a chuckle as you rinse out your mouth, quickly wiping it clean with a towel. Suddenly, you freeze, your eyes locking onto a new article that catches your attention.

You grab the magazine from the counter, feeling the paper crinkle in your grip as you turn to face Jason. He sits upright, his relaxed demeanor radiating an easy confidence.

"Listen to this," you say, clearing your throat with a cough before adopting a playful, sultry news anchor tone as you begin to read the article.

"Red, Hot, and Ready: The audacious vigilante, Red Hood, knocks the charming Nightwing off his pedestal in Gotham Time’s Sexiest Vigilante Poll," you teased, drawing nearer to him.

“Uh-huh. You done?” He drawled, a playful spark dancing in his eyes.

"The majority of pollers found Red Hood's enigmatic presence rather…” you pause, shifting onto the bed and positioning yourself to straddle his lap as you draw closer to him.

His hands find their way to your hips, raising an eyebrow as you lean in closer, holding his gaze without breaking eye contact.

"…alluring," you finish, as Jason makes an amused face. 

"That was…captivating," he sarcastically says, his tone dripping with dry humor.

"I can't believe my boyfriend is a celebrity," you say with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Can you still love a nobody like me with your towering  status?" You question, with a sarcastic inflection that's hard to miss.

"It'll make me look more humble than I already am, so yes," he jokes.

You laugh. "Yes. Oh, so very humble."

He laughs softly as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers gently gliding over your bare skin. You lift the magazine again, your eyes quickly scanning the 'Poller's Insight' section.

You can’t help but chuckle, clearly entertained.

"Oh my God. When asked what pollers thought of his rather blunt demeanor, they responded, ‘It’s hot. Like really, really hot,’" you say, grinning widely, your eyes locking back onto his.

“Why are you laughin?’” He asks, adopting a mock-serious tone, his eyes filled with admiration as they gaze intently into yours.

"It's just, so...hilarious," you sputter.

"You jealous you got some competition now?" He quips, fingers greedily gripping the fat of your hips.

"Hah! I'd like to see someone try to deal with you, especially in bed," you cackle.

"You wound me," he jests, with mock outrage.

You grin, casting the magazine aside, bringing your hands to sqeeze his cheeks. "You know what I mean. Baby, you're insatiable."

"I just can't get enough of you," he utters, his pupils dilate as he peers at you.

He is the spitting image of devotion. 

"You're so...perfect," you murmur, finger running down his cheek to easily trace the outline of his lips. "So perfect."

"Seems you're the only one to think that," he mutters, his fingers tracing random shapes into the skin on your hips, eyes moving to glance at your lips.

"That's alright," you begin, tone just above a whisper as your eyes flick over his shamelessly hone in on your lips. 

"You'll be just my perfect boy."

He inhales a deep breath, his fingers stop moving, and his eyes flick back to yours in an instant. You give him a light smile, lightly moving your fingers against his cheek.

He dips his head forward, lips brushing against yours. You lean into him, hand resting on the nape of his neck. His hands move to grip your waist, holding you in place as the kiss becomes more fervent.

You grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slightly before Jason pulls it back down. Your protests die on your tongue as he slips his tongue in your mouth, fingers moving to fiddle with the waistband of your panties, easing them down behind your knees.

He pulls back, reaching for his sweatpants and boxers, which are stretched over his thighs. "Nah. Leave it on. Wanna fuck you in it," he finally mumbles.

Jesus Christ. 

"Okay," you mechanically say, already breathless.

You would do just about anything he told you to.

He grips your waist tight, moving you so you hover over his erect cock. "Ready, Baby?" He asks, eyes locked on yours. 

You grip his shoulders. "Ready," you affirm.

He hisses as he slides his cock into you with much ease. You let out a pathetic whine at the contact. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin as he grunts, helping you move against him. 

"Ride me, Baby. Ride me," he breathes into your neck.

You let out something of a moan and whine as you place one of your hands over one of his hands positioned on your waist, and the other stays gripping his shoulder for support. 

Your hips move back and forth, his rising to match your rhythm. He leans his head back, releasing an anguished moan in the process, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips.

"Am I doing alright?" You ask with only slight apprehension. 

"Yeah, Baby. Doin' so good—so good," he amends through labored breaths. 

"Yeah?" As you speed up the pace, you retort, desperate to make him feel good. 

"So fuckin' good," he groans, throwing his head and hitting the bed's backboard as you sit completely on him, his cock slipping deeper into you. 

Leaning down, you press a kiss to his Adam's apple as you go up and down on his cock, occasionally grinding down to give your clit some more stimulation. 

His fingers dig into your flesh with much pressure. "Fuck, Baby. I'm gonna—" he grunts.

"Yeah, me too—me too," you affirm, grinding yourself against him until you're wailing his name and he's mumbling curses.

You rest your forehead against him, both of your chests heaving, and sweat gathering around your temples. "We should do that—" you begin, catching your breath "—more often."

He lifts his eyes to look at you, his mouth contorting into a cheeky smile. "I'll do anything you want, Baby," he affirms through ragged breaths. 

"See, you are perfect," you jest, releasing a stifled laugh.

He playfully rolls his eyes, hands moving to get a handful of your ass, grinding you into him a little. You moan at the contact, still sensitive.

"And insatiable," he smirks, flipping you onto your back.

You ready yourself for a long night and can't find it in yourself to be mad about that. 

a/n: another self-indulgent fic🤰<-me rn divider!

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[aleksatia]

❄️Zayne - Seven Years Later

The fourth in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

⚠️ Important

This story is different. It’s for adults — not just because it contains an intimate scene, but because it deals in gray morality, layers, and choices that aren’t clean or easy. There are no clear heroes here, no black-and-white answers, no simple characters to love or hate. It hits hard. I’m more than aware this won’t be for everyone — and it’s definitely not a light bedtime read. Please take a moment to read the CW/TW carefully before diving in. Proceed at your own risk. The structure might feel a little odd at the beginning — I may have gone overboard, and Tumblr wouldn't let me post it with that many paragraphs, so I had to compress things a bit.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: emotional trauma, unresolved grief, morally gray relationships, abandonment, guilt, forgiveness, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally intense), medical trauma, physical injury, parental estrangement, bio-child created without consent through stored genetic material, complex mother-daughter dynamics, identity crisis, ambiguous morality.

Pairing: Zayne x ex-lover!you Genre: Cold-burn angst, medical intimacy, slow unthawing, grief-forged love, second chances carved from ruin. Summary: Seven years ago, you left without a word. Now, in a snowbound mountain town, fate hands you a child with your eyes, a man with your pulse, and a wound that never really healed. What begins with a lost glove and an impossible resemblance ends in a cabin, a scar, and the kind of truth that doesn’t ask for forgiveness — only a place to stay. Word Count: 16K

Snowcrest

You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

The wind is starting to pick up, curling around your ankles, stealing the warmth from your coat sleeves. The sun has dipped just behind the ridge, casting a deep, bruised blue across the snowbanks. Below, the valley falls away into a soft blur of pine and frost. Somewhere down there is the road you took seven years ago. Somewhere down there is the part of yourself you buried like contraband.

You cradle the paper cup tighter in your hands, now lukewarm. A snowflake melts against your knuckle.

Behind you, the wooden rail of the overlook creaks gently, just once. You don’t turn. Not at first.

“Your eyes,” a small voice says beside you, bright and matter-of-fact, “look like my mommy’s.”

You glance down. A girl — maybe five, maybe six — stands a few feet away, all pink puff and wool layers. Her beanie is lopsided, a ridiculous pompom tilting to one side. Her cheeks are wind-bitten, her boots dusted white.

“Do they?” you say.

She nods seriously, then frowns a little. “But you’re not her. Mommy’s not here. I came with my dad.”

“Where is your dad?”

“He went to get hot chocolate. I wanted to see the mountains first.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her mittens are too big. One slips halfway off as she points toward the café.

You smile, soft and automatic. “You shouldn’t wander off. He might get worried.”

She considers this. Then, very formally, she reaches out and takes your hand.

“Okay. Let’s go find him.”

The café’s windows glow faintly, gold against the evening blue. The inside is all timber and condensation, the kind of place that always smells like cinnamon and wet gloves. You push open the door with your shoulder, usher her in.

He’s there.

You see him before he sees you. A tall figure in a charcoal coat, leaning casually near the counter, one gloved hand curled around a paper cup. His posture is the same. That impossible stillness, like he’s already factored every variable in the room. Like he’s never been caught off guard in his life.

And then he turns.

The girl drops your hand without hesitation and runs to him, shouting, “Daddy! I found a friend! She has eyes like Mommy’s!”

He bends to meet her. His hand cups the back of her head automatically, instinctively. Not roughly, not tenderly either — just with a kind of understated precision, the way he does everything.

You stand frozen. Your lungs forget what to do. Your spine loses temperature.

Zayne looks at you. The moment lingers exactly three seconds too long.

Then he nods, once, like a man seeing a stranger on the street who looks faintly familiar.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Smooth. Controlled. Every syllable clipped clean.

You open your mouth. Only a whisper makes it out.

“She was alone. I thought — her parents might be worried.”

He inclines his head. “I wasn’t. She doesn’t wander far.”

He reaches for the girl’s hand. She looks between you and him, confused but not frightened. Her chocolate sloshes slightly in his free hand.

You stand there, a full seven years collapsing in on themselves. Every hour, every unanswered question, every night you thought about him without letting yourself say his name. All of it rushes into the hollow space behind your ribs.

Zayne doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

“Come on,” he tells the girl. “Let’s go watch the lights come in.”

And just like that, he walks past you. No hesitation. No second glance.

The door opens, and the wind catches it. Then it shuts behind them, clean as a scalpel stroke.

And you are left inside the warmth, holding nothing.

You don’t remember walking to the hotel bar. Only the sound of your boots on packed snow. The burn in your calves from the climb. The hum of your own name, suddenly useless, echoing somewhere deep inside you.

Now you sit at the far end of the counter, coat still on, fingers red from the cold. The bartender, young and quiet, gives you a look like he’s seen people run from more than just the wind.

You nod at your glass. He refills it without a word.

It’s your fourth. Maybe third. You’ve lost count, and the fact that you’ve lost count is the first real mercy of the night.

You lift it again. Swallow it in one breath.

The heat climbs slow, low. No sting. No flinch. It settles into your chest like a bruise, not a balm.

And still — your hands don’t shake. You keep seeing her face. The girl. Her eyes. Her eyes. Your eyes.

No, that’s impossible. That’s sentimental. That’s the kind of thing people like to believe when they’ve been drinking and when the sky outside is layered in violet and black and stars. That’s not Zayne.

But then again, you saw him.

And there was something about the way he touched her head, about how precisely he measured the moment, how quietly he acknowledged you with nothing but the edge of a nod — as if you were just another polite inconvenience to be managed.

You could’ve handled anger. Recrimination. Accusation.

But that? That… undid something.

You drink again.

The math won’t leave you alone. You’re not even trying to calculate, but your mind does it anyway. That same brutal, automatic clarity you once hated in him — now taking over you like second skin.

She’s almost six. Nearly. Maybe five and a half.

You do the subtraction. You try not to think about it. You fail.

He hadn’t hesitated — as if he’d been waiting for you to leave all along. That’s the thought that lands first. Loud. Stupid. Petty. But there.

You picture her mother. Not a fantasy — a memory. The woman you once saw with him. She looked like she belonged beside him. Like she understood him without needing to try. Smarter. Softer. Prettier than you ever were.

You’ve never been beautiful the way he liked beautiful things. His apartment always looked like a magazine. His meals — artful. His shelves — symmetrical. You always felt like a crooked painting on a perfect wall.

Maybe you never belonged there. Maybe he figured that out too.

You press your fingers to the side of your glass and drum lightly. The bartender glances over. You don’t even have to speak. When he brings the next pour, you cradle it a little longer. Let it rest in your palm like something you’re trying to keep alive.

You told yourself, back then, that leaving was the right thing. That it would give him freedom, space, a life not tethered to your mess.

You left so he could be happy.

And now, with the living proof of that happiness having just skipped across the room into his arms —

Why does it feel like your ribs are folding in on themselves? Why does it feel like punishment?

You tip the glass back again. The burn now feels right. Like penance.

Somewhere behind you, a group of tourists laughs. Glasses clink. The sound’s muffled by the snow-pressed windows, the heavy wood beams, the distant wind howling like something ancient just outside the walls.

You close your eyes. You’re supposed to feel numb. Instead, it feels like your chest is thawing too fast. Like something inside is waking up with a roar.

And the only thing you want is to drown it back into silence.

You were supposed to be up hours ago.

There had been a list. Alarms, laid out meticulously the night before. Layers folded on the chair by the radiator, boots lined up like loyal soldiers. You were going to be efficient. Controlled. Someone with purpose. Someone who didn’t dissolve into whisky and memory and the sharp sting of her own mistakes.

Instead, you wake sometime after eleven, swimming through a haze that isn’t quite sleep and not quite regret. The world tilts gently beneath you, and your mouth tastes of copper and last night.

You don’t take the painkillers. It feels important not to.

The sky outside is blank again, a hard white you’ve only seen in northern places — something between erasure and threat. You dress by instinct: thick jeans, a fleece-lined shirt, the coat with the broken zipper pull. Uggs still damp. You tie your hair back with cold fingers and don’t check the mirror before leaving.

The air outside is heavier today. Crisper. Snow crunches beneath your soles in that particular way it only does in subzero silence. You pass two hikers on the ridge trail — layers too new, faces too red. They nod, friendly. You don’t respond.

Dr. Noah’s house sits on the upper slope, just beyond the last bend, framed by black pines and the wide white hush of the valley. It’s larger than you remembered, but quieter too. A chalet-style lodge, all dark-stained timber and angled glass — broad eaves sagging gently under the weight of accumulated snow. The windows reflect the pale noon light like sheets of ice.

You approach from the side path. The one that wraps behind the slope of the porch and leads up past the kitchen garden, now skeletal and brittle with frost, to the private entrance: a cedarwood door, flush with the planks, unmarked save for a brass pull and the faint ghost of boot scuffs on the stone step.

You hesitate.

The reasons not to knock assemble themselves quickly, efficiently. He may not be here. Or he is, and he brought his family. Or worse: he’s here alone, and still as closed off and surgical and devastatingly calm as he was last night.

You raise your hand anyway. The door opens before your knuckles touch wood. He must’ve been just behind it.

The light hits him square — white coat, wire-frame glasses, the same posture that always made him seem even taller than he was. For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at you. That stillness hasn’t faded with the years. If anything, it’s calcified.

You see it then — a flicker across his face, something so quick it’s probably nothing. Annoyance, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or some emotion too fast to name.

And then he speaks, voice even, expression impassive. "Not the best time. You should leave."

It’s a clean incision. No edges to hold onto.

You blink, caught between offense and disbelief, and say, “I’m here to see Dr. Noah. Not you.”

A pause. His gaze doesn’t move.

“He’s ill,” he replies, with that mechanical precision you’d nearly forgotten. “I’m covering his patients until he’s discharged.”

Your voice softens, almost without permission. “Is it serious?”

He shrugs. Not dismissively — just finally. The kind of gesture that says this is what it is, and nothing more.

You understand. You always understood him best in these silences.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Not about Noah. Not about age, or time, or inevitability. The snow shifts under your feet. You glance behind him into the house.

Pine beams. Slate flooring. A wide, open room stretching toward a set of panoramic windows that look out over the ridge. The light inside is softer than expected — muted amber, filtered through linen drapes and the faint movement of steam from something on the stove. The air smells like pine and black tea. The kind of house that invites you to sit down and fall apart.

He turns slightly, hand on the doorframe. “You can visit him at the hospital,” he says. “But I’m expecting someone now.”

You exhale, more sound than breath. “Miss Deveraux, I assume,” you murmur, before you can decide not to.

His head tilts. A beat of calculation.

“You changed your name.”

You lift one shoulder. A shrug, a defense. He doesn’t get an answer. He already took all the ones that mattered.

You’re turning to go when something shifts. Not in his face, but in the air between you. Maybe professionalism. Maybe instinct. Maybe something older.

He steps aside. No invitation. Just an opening. You hesitate only a second. Then you walk through it.

Inside, the warmth hits hard. Your skin prickles. The space is wide but not cold — wood, stone, soft textiles in winter hues. A sheepskin throw over the back of a bench. Open shelving with hand-thrown mugs. A pile of well-worn paperbacks in the corner near a slate fireplace, still glowing faintly from a morning fire.

The heat is the kind that seeps under your skin and makes you remember things. Long nights. Herbal tea. The low sound of Miles Davis from the speakers in his kitchen. The kind of quiet that had nothing to do with peace.

Your boots leave wet prints on the floor.

“This way,” he says, and turns.

You follow him down the hall — wide-planked floors beneath your feet, the faint scent of cedar and lemon oil in the air.

The walls here are quiet. Not sterile, like the clinics you grew up in. But not quite lived-in either. Books in every alcove. Some dog-eared. Some untouched. A long-handled snowshoe mounted like art.

You pass a narrow window where wind-scattered shadows move across the snow. And you don’t ask where he’s taking you. You never did. Zayne walks ahead, and you follow.

Then he stops. Opens a door.

It’s the kind of room you’d expect in a place like this — clinical, but softened by the architecture. The walls are a shade too warm to be white. A reclaimed wood desk sits at an angle to a wide window with a view down the valley. There’s a folded wool blanket on the back of the armchair. A stethoscope rests near a mug gone cold.

And under the desk, a pair of small boots peeks out. Purple. Fur-trimmed. Familiar.

A moment later, a girl’s voice — muffled, stubborn — says, “I don’t want to read. Reading is boring.”

She’s curled beneath the desk, arms folded, cheeks flushed. Next to her, crouched on the floor in a cashmere sweater and soft leggings, is a woman — young, luminous, the kind of composed beauty you’ve only ever seen in galleries or dreams. Her hair is tucked into a braid, her voice calm as riverglass.

“Just one story,” she says gently. “Then we can go back to drawing. Promise.”

The child burrows deeper into the corner.

You stand frozen, caught somewhere between the clinical sterility of the room and the scene that could only be described as... domestic. They’re easy with each other, practiced. The woman places a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, and the girl leans into it, just enough.

You feel something sink in your chest. That’s her, you think. The wife. The mother.

Zayne steps forward. His hand brushes the woman’s back — a touch so natural it’s almost intimate, but not indulgent. More... familiar. Trusted.

“She’s had enough for now,” he says, his voice soft but decisive. “Sweetheart, come on out.”

The girl peeks up at him. “Are you done working?”

He smiles — barely. “Almost. I need to finish this consultation. Then we can go look for rabbits.”

She considers this. Then, without a word, crawls out from under the desk and stands, brushing off imaginary dust. Her braid is loose over one shoulder, a little frayed at the end.

And then she sees you. Recognition flashes across her face — not quite shock, more like a slow realization. A dream remembered mid-afternoon.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You’re the lady with Mommy’s eyes.”

You smile. “And you’re the girl who looks at mountains instead of drinking hot chocolate.”

She giggles. Then pauses. Tilts her head.

“What’s your favorite story?”

You blink, caught off guard. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon."

She wrinkles her nose, curious. “What’s it about?”

But before you can answer, Zayne cuts in, voice crisp. “A girl trades herself to a bear to save her family. She disobeys one rule, ruins everything, and spends the rest of the story chasing what she lost.”

The girl blinks. “Oh.”

“She finds him again,” you say quietly, stepping closer. “That part matters.”

Zayne doesn’t look at you. “Barely. And only after walking the ends of the earth.”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” you say.

There’s a pause. Something drifts in that space between interpretation and indictment.

The girl looks between you both, then smiles. “I want to read it.”

Zayne nods once, briskly. “We’ll find a copy.”

He looks to the young woman — the one whose name you still don’t know — and gives the barest nod. She stands, smooth and silent, and extends a hand. The girl takes it without hesitation, eyes still flicking back toward you.

“She has a thousand questions,” the woman says with a small smile. Her voice is lower than you expected. Kind.

“I imagine she does,” you murmur.

Then they’re gone. The door clicks shut with a soft finality.

You turn back. Zayne’s already pulling the chair into position. His face resets — back into the familiar neutrality of a doctor preparing to deliver something precise.

He gestures toward the patient’s stool.

“Sit,” he says, already reaching for the chart. “Let’s get this over with.”

And just like that, you’re no one again. Just a file. A diagnosis. Another thing to manage.

You sit.

The paper on the examination table crackles beneath you, loud in the hush of the room. Zayne doesn't look at you as he flips open the chart. His fingers move with the same exacting grace they always had — sharp, sure, impersonal.

There is no sign he knows you beyond your name. No flicker of recognition in the line of his jaw, no hesitation in the tone. Just one more consultation on a day too full.

He adjusts the light above you, then gestures. “Shirt.”

You pause.

The heater ticks somewhere behind you. The window throws pale afternoon across the floor — all snow and silence. Your hands rise, slow. The fabric sticks a little at your wrists.

When you unbutton the top three buttons, his eyes stay trained somewhere just over your shoulder. Not out of politeness. Control.

But his hand falters for half a second — just a twitch — when your collar falls open and the scar shows, clean and linear and unmistakable, running diagonally across your chest.

He doesn't comment. Instead, his voice shifts into that lower octave he used with unstable cases. “How long ago?”

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the wall behind him. “Seven months.”

His gaze flicks up. Direct. Not curious. Clinical. “Cause?”

“Wanderer,” you say, too quickly.

You feel him still. Then the sound of the pen clicks sharply against the clipboard.

“You’re still in the field.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, barely. “I consult with Dr. Noah every month. He monitors me remotely.”

Zayne sets the chart aside with too much precision. “You took a core-impact injury to the thoracic cavity,” he says flatly. “That doesn’t require monitoring. That requires full diagnostic protocol. You should be in a central hospital. Not here. Not with a retired man in a chalet and a teapot.”

You bristle. “Noah’s been treating me years. He knows my profile.”

“His machines are ten years older than that.”

You flinch at his tone — not cruel, but surgical. The truth without kindness.

“I’ll refer you to the Linkon Diagnostic Center,” he continues, already reaching for the console. “They’ll run a complete bio-map and core sync within twenty-four hours. Dr. Reza is —”

You cut in, voice sharp. “You’re not offering?”

That stops him. Just for a moment. He meets your gaze. Something ancient flickers there, then shutters.

“I’m not your doctor,” he says.

He’s still listening to your heart, diaphragm pressed too close to skin, and suddenly you’re too bare. Too known. Too held open under his breath.

You pull back. Fast.

The stethoscope slips. You cover your chest with trembling hands and fumble for the buttons. “I’m not going back to Linkon,” you say tightly. “I’m fine.”

Your fingers shake. The top button won’t catch.

His voice doesn’t lift. “You’re not fine. You’re compensating.”

“I’ve been compensating since I was nine,” you snap.

That lands. You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because it’s the only way to hurt him — to remind him that you were already a scar before he ever touched you.

He steps back. Withdraws. The room feels wider again. Colder. Silence pools between you.

Then you speak, too soft to matter.

“She’s beautiful,” you say. “Your daughter.”

You force a small smile. “She looks like you.”

Zayne’s brow lifts, just a little. “You might want to get your vision checked. She looks exactly like her mother.”

You blink. The words hit like an off-key note.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmur, thinking — of the girl crouched beside her, warm and glowing and precisely the kind of woman you always assumed he’d marry. The kind who makes soup. The kind who waits. The kind who stays.

“She’s sweet,” you add. “And calm. I always thought you’d end up with someone like that. Someone who makes a home feel like tea and cinnamon and a blanket in the storm.”

His face tightens, just enough for you to see it before he hides it again. Then, sharply: “Are you done?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He turns, moves toward the desk. The professional mask slips back into place like it never cracked. “Come back tomorrow morning. I want your blood work. When you’re not hungover.”

Your face heats. A slow, miserable bloom. “I’m not —”

“You are,” he says simply. “I can smell it.”

You swallow, hard.

“It’s fine,” you lie. “The injury doesn’t bother me. I’m cleared for fieldwork. I just need you to sign the release.”

He doesn’t look up. “What release?”

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out the crumpled envelope. You place it on the edge of the desk.

He picks it up. Reads.

Then — without a word — he walks to the cabinet and slides it into a drawer sealed with a biometric lock. You hear the soft click as it closes.

“I won’t sign it,” he says. “Not until I’m sure.”

You stare at the drawer. Then at him.

There’s a pulse behind your ribs — not physical, not medical. Just heat. Something dangerously close to humiliation. You hadn’t expected softness, of course. But still, the stark refusal… It lands harder than you meant it to.

Your voice comes out quieter than planned. “You’re not serious.”

Zayne doesn’t look up from the chart. “I am.”

“I don’t need diagnostics,” you press. “I just need a signature.”

He flips to the next page, casually. “Then go ask someone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at.”

That stings. You laugh, a breathless, brittle sound. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

He meets your gaze then. Steady. Cold. "I treat what’s in front of me. And what I see is a patient with an unstable cardiac implant, signs of recent trauma, poor sleep, an irregular heartbeat, and a tendency toward self-endangerment."

You flinch. “Don’t analyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says, tone flat. “I’m reading you.”

The silence sharpens. You push off the exam table, standing fast enough that the paper beneath you rips.

“You don’t get to pretend you still have some claim to how I live.”

He blinks once. That’s it. “I never did.”

Your throat burns. “Then why won’t you sign the fucking form?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he says, finally. The words are quiet, but they cut with such clean detachment, it almost feels surgical.

And just like that — the guilt in your chest shifts. You’d come here expecting control. Containment. What you weren’t ready for was this: being the villain in your own story.

Your voice cracks, more bitter than angry. “I didn’t ask you to care.”

“I know,” Zayne says. “You made that very clear. Seven years ago.”

That lands differently. Deeper. You close your eyes for a moment. The inside of your eyelids glow red.

“I thought leaving was the right thing,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move. “For who?”

You look at him. He’s not angry. Not really. His voice is calm, clinical. The same voice he used with parents trying to argue with the numbers on a monitor.

And somehow that hurts worse.

You breathe in through your nose. The air smells like antiseptic and cedarwood and the past.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you say, voice low. “I wouldn’t.”

He sets the chart down. Calmly. No slam, no emphasis. It might as well be a napkin.

“You think this is about forgiveness?” he says. “This is about liability. You walked in here with a barely stabilized core and a goddamn hero complex. Forgiveness isn’t part of the chart.”

You laugh again — short, scorched. “God, you haven’t changed at all.”

Zayne’s expression doesn't shift. “And you have?”

You take a step forward. It feels dangerous — not because you think he’ll hurt you, but because of how much space you’ve already lost.

“You think I wanted to disappear?” you bite. “You think it was easy? You think I didn’t —”

He cuts in, voice colder than glass. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

“That’s the only part I believe.”

Your breath catches. You feel it in your spine, the way you used to feel a storm breaking inside your chest.

“You act like I broke you,” you snap.

“No,” he says, and his voice now is quieter. Worse. “You broke yourself. I just happened to be holding the pieces.”

You stand there, trembling. There are a thousand things you could say. But none of them are clean. None of them come without blood. So instead —

“Go to hell,” you spit, and you’re already at the door.

Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you the way a surgeon watches a flatline. And as your hand hits the latch, shaking —

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he says.

That does it. You don’t even feel the cold this time as you step out into the white. You don’t zip your coat. You don’t look back. You’re burning from the inside out. And the snow, for once, can’t touch it.

You visit Noah in the hospital that afternoon.

He looks better than he should. Alert. Hydrated. Too pleased to see you. He tries for a weak smile, a raspy breath, a trembling hand — all performative. You’ve known him too long to fall for it.

“Don’t do that,” you tell him flatly, settling beside the bed. “You’re not dying.”

He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Still worked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invited him the moment you found out I was coming.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just adjusts his pillow like a man deeply proud of a long game finally paying off.

You don’t press further. What would be the point? You're here now. And Zayne — he's no longer a memory. He has breath. Mass. Velocity.

You walk back slowly as the sky folds in on itself, streaked with the shimmer of the aurora. It lights the town in green and violet smears, as though the heavens have been bruised.

At one point, you pause by a square, where someone proposes in the snow. There’s clapping. Flash photography. Squealing. A heart traced in frost by a stranger's boot.

You feel nothing. No. That’s not true. You feel everything.

You don’t sleep that night. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting the creaks of the old radiator like heartbeats. You get up at four. Shower. Wash your hair. You wear the least-wrinkled shirt you have and a coat that still smells like smoke from a bar you don’t remember leaving.

You’re not trying to look good. You just refuse to look ruined.

Still — no amount of water or concealer covers the circles under your eyes. You look exactly like what you are: someone who hasn’t let herself feel in seven years and is now bleeding out in quiet, ungraceful increments.

By the time you reach Noah’s house again, the sun has barely crested the horizon. The snow is high and dry, powder that cuts like sand.

And then impact. A snowball straight to your cheek. Hard.

You don’t have time to dodge. It lands just below your eye, wet and sharp and entirely undeserved.

You freeze, lips parted. A bloom of cold shock spreads across your face. A giggle follows. Small, delighted. Merciless.

Your hand rises to your cheek. Already hot, already red. You squint toward the source of your humiliation, ready to unleash something unkind —

Then you stop. It’s her. The girl. Pom-pom hat, mittens half-falling off. Grinning. Victorious.

And behind her, Zayne’s voice. Measured, mildly irritated: “Princess. I told you — not before breakfast.”

You turn, still rubbing your cheek.

He’s in the doorway, hair still damp, shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows. His expression hardens slightly when he sees the welt blooming on your face.

The girl looks up at him, wilting a little. He kneels, says something too low for you to catch. She nods solemnly and disappears inside.

You murmur, “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Just jerks his head toward the hall. “In the office. Wait there.”

You move past him. Your face still stings. Your pride more.

You sit. The room feels colder than yesterday. The chair, harder. You catch your reflection in the dark glass of the cabinet — the mark on your cheek already darkening. You lean in, touch it with one finger. There's a faint scratch beneath it. You blink. A tear hangs on your lower lash.

Zayne enters just as you wipe it away. You turn your face quickly, offer your arm like it’s a business transaction.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

The needle pricks deeper than necessary. It’s probably your fault — the tension in your muscles, the way your jaw locks when he touches you.

The vial fills in silence. The kind that makes you want to scream or laugh or break something clean in two. You choose the last.

A shaky breath escapes. A strange, quiet laugh follows. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

You don’t explain. Why would you?

It’s not every morning that both a man and his six-year-old daughter manage to draw blood from you before coffee.

He withdraws the needle, tapes you up with clinical speed. “You’ll have the results this evening. Depending on Noah’s system.”

You nod, preparing to leave. Then he moves — slower now — and steps close again. You see the cotton ball and antiseptic in his hand before you feel it.

You pull back instinctively. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. But he looks at you in that way he used to. Like every word is a waste of time, and still, he waits for you to finish.

Finally, he says, low: “Don’t be angry with her. She was trying to play.”

“I’m not angry,” you reply, eyes steady. “I just wasn’t expecting to be used for target practice before dawn.”

You’re almost out the door when there’s a knock. Then — she’s there again.

Only now, she’s different. Composed. Hair neatly brushed, her steps careful. No smugness, no bounce. She walks in with both hands wrapped around a large ceramic mug, steam curling from the surface.

“I made you something,” she says, with determined seriousness. “It’s hot chocolate. And I’m sorry for your face.”

Her voice is precise. That same gravity Zayne carries — but undercut by something lighter. A flicker. A spark.

You take the mug. The chocolate is cloyingly thick. Too much sugar. Not enough milk. Like a child’s attempt at comfort.

You drink it anyway. Because no one’s made you something in a long, long time.

And her eyes — when she looks at you like that — they remind you of someone. Not her mother. Not that woman from yesterday. Someone else. Someone in the mirror.

And something you’d buried starts to surface. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

Behind you, there’s a soft shuffle of feet. The girl steps back, glancing up at Zayne.

“I said I was sorry,” she murmurs. 

Zayne raises an eyebrow. "Princess. Did you finish your breakfast?"

She folds her arms, expression thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

“I filled up on guilt,” she says brightly. “It’s very heavy.”

Zayne exhales, but there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth. Something caught between annoyance and affection.

She leans slightly toward him, lowering her voice. “But if the lady stays for breakfast… I might be able to eat more. For company.”

It’s the kind of manipulation only a child can pull off — just enough honesty to disarm you, just enough calculation to know it’ll work. You glance at Zayne, caught between reluctance and something else — a crack, too thin to be a real opening, but present nonetheless.

“She’s persistent,” you murmur.

“She’s six,” Zayne replies dryly. “That’s their job.”

He doesn’t exactly invite you — but he doesn’t stop his daughter from taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen either.

The kitchen is warm. Simple, but elegant. Dark stone counters, exposed beams. A kettle hisses quietly on the stove. There’s a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal on the table, a spoon leaning precariously against its edge like a forgotten decision.

You sit, because she wants you to, because it’s easier than saying no.

Zayne stands by the counter, pouring coffee. He doesn’t look at you, but the silence between you feels more like thread than ice.

“Do you have a job?” the girl asks suddenly, crawling into her seat.

You nod. “I’m a Hunter.”

Her eyes go wide. “Of monsters?”

You smile. “Of all kinds.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Do you know my dad?”

The question lands a little off-balance, but you manage, “A long time. Since we were kids. I know Dr. Noah, too.”

She accepts this like a scholar collecting facts. Then, eyes sharper now:

“Do you have Evol?”

Zayne stiffens slightly across the room — not visibly. But you feel it.

“I do,” you say carefully.

“What kind?”

You hesitate. “It’s… not specific. Not like most. Mine adapts. It changes. Depending on the environment. Or the people around me.”

“Like resonance?”

You blink. “Yes. Exactly.”

She lights up, bouncing slightly. “Me too! Papa says it’s rare. He showed me how to make cold. Like little pockets. And seals.”

“Seals?”

She nods furiously, then jumps down from her chair. “Wait here!”

Before you can stop her, she’s gone — the soft thud of her feet disappearing down the hall. You sit in the quiet that follows. Your hands wrapped too tightly around your mug. Zayne still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you.

When she returns, she’s holding something in both palms like it’s sacred.

A small, rounded snow seal — compact and carefully shaped, like a snowball someone almost didn’t want to sculpt. Its body is smooth but imperfect, eyes made of something dark and glossy. It glitters faintly in her palms, but doesn’t melt.

“I made this yesterday,” she says shyly. “You can have it.”

You reach for it. And your hands tremble.

It’s identical. Not just similar — identical. To the one tucked away in a drawer you haven’t opened in years. A smooth, delicate snow seal. The first thing Zayne ever made for you, after that accidental dinner — back when things between you were still uncertain. Still unspoken. And you were trying, very hard, not to fall in love with him.

You stare at her. Then at the seal. Then at him. He’s watching you now. Not guarded. Not indifferent. Guilty.

The thought doesn’t land — it detonates. You can’t breathe.

You stand suddenly. The chair scrapes too loud against the floor. The seal trembles in your hand.

“I have to go,” you say, voice too tight.

“Wait —” Zayne takes a half-step forward, almost like he wants to explain something. But he doesn’t. He never does.

His face falters, just once — an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unspoken. Unnamed. But unmistakably wrong.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

You don’t know what he was going to say, but you know you wouldn’t survive hearing it. You pull on your coat. Your hands don’t quite work. The zipper catches. You don’t look at him. Or her.

You leave. You leave fast.

The seal stays in your pocket, burning cold against your thigh. And the thought won’t leave you alone — she has your eyes. Not just the color.  The shape. The center. The way they narrow when something doesn’t make sense.

You breathe until your chest aches — deeper, faster, like you’re trying to outrun something curling under your ribs. But the thought stays: What if she isn’t like you? What if she is you?

You don’t remember deciding to leave the house.

At some point, your body just moved. One boot. Then the other. Coat half-zipped. Hat forgotten. Gloves in your pocket but not on your hands.

The door behind you closed with a soft latch, and no one stopped you. Maybe they didn’t see. Maybe they didn’t want to.

It’s noon when you start walking.

The streets are half-cleared. Locals move like shadows between wood-framed cafés and ski rentals, their faces red, layered, laughing. You hate the sound. You hate how it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole damn town who’s bleeding internally and pretending it’s just the weather.

You drift from block to block without direction. Your breath fogs like smoke. You pass a group of tourists taking photos of the northern lights that have lingered since morning — low, green ribbons against a dim sky. They’re beautiful. You want to scream.

The seal is still in your coat pocket. You touched it once. Didn’t look. Didn’t dare.

You’ve been unraveling since morning. No, before that.

Since the girl smiled at you like she knew you. Since Zayne’s eyes refused to meet yours when your hands shook. Since you saw her eyes — your eyes — looking out from someone else’s face.

You want to scream again. You want to sleep for a year. You want to claw your way out of this body and this life and these feelings you tried so goddamn hard not to keep.

By afternoon, the clouds thicken. The wind picks up. You realize — vaguely, distantly — that you haven’t eaten. Your fingers are numb when you finally reach the base of the lift. It’s closed for the day. The town has shut down early. Weather advisory.

A bored attendant is locking the gate. “Slopes are off-limits,” he says. “Storm’s rolling in.”

You nod, smile thinly, and turn back like a good citizen. But you don’t leave. You wait.

You wait until he disappears back into the office. Until no one’s watching. Then — like it’s nothing — you climb over the fence and start walking up the service trail. Skis abandoned at the side rack. Rental. Yours now.

You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you need to get higher.

Need to outrun the noise in your head — the thudding, rising, tightening thought that something isn’t adding up. That maybe it already added up and you’re just too afraid to see the sum.

That child. That seal. Those eyes. That look on Zayne’s face like he owed you something and didn’t know how to pay.

You reach the crest of the slope as the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise — deep violet, heavy with snow.

The wind howls. And still — you don’t turn back. You clip into the skis with fingers stiff and shaking. The trail beneath you is untouched. No tracks. No sound.

Just you. And the storm. You push off.

Zayne waits until the girl arrives — Noah’s niece, the one with calm hands and a patient voice, the one you mistook for something she wasn’t. She greets him with a warm smile and a quick update: oatmeal was eaten, hot chocolate spilled, the child is brushing her teeth. He nods, hands her a list with quiet instructions, then pulls on his coat without a word.

He tries your hotel first. The front desk confirms what he feared — no sign of you since morning. Your room untouched. Key not returned.

Something in his chest shifts.

He checks the ridge path. Nothing. The café. The overlook. Still nothing. His movements are methodical — too calm. It’s not control. It’s containment. If he slows down, even for a second, something in him will crack.

And then — near the rental stand — he finds it.

A glove. Dropped. Half-buried in snow, already stiff. He picks it up, turns it over. Recognizes the tear at the seam. Yours.

He asks the attendant without raising his voice.

Did anyone come through this afternoon? Alone? Female. Dark coat. Grey hat.

The man squints. "Yeah. Kinda reckless. Took off before I could stop her. Trail’s closed. She climb the ridge?”

Zayne doesn’t answer. His eyes have already locked on the faint trail of ski tracks, just visible past the fence. The wind’s been at them, but not enough to hide them completely.

He doesn’t ask to borrow the gear.

He takes the skis, the poles. The boots he forces on with too much pressure, and when the attendant stammers something about policy, Zayne pulls out his wallet and empties it. A week’s wages in a handful of bills.

“Keep it,” he says flatly. “If I don’t come back, file a report.”

Then he moves.

The snow is heavier now. The light fractured and thick. The trail beneath him vanishes in places, reappearing in erratic, uncertain intervals.

Zayne cuts across the slope with practiced economy — no hesitation, no excess motion. Just angles, just speed. His breath steady, heart loud in his throat.

He tells himself he isn’t afraid. He doesn’t allow that.

But every time the wind screams through the trees, he hears your name in it.

You shouldn’t be out here. Not alone. Not after what your body’s already been through. The last time he saw your vitals, they told him you were compensating — tightly, dangerously. He knows how you move. How far you can push. And how far you go past that, every time.

You’ve always mistaken endurance for strength. Always carried pain like it was proof of something noble.

He hated you for that once. He thinks, maybe, he still does. But it doesn’t stop him.

Then he sees it.

Two skis. Sticking upright from a drift.

And his body stops moving before his mind does. He’s off his own skis in seconds. Ripping off gloves. Digging.

He calls your name once. Quietly. Pointlessly.

The snow is deep. Heavy. He can’t move fast enough.

His fingers spark, and he lets his Evol loose — concentrated cold that carves through the snow in clean, precise arcs, exposing the shape beneath. A coat. A shoulder. A hand.

You’re there. Unconscious.

Face pale. Skin far too cold. But breathing. Your mouth parts in slow, shallow rhythm. The line of your pulse is barely visible in your throat.

He checks your pupils. Taps your cheek. You don’t stir.

Zayne exhales — not relief. Not yet. Just... air.

He pulls off his coat. Wraps it around you. Scarf next. Then his gloves. He doesn’t think. Just works. Every layer he has, onto you. Your pulse is slow, but consistent. Fingers pinkening. No slurring at the mouth, no skin rupture. Early-stage exposure. You’ll feel it later — pain like fire. But you’ll live.

You’ll live. You’ll live.

He cradles you upright, gathering your limbs in careful precision.

Turning back isn’t an option. The trail’s too steep, visibility falling. Wind rising.

But he remembers.

Three miles east. Maybe a little more. Tree line drops. Cabin near the base. Old ranger post. No electricity, but shelter. Wood. He’d seen it once, riding out on the snowmobile. Just a marker in the cold. Never thought he’d need it for real.

He adjusts your weight. Lifts you fully.

You don’t stir.

The snow stings his face like glass. He takes one step forward.

Then another. And another. And another…

Every muscle is screaming. But he doesn't stop.

Not even when the storm closes around you like a fist. Not even when his legs buckle slightly under the weight of you. Not even when he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stay upright.

Because this — this is the only direction that exists.

This is the cost of silence. This is the body he still remembers carrying once before. This is everything he couldn’t say compressed into the weight of you against his chest.

You open your eyes when the spoon touches your lips.

It’s not a dream, though your vision is still clouded. There’s something herbal and scalding and sharp on your tongue, and the taste cuts through the fog like citrus through smoke. You swallow reflexively.

The light around you is amber and low. Firelight.

There’s a crackle to your left — the sound of wood shifting in a stone hearth. You realize you’re lying on something soft, uneven. Furs. Blankets. The floor is warm beneath your back, too warm for snow.

Everything aches.

But it’s the hands you feel first. One bracing the back of your head, the other steadying the cup.

Zayne.

He’s kneeling beside you, his face cast in that flickering glow, brow furrowed but calm. He always looks calm. Even when he's breaking.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the same tone he uses with terrified patients. “One more sip.”

Your throat is raw when you speak. “Zayne…”

It comes out as a croak. Foreign. Barely yours.

His hand shifts, adjusting your weight. “You're okay,” he says. “You're safe. Just drink.”

You blink again, harder now. The room begins to resolve.

Rough-hewn walls. Low beams. A wooden table covered in old gear and folded wool. Two chairs. A rack of kindling. The window rattles in its frame, wind clawing at the glass.

You’re in a cabin.

The middle of nowhere. Snow hammering against the dark.

“I found you on the south slope,” he says. “Passed out. Cold to the core.” His voice stays even. “You should’ve been dead.”

You don’t respond. Not with words.

Your body is still catching up to the idea that it hasn’t been left behind.

“I need to get you warmer,” he says. “You’re not shivering anymore. That’s bad.”

You start to sit up. He stops you with a touch. His fingers are cold too — not numb, but close. You can feel the tremor under his restraint.

“You need to strip,” he says. “Your clothes are soaked. You won’t retain heat like this.”

You want to argue. Your brain wants to rebel. But your body betrays you — you’re shaking now, from the inside, from the marrow.

“I’ll help,” he says, already undoing the clasps at your coat.

You let him.

There’s no shame in the gesture. Only efficiency. Only silence.

He peels your clothes back layer by layer — coat, sweater, base layer — each one discarded near the fire. He’s methodical, but his fingers stumble once at the side of your ribs. You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

When he’s done, he does the same to himself. His hands are slower now. He’s soaked too. You see it in the way his shirt clings, the way his skin is flushed in patches, raw in others.

He says nothing. Neither do you.

The wind screams outside.

Then he lifts the furs. Slides in beside you.

Everything feels... detached. Like you’re still behind glass, still half-buried in snow. His body is there — you know that — but your skin won’t admit it yet. Cold lives in the marrow. It doesn’t release easily.

He doesn’t ask when he pulls you closer. Doesn’t explain as he hooks one leg over yours, his thigh anchoring you with clinical precision. Contact — pure and total. Every inch of skin aligned.

It’s about warmth. Nothing more.

You believe that. For now.

Your foot finds his under the covers. Slides along the ridge of his shin, searching. You lay your hands on his chest. Flat, tentative. He takes them in his — large, too cold — and brings them to his mouth. Breathes. Warms them with both palms, slowly rubbing life back into your fingers.

And then — you begin to shake.

Violently. But not only from the cold.

He starts to rub your back. Brisk. Practical. Hands flat, pressure deliberate. Not tender. Not yet. Just enough to pull you back into your body.

You respond without meaning to. You press against him — again, just for heat. That’s all. Your hands move instinctively, over his shoulders, his throat, lower. You start to trace the vertebrae at the center of his back.

Just to ground yourself. Just to hold on.

Your breasts are against his chest. Your nipples — hard to the point of pain — brush bone and breath.

He shudders.

From the cold? You don’t ask.

Because you’re no longer cold. Not really. But you’re not warm either. There’s only this flicker — a kindling at the base of your spine.

Not desire. Not yet. But something trying to become it.

His hand moves to your hair, finds the elastic, slides it free. Fingers comb through the strands, rough, reverent. His palm cups the back of your skull. Massages gently. The tension spills from your scalp like something breaking.

You make a sound — quiet, involuntary.

Your breath lands against his throat, hot, uneven.

He stills.

Then he shifts your face upward, thumb beneath your jaw. Not rough. Not asking. Just guiding. Until your eyes lock.

His gaze — green, always green — reflects the firelight in flickers. Cold forest. Flickering coals.

You can’t look away. You let him all the way in. Because he remembers the way. Because your walls were never walls with him — only doors you forgot how to close.

His voice is low, at your mouth: “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

You whisper back, “I forgot how to feel anything.”

Your throat tightens. “My heart’s been a shard of ice for years.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“You didn’t even leave me that,” he murmurs. “Only the empty space where it used to be.”

“Zayne, I —”

But he hushes you, barely a breath. “Don’t speak. Not now. If we don’t warm up, we won’t make it to morning.”

“Then warm me,” you breathe.

Something in him breaks then — quietly.

His arms tighten around you. No hesitation. His fingers dig into your skin with bruising honesty. You feel it — the pressure, the edge, the claim — and it’s the first time pain feels like presence.

You welcome it.

“Harder,” you whisper. “Don’t hold anything back. Just… not now.”

He doesn’t.

In one breathless motion, he flips you onto your back — his body covering yours entirely, anchoring you to the furs and the warmth and the terrible, steady thud of his pulse.

He hovers over you, braced on his elbows, the lines of his frame drawn taut above yours. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch. Just studies your face like a map he’s not sure he has the right to read.

It’s not hesitation. It’s a final warning.

But your body has remembered how to feel again. Heat has bloomed across your skin — from your neck to your cheeks, now flushed and electric — then lower, spiraling into your belly, blooming with a weight that has nothing to do with cold.

He leans in, and his lips graze the pulse at your throat. Light. Measured. Then lower — the slope of your collarbone, the hollow of your shoulder — his breath leaving heat where ice had lived.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Directive. “Hold me tighter.”

Not a plea. Not an invitation. An order. The doctor, still.

You obey.

Your legs curl around his waist, locking him in place. Your arms wrap across his back, palms flattening against tense muscle, nails dragging instinctively down the blades of his shoulder, then lower — to his waist, the arc of his hips.

Your skin sings where he touches you.

His body over yours is no longer just weight — it’s voltage. It cracks through the ache and the shame and the frost, down to the deepest, most feral part of you that only ever belonged to him.

You dig your fingers into the curve of him — familiar, lost, found again too fast. Too desperately.

And still, he doesn’t kiss you.

You want him to. God, you want him to. You want the taste of his mouth. You want to remember what it felt like when kissing him made the world disappear.

But he doesn’t give you that. Because that would make this real.

Too real.

And you’re both still pretending this is about the cold. About survival. About anything but what it is.

So instead, he moves lower — mouth against your throat, fingers tightening at your waist, and your whole body arches up to meet him, wanting more, needing more, aching toward the inevitable.

And still — no lips on yours. Still that one small distance held like a line neither of you dares to cross.

His hand slides lower. Fingers between your thighs, slow and certain — finding you already wet, already aching. His touch is careful at first. A question. A warning.

Then he moves — stroking, circling, teasing — and you arch, sharp and sudden, breath caught on the edge of a moan.

Your hands clutch at his back, your hips rising to meet him, the last of your resistance dissolved into heat and want and memory.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice broken and close to prayer. “Please. I need you now.”

Your lips brush his ear. The words land soft, but strike hard.

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts — deliberate, sure — as his knee presses yours open wider, as his body finally, finally finds yours.

The first moment of him inside you is too much and not enough. A slow, deliberate stretch. He’s holding back — you feel it. Every inch a battle between restraint and collapse.

When you are completely joined, your eyes fly open. So do his.

You both stop.

Breathless. Still. Time folds in on itself.

It feels like the first time. Like a dream pulled too close to waking. Like you’ve spent years underwater and have just now broken the surface.

He begins to move. Barely. Slow. Torturous. Deep.

And you watch him. Because this is the moment you see it — his detachment cracking, his control unraveling. Each movement chips away another piece.

Then his hands seize your hips harder, pulling you closer, holding you down as he thrusts deeper, faster — no longer gentle. His mouth finds your shoulder, your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just shy of pain.

You match him.

Your legs wrap around his back. Your hips rise to meet every stroke, faster, harder. Sweat beads at his temple. A low sound slips from his throat — one you’ve never heard before, and never want to forget.

You’re not cold anymore.

There’s heat building in your belly, pulsing, tightening. Each movement pushes you closer to something unbearable.

You can’t stay quiet. You don’t want to.

Your moans rise with the rhythm, faster, sharper, and when he angles just right, when his name leaves your mouth like a gasp turned to flame —

“Zayne — !”

The world shatters.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves — violent, relentless. You bite down on his shoulder, legs trembling, body clenching tight around him.

He groans — low and guttural — and flips you both, pulling you on top of him, still joined, still inside you.

You collapse against his chest, panting, ruined.

Your thighs still locked around his hips. Your pulse frantic. His heartbeat thunderous beneath your cheek.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

And in that stillness, something settles. Not comfort. Not safety.

But the truth of it: he’s not indifferent. Not detached. Not after all this time.

He still holds you like he remembers how you once broke apart beneath his hands — and how you came back, not even realizing it was for him.

The sound of his heartbeat, and the low, steady howl of the wind outside, lulled you eventually. Your body relaxed — finally — into sleep. But it wasn’t rest. Just disjointed images: whiteness, blurred edges, something aching and incomplete. A dream without a shape, just cold and distance and something you couldn’t reach.

When you woke, he was gone.

You were still wrapped in the weight of layered furs, tucked with clinical precision, your body cocooned like something fragile. You could still feel him on your skin — the imprint of his hands, the echo of his breath.

“Zayne?” you rasped, your throat dry and raw.

His voice came from somewhere behind the fire. “I’m here.”

A second later he emerged, bare-chested beneath a heavy wool throw slung over one shoulder like a makeshift toga. He held a steaming mug in both hands.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Headache? Nausea?”

“I’m fine.” You sat up, pulling the blanket to your chest. He handed you the tea. You took it without meeting his eyes.

That ridiculous throw was the only thing he’d bothered with — aside from the wool socks. And now that you noticed, the matching pair was on your feet too.

Your clothes hung near the fire, dripping onto the wooden floor in slow, defeated rhythms.

It was still dark outside. The blizzard had dulled to a whisper, snow tapping now instead of screaming. The only other sound was the slow collapse of wood in the hearth.

“Everything should be dry by midday,” he said evenly, eyes fixed on yours — calm, too calm. Doctor-Zayne calm. “Once it is, I’ll hike to the base. Should only take a few hours. I’ll bring back a snowmobile.”

“I can walk,” you muttered, wrapping the furs tighter.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re one sneeze away from pneumonia.”

You sneezed.

Took a sip to hide it. The tea was bitter and hot and exactly what your throat needed. It didn’t help your pride.

He watched you for a long beat. Then, carefully:

“Tell me what possessed you to take the slope in a storm. Especially considering you’ve never been a particularly good skier.”

There was no judgment in his voice. That’s what made it worse.

You turned your head, eyes fixed on the fire. You didn’t want to talk about his daughter. You didn’t want to ask. Not while your body still remembered his breath on your neck. Not while your thighs still ached from being wrapped around him.

“You could’ve died,” he said. Softer now. There was a tremble, just barely.

“It’s not the first time,” you replied. Dry. Flat. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

His silence was sharp.

Then: “What does that mean?”

You shrugged. Shrugging was easier than explaining. Shrugging let you pretend this wasn’t tearing you open in layers.

His spine straightened. You knew that posture. You’d seen it in surgery. In argument. In loss.

“You think I wouldn’t care?”

“Do you?”

Still silence.

“Do you think it wouldn’t matter to me if you didn’t come back?” His voice was harder now — not loud, but precise. Measured like a scalpel.

You met his eyes, finally. “Do you care as my doctor? Or as Zayne?”

He stepped forward, just enough to catch the light on his face.

“Both.”

The word dropped between you like a stone.

“I deserve answers,” he said, tone cooling. “You’ve had seven years of silence. You don’t get to keep hiding.”

You flinched. “I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.”

“You’re not a stranger either.”

Your jaw clenched. “I have the right not to explain myself.”

“And I have the right to ask,” he said, his voice suddenly sharper — controlled, but frayed at the edges.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t the man you left behind. He wasn’t even the man you remembered.

His face was sharper now. Carved from something colder. His beauty had always been precise, but now it was almost inhuman — every emotion hidden behind faultless structure. The lines of him harder. His silence heavier.

He looked like someone who had survived something quietly. Someone who had burned and chosen to freeze instead.

And suddenly you wondered if he was asking because he was angry — or because he was afraid the answer would ruin him.

You set the cup down and rubbed your forehead — the gesture unconscious, familiar. The kind of motion you only made when faced with something unpleasant that required a decision.

You didn’t want to do this sitting. It made you feel small, like the version of yourself you’d spent the last seven years trying to grow out of.

So you rose, pulling the furs around you tightly, dragging their weight like a second skin, and stepped closer to the fire. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the flames instead — at the way the heat licked the logs and flared in quiet, devouring patterns.

Your palm stretched toward the warmth. The skin was hot, but inside you still felt the cold — like your bones had absorbed it, like it had settled somewhere marrow-deep.

A tremor passed through you.

“I’m not eager to dig up the past,” you said softly, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “But I imagine you’re owed some kind of answer. Maybe I’ll even admit now that leaving the way I did was reckless. But at the time, I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Instinct, not intention.”

He said nothing. You kept your eyes on the fire.

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t put it together yourself,” you added. “But if you want me to say it out loud, then fine. I left because you fell in love with someone else. Because you cheated on me.”

Silence. And then —

“Excuse me?”

Zayne’s voice snapped across the space like the crack of a snapped branch. Not loud — but edged with something so sharp and disbelieving that it startled you into turning.

His face was a picture of stunned clarity. Not guilt. Not evasion.

Shock.

You’d seen Zayne process grief. Rage. Even loss. But not this.

“I can assure you,” he said with that same cold precision, “neither of those things ever happened. But by all means, continue. I’d love to know what led you to such an absurd conclusion.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t lying.

He never had been good at lying — not even white lies, not even to protect someone. If you’d asked him then, directly, all those years ago… He would’ve told you the truth.

No matter what it was.

But you hadn’t asked.

“Do you remember Caroline?” you said, voice thinner now. “Dr. Sharp, I think. She came to town for the fellowship project. You spent over a month working side-by-side. You were gone every night, back after midnight, gone before I woke. We barely saw each other.”

“That project was critical,” he said quietly. “And yes. I’ve often wondered if that’s what it was. That I didn’t make enough space for you.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I wouldn’t have left over time or distance,” you said. “That’s not me. Worst case, I would’ve had a meltdown. I would’ve yelled. Slammed doors. But what got under my skin… what stayed…”

You swallowed.

“We had dinner. All of us. One night. I watched the way she looked at you. The way she touched your hand like it was second nature. And the way you didn’t flinch. You were relaxed. Easy. Like she belonged next to you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, lower: “She was my closest friend. For years.”

Was.

You didn’t miss the tense. Something final in it.

“I spiraled,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I started imagining things. Inventing whole conversations you never had. And then —” you drew in a breath, “— you were in the shower. And your phone lit up. I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I did.”

His face didn’t move.

“She texted you. Something about… a kiss. I couldn’t unlock it, couldn’t read the rest. But I didn’t need to. That was enough.”

Your words hung between you like ash.

When you finally met his eyes, what you saw there wasn’t the same fire as before. It was rage now. Cold. Controlled. Ancient.

He didn’t speak. But his hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons tight. Not shaking. Just contained.

And that, more than anything, frightened you.

Finally, Zayne found his voice again. When he spoke, it was quieter — colder. Like he was holding himself together with wire.

“She kissed me,” he said. “I didn’t kiss her back. I asked her to leave. I never saw her again. End of story.”

You opened your mouth, but —

He raised a hand. “No. Don’t.”

You froze.

“Let’s summarize, shall we?” he said, and his tone was so steady it hurt. “You accepted my proposal. We were making plans. Booking venues. Looking at rings.”

He took a step toward you.

You stepped back. The fire was too close now — too hot. Your skin prickled.

“And then,” he continued, “you disappeared. No warning. No explanation. No note. Nothing. Just… gone.”

His eyes were locked on yours. And you’d never seen him like this — not in battle, not in chaos, not even in the quiet moments when he looked like he might finally break.

“You vanished because of a kiss that never happened. Because you saw something you didn’t understand. Because you didn’t ask.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

“I searched for you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I looked in every city I thought you might go. Called hospitals. Asked colleagues. Filed missing persons reports in seven countries. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I had to be pulled off rotation because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”

Your breath hitched.

His voice was breaking now — not loud, not emotional. Just… broken. Controlled devastation.

“I thought you were dead.”

He let that hang there.

“I imagined you in rivers. In morgues. I dreamed it. Night after night. And every time the phone rang, I hoped it was you. I hoped you’d changed your mind. That it was all just a mistake, or a test, or a nightmare.”

Another step closer. His face was inches from yours now.

“And then at some point,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I had to stop hoping. Because hoping was killing me.”

Your knees almost gave out.

“And now you stand here,” he went on, “telling me you left because you were jealous of a woman who meant nothing. Because you couldn’t bear to ask me a question I would’ve answered in one breath.”

His mouth twisted, just slightly — a flicker of something savage behind the calm.

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s cowardice.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say.

His eyes didn’t soften. “I would’ve forgiven almost anything. A betrayal. A lie. Hell, even if you had loved someone else.”

A beat.

“But I don’t know how to forgive being erased.”

The final word landed like a gavel.

You looked at him — the man you loved, the man who once memorized the rhythm of your breath in sleep — and you didn’t see a stranger.

You saw someone who had carried your absence like a scar he didn’t let heal.

And now he was bleeding in front of you. But the blood wasn’t red. It was ice.

It came slowly. Too slowly.

Like thaw in the deepest part of winter — not warmth, but the ache that comes with returning sensation.

You’d spent so long clinging to the version of events you built inside your own head — a brittle, pathetic mythology — that you hadn’t once thought to challenge it.

You’d believed he betrayed you. And carried that lie like a wound for seven years. You let it harden inside you, let it dictate the terms of your survival.

You cried for him. Night after night, in rooms that never felt like home. Until you convinced yourself he had moved on. Married. Loved again. Raised someone else’s child in the light of a future that was supposed to be yours.

You tried to fill the space he left. But nothing fit.

And now that you knew the truth —

There was no relief. Only horror.

It crashed over you all at once — a cold so deep it numbed thought. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

It was like being buried again — not under snow this time, but under the weight of your own choices. The grief of what you did, of what you undid.

“Zayne…” you managed. “I— I made a mistake.”

He laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel. But sharp. Icy. Surgical.

“A mistake,” he repeated, voice dry as ash. “Of course.”

He took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable, his tone too calm to be safe.

“Just a minor lapse in judgment. Nothing serious. Nothing irreversible.”

You flinched.

“Just —” he continued, tilting his head slightly, as if mocking even his own patience, “— disappearing without a trace. Letting me believe you were dead. Watching me lose everything. My sleep. My mind. My future.”

His gaze pinned you. “But hey. Who hasn’t made that kind of mistake?”

“Don’t say it like that —”

“What? Like it’s nothing?” His smile was thin, brittle. “Like it’s not the single most devastating thing anyone’s ever done to me?”

Your breath caught.

“You want me to be kind, is that it? After seven years of silence, you want — what? Mercy? Grace?” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I’m sorry. I seem to have misplaced those somewhere around year two.”

You closed your eyes, shaking. “Please, Zayne…”

He didn’t move.

“You want me to say I understand?” he asked. “That I forgive you?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just slightly.

“You didn’t just leave,” he said. “You rewrote me. You made me the villain in a story I didn’t even know I was in.”

That was when something inside you cracked.

Your fists clenched at your sides, breath coming short. Rage rising not at him — not fully — but at yourself, and at him, and at everything you didn’t understand and didn’t ask and didn’t say.

And then you said it. Low, sharp, shaking.

“Oh, and what about you, Zayne?”

His brows lifted, almost imperceptibly.

“Let’s talk about you and your daughter.”

A flicker. Barely visible. A shift in the air.

You stepped closer. Voice rising.

“Let’s talk about why the hell she looks exactly like me.”

“Don’t you dare drag my daughter into this,” he said — clipped, sharp.

But his voice had shifted. You knew that tone. The one he used when he was cornered. When the truth was already rising in his throat, demanding release.

And that gave you strength.

You stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Oh, no. Not this time.” Your voice was shaking. Not from fear. From fury. “You don’t get to bury this under silence.”

He didn’t move.

“Why does she have my eyes, Zayne?” Your voice rose. “Why does she and I share the same Evol signature? Why do I look at her and feel —” You choked, breath catching. “— nothing, when I should’ve felt everything?”

He met your gaze without flinching.

“She has nothing to do with you.”

That was the lie that broke you.

“Zayne!”

You almost screamed it. And finally — finally — he answered.

“I created her,” he said.

Each word landed like a fracture.

“I created her from the only part of you I had left. I broke every protocol, every ethical law, every barrier between grief and madness. I did it knowing exactly what it was. A moment of desperation. Of agony. Of self-destruction. Call it what you want.”

His voice trembled once, barely. Then steeled again.

“But once she existed — she was alive. And I was responsible.”

You couldn’t breathe.

It all clicked into place, hideously fast.

There had been a time — after a fight, after a wound — a battle that had torn more than just your skin. The damage to your abdomen had been bad. Serious enough that your fertility came into question. And so, in a haze of pain and fear and future-thinking, you and Zayne had made a decision.

You’d frozen your eggs. Just in case. Just in case there was ever time for life.

And then you vanished. And he —

Your knees gave out.

Because it wasn’t just theory now. It wasn’t data in a file. It wasn’t a long-ago clinic visit or a box ticked on a form.

It was her.

Your daughter.

A child you hadn’t known you’d had. Who’d taken her first breath, first steps, spoken her first word — all without you. A child whose face you’d looked into and seen nothing but unfamiliarity.

Because the thread between you was never tied.

Your vision blurred. Your hands clenched. And then, with a clarity that burned through the haze, you lifted your arm and slapped him.

Hard.

His head turned with the force of it.

But he didn’t step back. Didn’t retaliate. Just stood there, breathing. Something behind his eyes shifted — regret, maybe. Or something darker. Disappointment.

You didn’t care.

“You had no right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But we can’t unmake what we did.”

Your legs were shaking. Your body had stopped regulating heat again — not from trauma, but from exhaustion. The flu or something close to it now tightening your throat, buzzing behind your eyes.

You didn’t speak again.

You just turned. Pulled the furs around your body. Curled up on the floor, facing away.

Everything inside you was vibrating. Screaming. And still — you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, you heard him move. A step, maybe two. The start of a word, maybe a breath.

But then — silence.

The kind that didn’t soothe. The kind that hollowed.

You drifted in and out of a fevered half-sleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, while the sun crept higher in the sky.

You weren’t fully conscious, but you knew he was there.

You felt his hand on your forehead now and then — clinical, measuring. You remembered being lifted just enough to drink something warm, bitter. His arm braced behind your shoulders. His voice low, instructing, coaxing.

You remembered his arms around you when the shivering got worse.

Not tender. Not romantic. Just practical.

Because you were freezing. And he wasn’t going to let you freeze alone.

He didn’t crawl beneath the furs again. But he lay beside you, fully dressed, silent, a barrier against the cold.

Even now — after all the damage, all the wounds neither of you could cauterize — he still gave what little warmth he had left.

When your eyes opened again, the room had changed. The light was golden, brighter. Fire still burned in the hearth, lower now. The air felt clearer.

You tried to sit up too fast. A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, stopping you.

Zayne.

His face above yours — alert, shadowed by worry, but composed.

You looked at him, and what surprised you most was the stillness inside yourself. Not peace. Not comfort. Just… an absence of fight. A numb kind of calm.

It wasn’t forgiveness. And it wasn’t closure. It was the breath after the collapse.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked, or tried to — the sound barely made it out.

Your voice cracked, nearly gone. You reached for your throat.

He shook his head once. “Don’t talk.”

No gentleness. Just clarity.

“About six hours,” he said. “It’s nearly noon. The fever’s dropped. Your clothes are dry.”

You noticed now — he was fully dressed. Jacket zipped, gloves on, boots laced tight. Efficient. Ready.

“I need to hike out,” he said, crouching beside you. “Snowmobile station’s a few miles. I’ll be back within two hours.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched him — the way his brows stayed furrowed, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching like there was something in his mouth he didn’t trust himself to say.

Then he reached for your hand. His palm was warm. Solid.

“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ll talk. Properly. We’ll get to all of it. But right now — I need to know that you’re not going to do something reckless while I’m gone.”

You didn’t grip his hand. But you didn’t pull away either. Your fingers just rested in his — a neutral stillness that said not yet, but also not no.

“I promise,” you whispered.

Zayne lingered for half a second more. Then he did something you didn’t expect. He brought your hand to his mouth. Touched his lips to the tips of your fingers. Barely there.

And then he stood. Crossed the room and walked out into the snow.

The door closed behind him with a clean, final click. And you were alone.

But this time, not entirely lost.

Four hours later, Zayne was carrying you back through the doorway of Dr. Noah’s house.

The fever had returned somewhere on the snowmobile ride down. Your skin burned, and the world had begun to tilt. By the time he stepped through the threshold, your voice was gone again.

He didn’t speak. Just moved with quiet certainty.

Helped you out of your damp clothes. Pulled a fleece pajama set from the linen closet — a pale blue thing that smelled faintly of cedar — and dressed you with swift efficiency. You didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

He laid you down in one of the guest beds, layered with thick quilts, and disappeared only for a moment. When he returned, it was with a bag of supplies already slung over his shoulder, a prepped IV in one hand and a throat spray in the other.

Every motion was muscle memory. Smooth. Intentional. Engraved in his bones.

At one point, as he propped your head up to give you a sip of raspberry tea, your hand slipped forward, fingers closing weakly around his wrist.

“Zayne…” you rasped. “You have a fever too.”

He didn’t look at you. Just adjusted the angle of the mug.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He gathered your hair gently — fingers threading through the strands with ease — and twisted it into a loose knot, securing it with a black elastic he must’ve pulled from his pocket.

You stared at him, eyes glassy with heat and a kind of wounded awe.

He remembered.

You never liked sleeping with your hair down. He hadn’t forgotten.

He met your gaze briefly. Something flickered — not tenderness, but something heavier, older.

“I took something earlier,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, have pneumonia. So rest. You’ll feel better after the fluids.”

The next few days blurred.

You slept. Mostly.

Woke only for medicine, for slow sips of broth, for Zayne’s quiet instructions. You tried to get to the bathroom alone. Failed. Tried again. He never mocked you for it. Just kept close enough to catch you if you fell.

Sometimes he sat in the armchair across the room, reading. When you were lucid enough to focus, you asked — weakly, half-asleep:

“Read it out loud?”

He didn’t ask why. He just turned the page. Cleared his throat.

And began.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

His voice — calm, measured — filled the room like something remembered, not new. You watched him as he read. The cadence. The precision. The way he breathed between sentences like it mattered.

He read the whole thing. And when it ended, neither of you spoke for a long time.

It was you who finally broke the quiet.

“She breaks the rule,” you whispered. “Lights the candle. Looks at him when she wasn’t supposed to.”

Zayne rested the book on his knee, fingers still hooked between the pages.

“She ruins everything,” he said. Not accusing. Just observing.

You didn’t flinch. “And still goes after him.”

“She wouldn’t have had to, if she’d just listened.”

“She wanted to know him,” you said. “Not just love a shadow.”

He looked at you then. Something unreadable in his expression.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “She made a mistake. A big one. And she didn’t wait for forgiveness. She fought to make it right.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped. “It was still selfish.”

“So is love,” you murmured.

The fire cracked between you — a sharp snap that echoed through the stillness.

“It’s a strange story,” you added. “The girl disobeys. The prince stays silent. They both fail. And then they both change.”

“And still find each other,” he said, finally. Quiet. Measured.

“But not the same way,” you whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “They come back different. Burned. But still… together.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

A week later, you felt strong enough to make it down the stairs.

The house still smelled like cedar and lemon soap, the way it always had. Dr. Noah’s niece — the woman you had once mistaken for Zayne’s wife — introduced herself properly over herbal tea and folded laundry. Her name was Marianne. She was kind. Warm in that easy, effortless way you’d never mastered.

She adored his daughter.

Your daughter.

They spent hours together — drawing, baking, building tiny snow forts that collapsed within minutes. And every time you watched them, a strange hollowness twisted in your chest.

You studied the girl constantly.

The resemblance, now that you knew, was undeniable. Your eyes. Your cheekbones. Your ridiculous inability to sit still for more than five seconds. But her hair — that inky black — was Zayne’s. And her quiet concentration when she built things from ice with pinched fingers? That was his too.

She was loud. Expressive. Curious. Always moving, always knocking something over. She danced through the house like a falling star — burning too fast, leaving marks.

And she wouldn’t leave you alone.

Every morning, she burst into your room like it was hers. Climbed up beside you. Chattered about everything — school, snow, cartoon cats, some child named Max who was apparently insufferable. And home.

God. Home.

That word stabbed deeper than anything else.

You let her talk. You smiled when you could. But you never reached for her. Never called her by name unless you had to.

You didn’t know how to feel.

Curiosity? Yes. Recognition? Slowly. Love? No. Not yet. 

Maybe not ever.

And wasn’t that its own kind of crime?

You moved around her like glass. Like she might break. Or worse — you might.

Then one morning, she stopped mid-sentence. Sat very still beside you, swinging her legs.

“Are you my mommy?”

It hit like a blow.

You froze. Words caught in your throat, the reflex to deny already gathering in your chest.

But you didn’t have to say it.

Zayne appeared in the doorway. One look — that infamous stillness — and the girl backed out of the room, cheeks red, eyes wide. She closed the door softly behind her.

But not before looking at you one last time.

And you knew you’d remember that look for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll talk to her,” Zayne said, not looking at you. “Make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

Then — practical, brisk, clinical: “Your labs are stable. Lungs are clear. I scheduled a follow-up ultrasound downtown. As for your heart —”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Just stop.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and began to rock. A motion you didn’t recognize in yourself. Uncontrolled. Unmoored.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

Zayne dropped to his haunches beside you. His hand settled on your knee.

“What was I supposed to say to her?” Your voice was rising now, frantic. “What am I even supposed to feel? I didn’t carry her. I didn’t raise her. I didn’t know she existed. She’s mine but not mine.”

You were trembling now.

“She has my DNA, but I’m not her mother. I’m a stranger. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Zayne didn’t speak. Just stayed there. Then — slowly — his hand slid away from your leg, and he bowed his head, pressing his palms to his face.

He stayed like that for a long time.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, uneven.

“Every day,” he said, “I live knowing I did something beautiful and unforgivable at the same time.”

You didn’t move.

“I carry the guilt in every breath,” he said. “But I’d do it again. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. Not my career. Not my name. Not even forgiveness.”

He looked up at you then.

“If you want to file a complaint,” he said, voice steadying, “if you want to take my license, ruin me — do it. I won’t fight. I’ll take it.”

“But I won’t ever be sorry she exists.”

Your mouth opened. But no words came.

Because something inside you had begun to thaw — not into love, not yet — but into something uglier.

Jealousy.

Jealousy of your own child.

Of how easily she clung to him. Of how naturally he held her. Of the years they’d had.

Without you.

The thought disgusted you. You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking it. You wanted to vanish again, just to avoid what that meant.

But it was there. And it was real.

“What kind of monster do you think I am, Zayne?” you asked, your voice raw, barely more than breath. “You think I came here to file reports? Tear your life apart on principle?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“You already did that once,” he said, flatly.

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s not start listing sins,” you whispered. “We’ll be here until spring.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly. “Yes. I left. And not just your life — I detonated my own. There’s no version of this where I walk away clean.”

You glanced toward the door, where her laughter had echoed just minutes ago.

“And if there’s a tiny version of me running through this house, it’s not just your doing. I lit the first match. I made the first cut. Maybe this is the price. The life that formed in the crater we made.”

Zayne turned, finally. Met your eyes.

There were no tears on your face. There hadn’t been for days. But in your chest, you were drowning. He knew it. He saw it.

“I don’t have an answer,” you said. “I don’t know how to stay. And I don’t feel like I have the right to leave. This —” your voice caught, “— this little family of yours… I’m not part of it. I’m just the fracture everything grew around.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for you. 

He just studied your face for a long time, then said, “I can’t choose for you.”

A pause. And then —

“But if you decide to stay… even just to be near her, or me, or neither — on your own terms — then I won’t stop you.”

His voice was steady, but something caught in his throat at the end. Like he almost said more. Like he almost crossed a line that neither of you were ready to touch.

You nodded. You understood.

The door had opened.

Just a little.

And it would’ve been easier, if it were only him. If all you had to do was unlearn the years of distance, relearn the way he breathed, the way he touched, the shape of his voice when he said your name.

If it were only Zayne, you could try. You would try.

But there was her.

The girl who looked like you. Who trusted too easily. Who ran through the house with joy you hadn’t earned.

And she changed everything.

Because love with him had once been fire and failure and rebuilding.

But love with her… It required something else.

Patience. Forgiveness. Humility.

A different kind of bravery.

And if you failed again — you wouldn’t be the only one who paid for it.

So you sat there, still, the weight of the choice pressing against your chest, and thought:

What if I break her? What if I can’t be enough?

Another week passed. Your strength returned. So did the calls.

Work wouldn’t stop. Messages stacked in your inbox like pressure building behind a dam. You extended your leave. Zayne signed the clearance form. You knew he didn’t agree. But he didn’t protest. He just handed it over with that same stillness — the kind that told you: this is your decision now.

Physically, you were fit for the field. Emotionally, you were splinters.

He never said it, but you felt the way he watched you — not with judgment, but with expectation. Waiting. Hoping, maybe, that you'd stop wandering the halls like a ghost with a packed suitcase in her chest.

But the noise in your head never stopped. Not during the day. Not when you slept.

Especially not when you didn’t.

That night, you came down the stairs barefoot, the house asleep around you. Poured yourself a glass of wine. Stared at it. Sipped once.

No.

That wasn’t what you needed.

You left the glass untouched on the counter.

Walked the familiar hallway. Opened his door without knocking.

He was asleep on his back, face turned slightly toward the window. The moonlight cut through the blinds in silver bars, catching in the strands of his hair, casting lines across his throat.

You reached down. Brushed the edge of a curl from his forehead.

His hand caught your wrist before you could blink.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t speak. Your face said everything.

He pulled you down into him without hesitation. No questions. No ceremony.

His hands slid across your skin like he'd never forgotten its topography. His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, to the curve of your breast, the lines of your ribs, the hollow of your hip, and lower still.

But not your lips. Still not your lips.

And that — that was the answer.

At dawn, you dressed quietly. Zipped your bag. Didn’t wake him.

Your presence here had been a rupture. But now the world would settle again.

Zayne had his life — built carefully from grief and duty and love. You were an earthquake. He’d survived you once. He didn’t need to do it again.

At the door, your hand on the knob, a small voice stopped you.

“Are you going somewhere?”

You turned slowly.

She stood barefoot in her pajamas, hair a mess, eyes too wide. Her voice held no accusation. Only fact.

You swallowed. “Yes. I… I have to go back.”

“To the hotel?” she asked, stepping closer.

You crouched, tried to smile, tried to hold your own ribs together.

“No. I have a home. A job. Somewhere else.”

She nodded, thinking hard, then: “Then I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come too.”

“No, sweetheart. You can’t. Your dad would be really worried —”

“But you’re my mommy,” she said.

Soft. Certain.

Her small hand came up to your face. Her palm on your cheek burned hotter than the fever ever had.

“I heard you. You and Papa. I saw your picture.”

She reached into her pajama pocket, pulled out something worn and folded.

A photograph.

You and Zayne. Seven years younger. Arms around each other, faces pressed close, eyes alight. You didn’t even remember the moment it was taken.

But she had carried it. Hidden it. Believed it.

You stared at her. At the picture. At those impossible, familiar eyes.

And something inside you cracked.

“Baby,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’m not — I can’t be the mom you think I am. I want to. I do. But I didn’t raise you. I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how to do this right.”

Her lower lip trembled. But she nodded. Like she understood, in the way only children do — by feeling it.

You reached out. Brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Be happy, little one,” you whispered. “That’s all I want for you.”

Then you stood. Opened the door. And walked into the snowlight, where the car already waited.

Zayne couldn’t remember the last time he drove this fast. Especially not with his daughter in the back seat.

She’d been there before he was even fully dressed. Still in socks, wide-eyed, breathless.

“She left,” she said. “Mommy left.”

She’d been crying.

And her tears — that — he would never forgive you for.

He didn’t know what he expected to do when he got there. Look into your eyes? See if your soul was still inside them? Drop to his knees and beg?

A few hours ago, you had still been in his arms. He’d almost believed. Almost let himself be happy again.

He parked illegally, didn’t even glance at the signs. Checked his daughter’s jacket, zipped it tighter, then scooped her into his arms and ran.

The platform was already half-empty.

The train was gone. Five minutes too late.

And something inside him gave way — not with noise, but with silence. A collapsing lung. A skipped heartbeat. A life rerouted.

This was what it would be, then.

A life with a hollow in it. Until the universe finally had the decency to take him.

He heard a soft sound, like water breaking on glass.

At first he thought it was her — his daughter — but she was quiet now. Blinking up at him.

He followed her gaze.

And saw you.

Sitting on your suitcase. Face in your hands. Sobbing like something inside you had torn loose. The tiny snow seal rests on your knees — absurdly delicate against the wreckage of you.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to strangle you. The next — he only wanted to hold you and never let go again.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Go,” he said gently, lowering her to the ground. “She needs you.”

She ran without hesitation.

You didn’t hesitate either — just opened your arms and pulled her in, holding her like you could fold the whole world into that embrace.

He couldn’t hear what you said. It was yours. It was between you.

He waited. Waited until the tears began to fade from your cheeks.

Then stepped closer.

“You chickened out?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you half-laughed, half-hiccuped. “I got scared you’d never kiss me again.”

He arched a brow, and his look said everything: What, exactly, do you think I spent all of last night doing?

You licked your lips. His shoulders trembled with silent laughter.

“All that?” he said. “A full-scale emotional catastrophe for one unfinished kiss?”

“It’s worse,” you muttered, deadpan. “It’s agony.”

Zayne looked at your daughter, who still clung to your coat. Her eyes darted between you — between home and hope.

He bent down, pressed a folded note of cash into her palm.

“Two hot chocolates,” he whispered. “Get them inside. Mama loves hers with cinnamon.”

She bolted. No questions.

And then his hands were on your face, warm and certain.

“I don’t make a habit of kissing strangers,” he said.

“Zayne —”

“I only kiss one woman.” His voice caught, barely — but it did. “Mine.”

Then he stepped in — deliberate, steady — and kissed you. Not like a doctor. Not like a ghost from your past.

But like a man who remembered every breath you'd ever stolen from him. Like someone claiming what he'd mourned for too long.

His hand slid to your jaw, fingers anchoring just enough to say: You’re not leaving again.

His mouth was warm and certain and slow, like the end of winter breaking. And when you kissed him back — really kissed him — something locked into place.

Not resolution. But return.

He drew back just enough to speak, thumb brushing the wet beneath your eyes.

“Remember this,” he whispered. “These lips aren’t just for kissing. They’re for questions. Even the scary ones.”

You nodded. Then, just barely —

“Then let me ask one.”

Your hand rose to his jaw, your fingers brushing that impossible edge.

“Is there any chance,” you whispered, “that you could… ever love me again?”

Zayne looked at you.

Then shook his head — not in denial, but disbelief. At the question. At you.

“I never stopped.”

He took your suitcase. Slipped his arm around your waist.

Together, you walked back to your daughter. To cocoa. To warmth. To the beginning.

[rose24207]

My dad is a dumbass

Summary: Lucas is sent back in time to ensure his teenage father falls for his outcast mother instead of the wrong girl.

Genre: fluff, popular!Lando x bullied!reader, time travel

TW: bullying

A/N: I watched twinkling watermelon. SOMEONE SEDATE ME- anyways… *cough cough* English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

P2

Masterlist pt. 2

The moment Lucas felt the world spin beneath his feet, he knew something was very wrong. One second, he had been in his dad’s garage, tinkering with some old F1 tech Lando had insisted was too dangerous to touch, and the next?

He was here—standing in the middle of a high school hallway that smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and regret.

Lucas stumbled, heart racing. The world had shifted—subtly, but undeniably. Everything around him was different. The posters on the walls advertised school dances from years ago. The fashion was outdated. The phones in students' hands were clunky.

His breath hitched.

This wasn’t just any high school.

This was your high school.

His parents had met here.

And from the way the students around him carried on, oblivious to the fact that a future-born kid had just dropped into their reality, it hit him.

He had traveled back in time.

And then he heard it.

A voice so familiar it made his stomach twist.

“Oi, Carlos, did you see that goal? Absolute beauty, mate!”

Lucas turned his head so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

There, leaning against the lockers, laughing with a group of friends, was Lando Norris.

Not Dad, the grown-up who nagged him about cleaning his room and told embarrassing stories to his friends. No, this was seventeen-year-old Lando—loud, confident, grinning like he owned the world.

Lucas nearly choked.

Holy shit. My dad is a dumbass teenager.

You always knew how to make yourself invisible. It was a skill you had mastered long ago—sitting in the farthest corner of the library, keeping your head down, never speaking unless necessary. It was safer that way.

High school had been unkind to you. The whispers, the taunts, the stolen lunch money—they had worn you down over time, molding you into someone small and quiet.

You thought you were alone.

Until a chair scraped across from you, and a boy you didn’t recognize sat down.

You stiffened, gripping your book tighter.

“Uh… do I know you?” you asked hesitantly.

The boy—Lucas, as he introduced himself—smiled, easy and relaxed. “Not yet.”

There was something strange about him. He didn’t feel like a normal teenager. His gaze was too sharp, too knowing. And yet… when he glanced at your book and casually remarked, “Pride and Prejudice? Classic,” you felt your heart stutter.

Nobody had ever paid attention to what you read.

“You’ve read it?” you asked, voice skeptical.

Lucas smirked. “More times than I can count.”

A flicker of warmth spread through your chest.

You hadn’t had a real conversation with someone in months.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

Lucas had a problem.

His dad was an idiot.

A lovesick idiot.

And not for the right girl.

Her name was Jessica. And she was, in Lucas’ professional opinion, the worst person on the planet.

She was the kind of girl who faked sweetness when people were watching but turned venomous the second they weren’t.

And seventeen-year-old Lando was eating right out of her perfectly manicured hand.

Lucas watched in horror as his father practically tripped over himself trying to impress her.

“She’s so obviously playing you,” Lucas muttered under his breath.

Carlos, standing nearby, gave him a weird look. “Do you know Lando?”

Lucas coughed. “Uh, no.”

Carlos shrugged. “Then why do you care?”

Lucas clenched his jaw. Because if my dad doesn’t stop being a dumbass, I might never be born.

He had to fix this.

The first time Lucas tried to break them up, it was simple.

He “accidentally” spilled his entire drink on Jessica’s very expensive designer bag.

“Oh my God!” she screeched, jumping back like she had been set on fire.

Lucas put on his best innocent face. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

Lando, ever the gentleman, immediately started panicking. “Jess, I’ll fix it, I swear—”

But Jessica was too busy throwing a tantrum about her ruined bag.

She stormed off.

Lucas grinned, satisfied. Problem solved.

Until the next day, when Lando was still mooning over her.

Lucas groaned. This is going to be harder than I thought.

Lucas wasn’t just here to make sure his parents fell in love.

He was here to protect you.

And it didn’t take long for him to see how much you needed it.

You never told him what was happening, but he saw it.

The girls whispering behind your back. The stolen lunch. The tripping in the hallways.

Lucas’ hands clenched into fists.

One day, he caught a group of girls sneering as you walked past.

“She’s so weird.”

“I heard she eats lunch alone every day.”

Lucas saw red.

“Funny,” he said loudly, making them freeze. “I was just thinking how weird you guys are.”

The leader, a blonde girl with too much makeup, scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You spend all your time talking about someone who doesn’t even know you exist,” Lucas said, crossing his arms. “Kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”

Their faces burned red before they stormed off.

Lucas smirked. That’s what I thought.

Later that day, you hesitated before looking at him. “Why did you do that?”

Lucas shrugged. “Because you don’t deserve it.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly. “…Thank you.”

Lucas softened. “Anytime, Mum.”

You didn’t hear that last part.

Lucas had to be tactical.

He orchestrated run-ins between you and Lando.

He got you both paired as lab partners.

He even tripped Lando once just so he’d fall into your arms (which earned him a very suspicious glare from his dad).

And finally, finally, Lando started to notice you.

Lucas saw it—the way his dad’s eyes lingered too long, how he smiled softer around you.

It was working.

Until Jessica struck again.

She cornered Lando after school, batting her lashes. “Landooo, come to the party with me?”

Lucas froze.

If Lando went, he’d fall right back into her clutches.

Thinking fast, he jumped in. “Oh, he can’t.”

Lando blinked. “I can’t?”

Lucas clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Nope! He already has plans. With her.”

He pointed to you.

You turned scarlet. “W-what?”

Jessica scoffed. “Since when?”

Lucas grinned. “Since now.”

Lando looked at you, hesitant but intrigued.

“…I guess we have plans?”

You bit your lip. Then—shyly, hesitantly—you nodded.

“I guess we do.”

Jessica huffed and stormed off.

Lucas smirked. Checkmate bitch.

Days later, Lucas watched as Lando walked you home, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Lucas grinned.

His work here was done.

Now…

He just had to figure out how to get back home.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris

[lascvitae]

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ LIKE A FEVER

♯┆ you’re the coach’s daughter & karina is the skater who falls for you anyway. you were never hers to keep, but she loves you.

pairing. ice skater!karina x coach’s daughter!reader genre. friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending (thank faith bc yall almost didn’t get it), slow burn (kinda), mutual pining, forbidden love warning(s). cursing, cheating, kissing (making out), reader is in a failing relationship, this is a yearnfest man, coach is mean af, brief argument, suppressed emotions (karina my shayla 😔)

word count: 11k (this seems to be my limit chat)

“the more i hurt, the more i want you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ katty ᥫ᭡: guysss when i tell you i sobbed while writing this like three times... (is an easy crier) but thanks for 600!!! (also i made a spotify playlist if you would like to listen while you read)

masterlist.

three weeks before regionals. 

the rink is quiet this late at night.

you never even really plan to check on her. not really. you just happen to walk by the glass doors on most nights. most of the lights are off except for the spotlights above the center, casting shadows over the ice.

and there she was.

karina. 

she was alone. as always.

the two of you weren’t very close, but you had conversations here and there. she was the type of person that focused on her passion more than anything else. it was admirable, really. 

her movements were so sharp and precise. she was so clean it looked effortless. but you knew better. you knew the amount of hours she’s poured into every jump and every spin. you’ve heard the way your dad talks about her. 

“she’s got the skill. but i need her to stop feeling so much.” he said once. 

but you like it. the way she skates like there’s something breaking inside of her. that’s where the real beauty is.

you don’t reveal yourself at first. you just stand by the edge of the rink and pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders. the cold seeped in fast but you didn’t mind. not when you were watching her.

karina doesn’t notice you. or maybe she does and chooses not to look. she was always like that, distant but aware.

you wait until she finishes her routine, skates slowing to a stop in the center of the rink. she bends at the waist, catching her breath with hands on her knees.

that’s when you call out in a soft voice. 

“your landing on the last combo was perfect.”

she was startled, head whipping toward the sound with wide eyes. her mouth parted like she was gonna say something, but then she just straightens and skates toward you quietly.

“i didn’t know anyone was here.” she says.

you hold up the water bottle in your hand. “i didn’t think you would still be here. but… i figured you forgot to bring this. again.”

she slows to a stop right in front of you, carving tiny shapes in the ice with her blades. you hand her the water bottle, fingertips brushing yours for a second.

“you always bring me water.” she mumbled.

“you never ask me not to.”

karina looks at you. there’s a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. she stares quietly, face never leaving yours.

“i guess i like when you worry about me.” she says after a moment. and then she smiles.

you don’t say anything back. you can’t.

you end up sitting beside her on the bench near the edge of the rink. she unlaced her skates slowly, water bottle sitting between you.

“i didn’t mean to interrupt. you looked… kinda lost in it.” you say after a while.

karina glances up at you and tugs one skate off with a small grunt. “i always get like that when i’m alone. it’s easier to pretend that no one’s watching.”

“but someone always is.”

she freezes for a second and then her lips curl into a smile, an almost amused one. “yeah. like you.”

i’m not— i didn’t mean—”

“i don’t mind. i like when it’s you.” she cut in while shrugging.

you don’t know what to say to that, so you pretend to focus on something else. her shoulder was just barely brushing yours.

karina sighs. “coach is gonna kill me for staying this late.”

“he doesn’t have to know.” you laughed.

“is that the coach’s daughter helping me break the rules?” she turns to you with one brow raised.

“i won’t tell if you don’t.” you reply. 

then there’s a pause. a long one.

then she speaks. “you’re always here.”

“so are you.”

“i have to be.”

“you don’t. not at this hour.” you argue.

karina looks down at her hands. “he says that i need more reps on my loop. and i can’t land it clean if i don’t fix my axis. so…”

she doesn’t finish the sentence. and you feel as if she doesn’t need to.

the silence returns. then, you carefully pull a pair of hand warmers out of your coat pocket.

you hold them out without saying a word.

“you… brought these?”

“i figured you would forget those too.”

she doesn’t take them right away. she stares at them then back at you. and when she finally reaches out, her fingers brush yours again. except slower this time.

“thanks. for thinking of me.” she says softly. 

“someone has to.” you shrug, trying to play it off.

she gives you a quiet laugh. then she leans back on the bench, shoulder still pressed to yours with her hand warmers resting in her lap.

neither of you say much after that.

the silence is comfortable. she hasn’t moved for a while now. her legs were stretched out and her fingers were curled around the hand warmers you gave her. you think maybe she’s falling asleep sitting up. or just enjoying your presence. 

either way, you don’t say anything. 

but then your phone buzzes.

twice. three times.

karina jumps before you even check it, like the sound snapped something inside of her. she doesn’t say anything, but her body moves away from yours. 

you glance down. a name lights up your screen.

your boyfriend.

you forgot he said that he would call. you forgot about him entirely for a second. 

that realization makes your stomach turn.

“sorry. didn’t mean to—“ you mumble, silencing it.

“it’s fine.” she was back to the cold version of her you know from practice days.

she stands before you can stop her, pulling her skates back on. the laces are uneven and she doesn’t even fix them.

“you don’t have to go.” you say stupidly, as if it’ll make her stay.

but she’s already halfway to the ice again.

“i should run the routine again. i’m still shaky on the loop.” she calls out from over her shoulder.

you stay on the bench and watch as she glides back toward the center of the rink, phone buzzing again in your hand. the music doesn’t play. she doesn’t need it.

she jumps before she’s ready. the landing is clean but you can tell.

she wasn’t skating to practice.  she was skating to forget you.

───────────────────────

the next day, somehow the rink feels colder.

maybe it’s the hour. or the way that karina doesn’t look at you when you walk in with your father. or it’s the silence that feels too heavy in between your steps.

she’s already on the ice when you arrive, pacing through her warm up jumps with clean movements. it was like last night never happened.

you sit off to the side as your dad steps onto the ice with his clipboard in hand. 

“all right. start from the top. don’t drop your left arm on the entry again.” he calls, already stern. karina doesn’t reply. just nods once, jaw set. she adjusts her gloves and glides into position without a word.

the music starts.

you watch as she moves like she’s made for this. every jump makes her look as if she’s gliding. she doesn’t miss a beat.

but you see it. the way her chest rises too fast in between movements and the way way she hides the pain in her arm.

your father doesn’t.

“again. you were two seconds late on the last transition. don’t let the emotion get ahead of your technique.” he says the moment the final note fades.

she doesn’t argue. she just bows her head and skates back to the start.

you don’t say anything.

another run through. another correction. another sentence with barely contained frustration in your father’s voice as karina pushes herself harder, and faster. her blade slipped slightly on a landing and she hits the ice with a thud.

you flinch. but he doesn’t move.

“get up. you’re fine.” he says calmly.

karina pushes herself up slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. she doesn’t look at him or at you. you can see her hands shaking.

“i understand.” she says softly. and then she says it again in a quieter tone.  “i understand.”

and she tries again.

it breaks something in you.

she finishes the third run perfectly. doesn’t collapse this time, but her breaths are harsh now. your dad claps his hands together once.

“better. you can take a break.”

he walks off the ice like it’s another day, already reaching for his phone. the door slams behind him.

only then karina sits down, curling slightly forward with her gloves gripping her knees. you don’t even realize you’ve moved until you’re walking down the bleachers and stepping quietly onto the mats just off the ice.

“i’ve been here the whole time.” you say.

her head snaps up.

“i saw all of it. how hard you’re trying.” you continue.

karina doesn’t say anything at first. just looks at you with her eyes wide.

then she whispers. “did it look like i was good enough?”

you walk closer and kneel next to her.

“it looked like you were breaking yourself to be.”

she wasn’t used to being seen like this.

“i don’t want you to skate like that. like you’re trying to prove something to him.” you mumble.

“i’m not.” she lies.

you don’t say anything for a moment. just reach into your bag quietly and pull out the same bottle you brought yesterday. it’s refilled and a little colder this time.

you hold it out to her without saying a word.

she stares at it like it’s a peace offering from another being.

“you need to hydrate. even perfectionists have to drink water.” you say softly with a small shrug. 

karina laughs breathily. her fingers graze against yours as she takes it and she doesn’t let go right away.

“i’m not perfect.” she mumbles.

“you kind of are.” you reply before you can stop yourself.

she looks at you, then down at the bottle in her hands. then back up.

you don’t have to be perfect all the time. not around me, at least.

is what you wanted to say. but instead you just stay silent.

karina swallows like she’s trying not to say anything.

“hey. i brought this.” you say in a slightly playful tone. 

her eyes flicker to it and her lips twitch barely. you catch it.

“you brought snacks?”

“maybe.”

“i love chocolate.” karina mumbles as she takes it slowly and unwraps it with careful fingers. she breaks it in half and holds one piece out to you.

your chest squeezes.

you take it.

she eats her half like it’s one of the first real things she’s had in hours.

“thanks. for not leaving.” she says finally. 

“i wouldn’t.”

“i know. i think i needed someone to stay anyway.” she glances down at the bottle. 

“then i’ll stay.” you nod.

and you do.

you sit side by side on the cold bench. karina’s finished the chocolate, skates finally unlaced and resting beside her. her legs are pulled up onto the bench as if she’s disappearing into her hoodie.

her phone buzzes once between you.

“my ride’s late.” she mutters, her thumb tapping the screen before she sets it face down.

you nod with your hands in your jacket pockets. “i can wait with you.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i want to.”

karina doesn’t argue. she just looks at you with an unreadable expression. 

for a while, it’s quiet again.

“you were always watching me.”

you look over at her with a startled expression. “what?”

she smiles a little. “yesterday. at practice. today too. i can feel it.”

you look away. “you’re kinda hard to miss.”

“i noticed you before that.” she says. almost too quietly.

your heart skips a beat. 

she leans against the bench with her head tilted up. “you came to one of my meets last year. sat way in the back and didn’t talk to anyone.”

you froze.

“i didn’t think you saw me.” you admit.

“i always see you.” she says and the words land with a softness that makes your heart race.

you open your mouth, searching for something to say.

“my dad expects a lot from you.”

she just stays quiet.

“the way you don’t fight back. it’s the same way i used to be.”

“do you ever wish you could quit?” you ask.

karina turns her head, looking at you. “every day.”

you look down at your hands. “but you don’t.”

“no. because i still love it. even when it hurts.”

you nod quietly.

“does anyone know you feel like that?” you ask.

she shakes her head. “no. i don’t tell them.”

“but i tell let you.”

it comes out as a whisper. you’re too surprised to say anything.

then the sound of a car pulling into the lot breaks the moment.

karina doesn’t move right away, she just watches you like she’s still thinking about saying something else. but she doesn’t.

she stands, slowly grabbing her things.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?” she says. 

“yeah. tomorrow.”

and as she walks away, you feel that feeling in your chest. the feeling of someone slipping through your fingers even while they promise they’ll stay.

───────────────────────

it’s past nine the next day when you find her again.

the rink is empty and the lights are dimmed to half their usual level. her bag is forgotten on the bench and there’s a single light glowing from her phone screen. it was probably another missed call or her ride running late again. 

she was alone in the center. there was no music this time, just her blades breaking the silence.

you don’t call out.

you sit on the same bench as before and unzip your jacket. you pull out a small paper bag and inside is a chocolate croissant you picked up earlier. 

she doesn’t notice you until she slows down. she does one last spin and then she slides to the edge of the rink, brushing the hair from her face. that’s when she sees you. 

her eyes widen and her chest heaves from the effort.

“you came back.” she said breathlessly. 

“you’re not hard to find.” you tease gently. 

karina steps off the ice carefully, taking off her gloves as she comes over. her cheeks are pink from the cold.

“what is it this time?”

“guess.”

she sits next to you again, closer than before. your knees almost touch.

she peeks into the bag and smiles slightly.

“you remembered i like chocolate.”

“i remember everything.” you say before you can stop yourself.

she looks at you and there’s something soft in her expression. maybe grateful or just stunned.

she slowly takes a bite and you watch her shoulders relax with the first chew.

neither of you one talk for a bit.

“you don’t owe me this, you know. the snacks, waiting, or the way you look at me.” she mumbled. 

“i’m not doing it because i owe you anything.” you shrug. 

“then why?”

“because i want you to feel like someone’s always there for you. no matter what.”

karina looks down at the half eaten pastry in her hands with an unreadable expression. no one’s ever done that for her, you realize.

just stayed. showed up. believed in her even when she wasn’t performing.

she swallows hard.

“thank you.” she whispers.

you could tell her it’s nothing. that’s it’s easy. that you would do it a hundred times over.

but you don’t.

she leans just a little closer this time and her shoulder almost brushes yours. you pretend not to notice.

she was slowly letting you in. it was pieces of her that she hopes you’ll handle carefully.

and you will. every time. 

───────────────────────

the next day, you return to the rink again.

you were going to give her space but something in your chest pulled you back.

when you walk inside, karina’s already on the ice.

alone again. no music or audience.

you don’t even have a chance to say anything before it happens.

she goes into a spin too fast, and the blade of her skate catches wrong.

you hear the crack of impact before you see it.

karina hits the ice hard.

you froze with your breath caught in your throat.

she doesn’t get up right away. she just lies there, chest rising and falling.

then she slowly pushes herself to sit.

and you see it.

it wasn’t pain.

it was frustration.

she rips off one of her gloves and throws it to the side. her other hand slams against the ice. the sound echoes like a gunshot in the empty rink. 

“stupid, i’m so stupid. why can’t i just—“ she mutters before choking on the words. her other glove comes off and her hands clench into fists.

you’re moving before you can think. sliding open the door to the rink and stepping out toward her.

“karina.”

she tensed.

you see the way her back straightens and her breathing stalls. she turns her head with wide eyes, like she didn’t know that anyone was watching.

you kneel beside her carefully.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i’m fine. i was doing fine. i’ve done this a hundred times.” she says quietly.

“i know.”

“i can’t afford to mess up right now. not when regionals are in three weeks. not when— not when everyone’s already waiting for me to fall.” her voice cracks. 

your heart twists.

“i’m not.” you respond. 

she finally looks at you.

this time, you see it all. the exhaustion just behind her eyes.

“i’m not waiting for you to fall. but i’ll be here to catch you if you do.” you say without thinking. 

something breaks in her expression.

“i hate crying.” she says. 

“you’re not.”

“it feels like i am.”

you pull down the sleeve of your jacket down and gently press the fabric to her cheek, wiping away a tear.

“you’re allowed to be human, karina.”

she closes her eyes.

and for the first time, she leans into your hand. not all the way, but enough to let you know she’s tired of being strong alone.

she doesn’t say anything for a bit after you wipe her tear.

she just sits there with her fists clenched and jaw tight.

but then she shifts, and you know she’s trying to get up.

you offer your hand without saying anything.

she hesitates.

for a second, you think she might not take it.

but then almost reluctantly, her fingers slip into yours.

her hand is cold and her grip is too gentle for someone who just punched the ice a minute ago.

you pull her to her feet and settle her when she wobbles.

she doesn’t let go right away. and neither do you.

you’re closer than you’ve ever been. her face is still flushed from skating and her lips part just slightly when she looks at you.

“thank you.” she whispers.

you almost respond, saying something too honest, but that’s when your phone buzzes. 

you both look down at the same time.

it’s your boyfriend.

you freeze. and karina notices.

she drops your hand before you can even react and steps back like she wasn’t just unraveling in your arms seconds ago.

“i should… i should get back to it.” she mutters, brushing her hands off on her

“karina—”

“it’s fine. you should take that.” her voice returns back to neutral. it’s not angry, but it’s distant. 

you glance down at your phone again. 

when you look up, karina’s already lacing her gloves back on.

you don’t stop her.

and somehow, that hurts more than the distance that she just put between you.

because now you know what it looks like when she almost lets someone in. 

and what it feels like when she slams the door shut just as fast.

───────────────────────

the rink is even colder tonight.

you’re not here just to watch this time. you’re here because you couldn’t stay away.

karina hasn’t looked at you once since yesterday.

you came in quietly, settling into the middle row with a blanket around your shoulders and a box of fruits in your lap. you didn’t expect her to notice you.

but you still hoped.

she steps onto the ice like nothing ever happened.

she’s different today. you can see it.

she’s trying harder. like she’s trying to prove something.

you watch her routine in silence. it’s the same one she’s been perfecting for weeks. there’s no music, but you know it by heart now. you could probably hum the entire song if she asked.

she doesn’t fall this time.

but her landing is shaky and her spin is off center. her arms falter for half a second in the last sequence.

she finishes with what would be flawless from anyone else’s eyes.

but when she stops and lets out a heavy exhale, you can tell she’s not satisfied.

you wait until she comes off the ice and tug her sweatshirt back over her training top.

then you call out.

“that was beautiful.”

karina looks up so fast you wonder if she ever knew that you were here.

you hold up the water bottle and the fruits you packed earlier. strawberry and banana slices with two small chocolates tucked into the corner.

she walks over slowly. almost cautiously.

“i didn’t know that you were coming.”

“didn’t want to miss your performance.” you shrug. 

she sits next to you on the bleachers. you hand her the box and she takes it wordlessly, taking the top off of the container. 

“you’re really good, karina.” you say softly. maybe a little too soft.

 “like... i don’t even know anything about skating but i can feel it when i watch you. that’s gotta mean something.”

karina froze mid bite.

you glance at her but she’s not looking at you. just staring down at her fruits.

“…what?” you ask.

“no one’s ever said that to me. not like that.”

“really? you’re one of the best.”

“your dad is always too focused on what needs to be fixed. where my lines are off and where i’m not centered. he says praise makes you soft.”

you feel something in your chest. then you nudge her with your shoulder. 

“then i’ll do it for him.”

that makes her look at you. her eyes are slightly wide and her expression is unreadable.

you smile. “i’ll be your fan. i’ll even be loud and annoying. if you want me to.”

karina looks away but you still catch the shade of red rising to her cheeks.

“you’d be my audience?”

“i am your audience. right now. front now.” you say. 

she hides her laugh behind a sip of water. then she asks.

“will you stay if i go again?”

you nod without a second thought. 

you stay in the same seat while she steps back onto the ice and it looks like her entire body is lighter. you didn’t know it was because of your praise. 

when she begins again you catch her stealing a glance at you during the first spin.

then she does it again during the glide.

you wave.

and she almost stumbles from smiling too hard.

karina finishes her routine again and this time, she nails it.

everything was flawless.

when she comes to a stop in front of you, she doesn’t say anything. she just looks at you like she’s searching for something in your expression.

you don’t hold back.

“that was perfect.”

“you think so?”

“i know so. you were scary good. i got chills.” you hug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. 

karina lets out a soft laugh and looks away, but she’s smiling. her shoulders lower like she’s allowing herself to feel proud for once.

she walks over to the edge of the rink and sits beside you again. this time she sits closer. her thigh brushes against yours and neither of you move away.

you offer her a chocolate from the snack box. she takes it.

“i’m serious. you skate like your entire heart is in it.” you say. 

her smile fades, but not in a bad way. it turns into something softer. 

“it is.”

you look at her. you’ve never seen someone work so hard for something that almost no one praises them for.

“you should be proud of yourself, karina.”

she doesn’t respond right away. she just eats the chocolate in silence.

maybe you lean a little closer than you should.

maybe she does too.

because you feel something change again.

she turns her head to look at you.

and the way she’s looking makes your stomach do a thing.

like she’s never had someone talk to her like this.

like no one’s ever stayed.

“i like it when you’re here. i skate better.” she says suddenly.

you smile and your heart does a weird skip. “then i’ll keep coming.”

karina’s eyes flick down to your mouth for a second too long.

and then, you see it happen. the moment she remembers.

your boyfriend.

your father.

everything that makes this too complicated.

she pulls away slightly. but it’s enough for you to notice.

you don’t know what you did wrong, but she’s straightening her spine again. putting space between you.

“you should probably head out soon. it’s getting late.” she says. her voice was too polite for you to like it. 

“karina—”

“your dad doesn’t like when you stay late, right?”

you pause, reading her face.

it’s completely changed. her composure. she’s still distant. 

the softness is still there, but it’s tucked away. 

still, you try.

“i don’t mind staying.”

she stands up anyway, avoiding your eyes.

“i’ll lock up after i’m done.”

then she’s skating away again.

but as she gets back into position, her gaze flicks to you. just once.

like maybe she wished you would stop her.

but you don’t.

not this time. 

───────────────────────

the next night, you show up again.

you don’t say anything. 

you just walk in with your tumbler of hot chocolate, blanket folded over your arm. 

karina’s already skating when you get there and her movements are sharp but you can tell that she’s tired. her routine looks less precise, like her mind is somewhere else.

you settle into your now usual seat and wait, wrapping yourself in the blanket. you don’t cheer or wave this time. you just watch.

when she finishes the routine and finally notices you, she doesn’t look surprised.

she just comes to a stop and lets her hands rest on her hips while panting softly.

“hey.” you say. 

she skates over slowly.

she doesn’t sit next to you this time. just leans against the railing while looking down at her skates.

“you didn’t have to come again.”

“i wanted to.”

karina doesn’t reply.

you hold out the tumbler. “it’s hot chocolate.”

she glances at it then at you. then, she reluctantly takes it. 

you watch her sip it slowly.

“you don’t have to be alone all the time, you know.”

karina’s shoulders tense.

but she doesn’t look at you. she just stares at the ice, jaw tight.

“it’s easier this ways.” she says after a long pause. 

you’re caught off guard by the honesty. “easier?”

“no one expects anything from me when i’m alone.”

there’s something about the way she says it. like she’s told herself that a thousand times before.

you want to reach for her. but you don’t.

“i expect something from you.”

she looks at you. almost defensively. but your gaze is soft.

“i expect you to take care of yourself. to eat. to rest. to let people care about you.”

karina swallows.

you think she might say something, but instead she just looks down. 

“you have a boyfriend.”

your stomach twists and you look down at your hands.

“i know.”

“you’re the coach’s daughter.”

“i know that too.”

silence stretches between you. and then she whispers.

“i can’t let myself like you.”

it’s the closest thing to a confession she’s ever given you. and you’re afraid that it’s the closest that she ever will. 

your heart breaks in two.

you don’t know what to say. you don’t even know if you’re allowed to say anything at all.

so you just sit there with your fingers trembling inside the blanket.

she takes one last sip of the hot chocolate then hands the tumbler back to you, fingers brushing yours like she doesn’t mean to. but maybe she does.

then she skates away again.

the sound of your heartbeat is louder than her blades cutting across the ice.

“karina.” you call out, voice echoing through the empty rink.

she doesn’t stop.

you stand up. “karina, wait—”

she’s still skating. even faster now.

it stings. the way she shuts down, like she’s trying to outskate the things you make her feel.

so you raise your voice.

“why do you keep doing this?”

that makes her stop abruptly. her skates carve into the ice, and send up a sharp spray of frost. she turns to you with an unreadable expression. 

“doing what?”

“this.” you gesture between you both. “one second you let me in and the next you’re skating away like you hate me.”

she exhaled hard, looking away. “i’m not doing anything.”

“yes you are. you talk to me, open up, and then remember i’m someone you shouldn’t like and you shut down again. every single time.”

karina’s jaw clenches.

you step closer. “i’m not trying to confuse you. i just want to be there for you. and i thought… i thought maybe you wanted that too.”

“i do. god, i do. but what do you want me to with that? you have a boyfriend and your dad hates me. this isn’t about just skating anymore.” she says, voice cracking slightly.

you pause.

“i never said it was about just skating.”

karina looks at you. her expression softens but you can see something else in her eyes. 

she shakes her head, scoffing slightly. “you don’t get it.”

“then make me get it.”

“i can’t! because if i say it out loud then it’s real, and if it’s real then i’ll want something that i can’t have.” she nearly yells, voice echoing off the walls.

the silence that follows is so loud that it hurts.

she blinks fast like she didn’t mean to say that.

and you just stand there, stunned.

“karina…”

her name comes out softer now. 

she looks down at her skates, biting her lip.

“i think you should go.”

your throat tightens. “do you really want me to?”

karina closes her eyes.

“no.”

but she turns away anyway.

and this time, you just let her skate.

because now you know. she’s not pushing you away because she doesn’t care. 

she’s pushing you away because she does.

───────────────────────

the rink feels colder again.

it’s not the weather. it’s the emptiness.

karina gets there late, hoodie pulled tight over her head with her headphones in. her water bottle is half full.

but when she steps onto the ice, the first thing she does is look at the stands.

you’re not there.

she pretends that it doesn’t bother her. pretends that she doesn’t notice.

she warms up and does her stretches, then she goes through the footwork section of her routine easily.

but when it’s time to start the real run through, she hesitates.

you’re still not there. 

there’s no voice cheering her on softly. 

no tumbler clutched in your hands.

no little smile whenever she glances over her shoulder.

she tries to push through it, starts the routine anyway. but halfway through the first turn, she tumbles. her balance slips and her hand scrapes the ice hard, making her curse under her breath.

she gets up and starts again.

falls again.

but it’s worse this time.

she sits on the ice for longer, breathing heavily. her eyes are unfocused and for the first time in weeks, she feels it creeping back in. that voice in her head that tells her she’s not enough. that she’ll never be enough.

she presses the tip of her palm against her forehead.

she doesn’t cry. but she’s close.

and then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone.

your name is right there, but she doesn’t call.

she just stares at the screen for a long, long time.

her thumb was hovering over the call button. 

just one tap. but she doesn’t do it. she locks the phone, puts it back into her pocket and stands up.

this time, she doesn’t try the routine again.

she just skates in slow, aimless circles.

alone.

two weeks before regionals. 

it’s been a week.

seven days.

karina counted them all. skated through every single one one of them like it meant nothing, but it did. she just got better at pretending it didn’t.

there was two weeks until regionals now.

everyone’s tense and the rink is busier than usual. there’s more skaters and more pressure but tonight, she’s the only one left. again.

she’s been pushing herself too hard. trying things she shouldn't be attempting this late. her left ankle’s bruised and her back aches. her music plays on loop but none of it feels right. nothing has felt right ever since you stopped showing up.

she doesn’t expect to see you again, which is why when she hears the door creak open mid routine she doesn’t stop right away.

it’s only when she glances toward the stands and sees you with your blanket, tumbler, and uncertain smile that she fumbles a landing.

not enough to fall. but just enough to feel it. just enough to feel everything again.

you stay quiet for a moment and just sit there. 

karina lets out a shaky breath and skates to the edge, stopping right in front of you. neither of you say anything right away.

you hold out the tumbler.

she hesitates but takes it and wraps her hands around it like she did before.

“you’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

she looks at you.

“noticed that from your seat?” she says, trying to sound teasing but it comes out tired.

“i noticed from not being in it.” you reply and her chest twists.

she leans against the edge of the rink, back against the wall. you lean forward next to her, elbows on the railing. 

“i didn’t think that you would come back.” she admits.

“i wasn’t sure if i should.”

“why did you?”

“because you looked like you needed someone.” you shrug. 

she glances up at you, something vulnerable showing in her eyes.

“i always do.”

that breaks something in you.

yet, neither of you move.

she sips the hot chocolate and you rest your chin on your hands.

“i missed watching you skate.” you whisper. 

karina closes her eyes for a second, as if she’s allowing herself to believe you again.

“i skated better when you were here.”

you heart stutters.

it always does when she says that. 

karina doesn’t look at you when she says it. she just stares down at her hands, thumbs moving over the tumbler. she looks small like this. not because she is, but because she’s tired. tired in a way that you’ve never really seen her before.

“then i guess i should’ve never left.”

she looks up. your stomach makes you feel weird in the way it always does when she looks at you like that. and she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. 

“you skate like you don’t even need air.”

“i don’t. until you’re not here.” she says quietly. 

there’s silence after that. you’re not sure of what to say next. 

“i brought you chocolate.”

karina lets out a quiet laugh. 

“you remembered?”

“of course i did. you barely eat.” you say this time. 

“that’s scary.”

“what is?”

“being known.”

the way she says it makes it seem like it’s a luxury she doesn’t let herself have.

you don’t reply. you just pull out the bar and hand it to her.  

“then i’ll be careful with you.” you mumble.

and that is the moment she knows she’s completely fucked.

because you’re kind and careful. and also someone else’s. and her coach’s daughter.

and she’s still never wanted to kiss someone more in her entire life.

she doesn’t say anything after that.

just keeps her eyes on the bar of chocolate like if she looks at you again, then something might break.

you don’t move either. you just sit there.

you can hear her breathing. see the way her fingers tap against the tumbler, then stop, and then start again. she’s fidgeting and that alone is strange.

“were you okay? the days i didn’t come.” you ask softly, breaking the silence.

her eyes drop.

“no.”

the honesty stings.

but she doesn’t apologize for it.

she shrugs a little, like she’s trying to play it off. “it was just… harder.”

“i’m sorry.” you nod slowly. 

“i didn’t want you to feel like you had to come.”

“i didn’t. i wanted to.” you say, meeting her eyes.

her breath catches. you notice but you pretend not to.

“i used to wonder if i actually helped at all. or if i was just a distraction.”

“you weren’t.” she says immediately with no hesitation. “you aren’t. you’re…”

she trails off.

“i’m what?”

she looks back at you, but she looks scared.

“you’re part that makes it hurt less.”

and that does something to you.

you don’t say anything. you can’t, really. not when your throat feels tight and your chest is full of something you can’t name. or you’re too scared to. 

so you reach over slowly, placing your fingers over hers.

she doesn’t move. her hand stays beneath yours, still and warm and trembling.

and for a moment, neither of you breathe. 

then your phone buzzes on the bench behind you.

karina pulls her hand away before you could even blink.

you turn around, already knowing who it is.

karina stands and grabs her bag without saying anything.

you wish she would. you wish you could.

“thanks for the snack.”

and then she’s gone.

───────────────────────

the next day you show up earlier.

you don’t pretend it’s not for her anymore. you’re sitting in your usual seat with your blanket, tumbler, and snack beside you as you watch the skaters rotate through their drills.

but karina doesn’t come out right away.

you see her peek through the glass from the hall. you catch her gaze for a second, then she disappears.

she doesn’t return until everyone else is wrapping up.

and even then, she still doesn’t look at you.

she glides past the bench, focused with her headphones in. you try not to take it personal, but it’s hard. her eyes don’t meet yours once.

you wait until she finishes her routine. she lands the last jump perfectly. almost too perfectly. like it’s anger and not focus pushing her through it.

you stand when she skates off.

she walks past you like she didn’t see you at all.

so you follow.

“karina.”

she doesn’t turn around.

“hey— stop.”

she finally stops by the far end of the rink right by the locker hallway, but she doesn’t face you. she just stands there with her fists clenched at her sides.

you take a step closer. “are you avoiding me?”

she exhaled. “i’m not avoiding you.”

“you literally didn’t look at me all night.”

“that’s not avoidance.”

“then what is it?”

“It’s self preservation.” she snaps.

you froze.

her chest is rising and falling quickly, eyes glossy with something she’s trying hard to suppress.

“karina.”

“i can’t do this. not when i know you’re gonna leave again. not when i know who you go home to. i’m trying to stay focused. this—“ she gestures between you two. “— this messes with me.”

“so what, you’re just cutting me off?”

she looks at you like she wishes she could say no. but she says nothing.

you shake your head. “you don’t get to push me away just because you’re scared.”

“i’m not scared.” she says too fast.

“then what are you?”

silence.

she looks at you and it breaks something in both of you.

“falling.”

your heart drops.

“falling. and you’re not allowed to catch me.”

neither of you move.

everything feels louder now. her hands are shaking again and you want to grab them, tell her you're already falling too, even if you’re too much of a coward to admit it yet.

but your phone rings again.

and this time, she doesn’t wait for you to answer it.

she just walks away.

───────────────────────

the next day is cold. like always. 

you’re already in the stands when karina steps into the rink, tying her jacket tighter with her head down. she’s barely slept either, but she’s used to that.

then she sees you. and her heart stops.

you’re curled up on the bleachers in the same blanket, but you look different. 

you’re always soft and always quiet, but this time there’s something hollow behind your eyes.

they’re puffy. and red.

your smile is barely there. 

she sees the dark circles immediately. and the way you’re not waving or calling out to her like usual. you don’t even look like you’ve eaten anything.

karina slows to a stop in the middle of the walkway, just staring at you. 

she can tell that something’s wrong.

and then the sound of your father’s voice cuts through the silence.

“again!”

karina flinches.

he’s not yelling, but his tone is sharp, cutting in that way only coaches can be. 

disappointment wrapped in professionalism.

“you’re stiff. you’re late on your rotations. you want to fall in front of the judges? pick it up. again.”

she doesn’t respond. just nods. she’s good at taking hits and pushing through. 

but even from the bleachers, you’re watching every second like it physically hurts to witness.

karina’s eyes change to you between jumps, just once, for a second.

and you’re already looking at her.

your eyes crack in heartbreak. 

like it’s killing you to see her go through this after the night you just had.

she lands the jump. barely.

your father says nothing this time, just mutters something under his breath and walks off toward the office.

karina exhales and then she looks at you.

that’s when she realizes. you weren’t just tired. you were crying. 

all night.

and somehow, she knows it wasn’t just about him. it was about her, too. about everything you’re not allowed to say. about everything that she made worse by pushing you away.

her throat tightens and you try to smile at her.

you don’t even think before you stand. you just move, blanket slipping off your shoulders and your feet hitting the bleachers faster than they should. your heart was pounding in your throat like it wants to say something first.

by the time karina’s stepping off the ice, you’re already waiting by the edge with your arms crossed.

she sees you and it wrecks her.

you can tell by the way she hesitates just for a second. the way her eyes linger on your face then drop to your hands. they’re empty.

she unties her skates slowly, like she’s trying to draw out the seconds. maybe she’s hoping that you’ll leave.

you don’t.

you crouch down beside her instead and she still doesn’t look at you.

“i brought water. it’s in the stands.” you say quietly. 

she doesn’t respond.

“i couldn’t sleep.” you add. 

she exhales shakily. “why are you here?”

you swallow. “because i can’t not be.”

her fingers pause on her laces.

“i kept thinking about what you said. that you skated better when i was here. that this messed with you.” you continue, looking at her hands instead of her face.

she doesn’t say anything.

“do you think it doesn’t mess with me too? do you think that i don’t feel it? when you look at me like that? when you won’t look at me at all?” you whisper.

she finally looks up. and it’s all there.

the hurt. the want. the grief of something she hasn’t even let herself have yet. 

“i don’t know what i’m allowed to feel when it comes to you. you’re the coaches daughter. you have a boyfriend. and i’m just—“

“stop.” you interrupt. “don’t do that. don’t reduce yourself to that.”

karina flinches.

“last night we got into an argument. i told him that it wasn’t fair. that someone else— you— make me feel more in the ten minutes after practice than he has in months.” 

her lips part. she looks like she’s trying not to break.

“you’re the only person who sees me for me.”

karina swallows hard. “you can’t say things like that.”

“why not?”

“because i want to believe them.”

you both fall silent.

you don’t touch her. you don’t move. You just sit in the silence, watching the way her eyes glisten and dart to the ground like she can’t bear to look at you for too long.

“i kept waiting for it to go away. whatever this is.” she says finally.

“and?”

she looks up.

“it never did.”

your breath hitches.

neither of you say it. you don’t need to. it’s the distance neither of you dare to cross yet.

“i skated better when you were here.” she says again. like it’s a confession now.

“and i broke when you weren’t.”

this time, you don’t look away. and neither does she.

she stands first.

you think she might reach for you, but her arms stay at her sides. her fingers twitch like they want to move but don’t know how to move without ruining everything.

“i should go.” she says quietly. 

“my ride’s waiting.”

you nod slowly. “okay.”

neither of you move. 

there’s a second where it feels like she might stay. like she might say screw it and finally do something reckless.

but she doesn’t.

she looks at you like she’s memorizing you in case this is the last time she gets to.

“you make things better. just by being here.” she says almost too softly to hear.

and then she turns.

no goodbye. no wave.

when you finally stand, your hands shake.

because you know it’s not over.

but it hasn’t started yet, either. 

it’s just waiting.

like you are.

one week before regionals. 

you’re curled up in your usual spot with a tumbler of tea between your hands. 

karina’s been skating for over an hour. and for once, she hasn’t looked your way.

you don’t blame her.

not really.

you told him the truth two days ago. you ended it.

but endings don’t mean freedom. not when guilt clings to you.

you’ve barely talked to her since.

not about it.

not about anything.

but you’re here. you’re always here, and she knows that.

when her routine finishes you stand without thinking, legs sore from sitting too long. you meet her by the edge of the rink. the way you always do.

you offer the water bottle without saying a word. she takes it with tired eyes, lips parted like she might say something.

but she doesn’t.

“you’re sharper today. your landings are cleaner.”

“thanks.”

just that. no warmth behind it. 

you swallow it down and try again. “do you want to run through it again with music? i can play it for you.”

she hesitates before shrugging. “if you want.”

it stings a little. but you press play anyway.

and as she skates, you watch her the way you always have. you’ve seen it a million times before, but it still knocks the wind out of you every time.

because she’s beautiful.

because she’s yours in all the ways that don’t count.

and it’s killing you.

when the music fades you’re already moving to meet her again. she unlaces her skates in silence.

you crouch beside her like you did the last time, and you’ll probably keep doing it until she tells you not to.

“you don’t have to keep showing up.”

“i want to.”

she glances at you quickly. 

“you’re going through stuff too.” she says.

“so are you.”

for a second, she just stares.

“does it hurt?”

“what?”

“the breakup.”

“yeah.” you don’t lie. 

she nods once. slowly.

then she says your name like it’s fragile. like if she speaks it too loud you might shatter.

“i hate that it hurts. but i don’t regret it.” she mumbles. 

you stare at her.

and you know. you know she’s not just talking about the breakup.

you know she means this. you. whatever’s going on between you two that neither of you fully touch yet.

“me neither.”

she doesn’t touch you.

you don’t ask her to stay.

you just sit side by side on the cold floor of the empty rink, hearts quietly breaking for each other in a way that feels like a promise. even if neither of you said the words. 

it happened four days before regionals. 

it was so fast that you barely registered it.

your dad’s voice was sharp as it echoed through the rink. words like focus, sloppy, and disappointment cut through the air with every frustrated step he took. 

karina stands perfectly still on the ice, arms stiff at her sides.

she doesn’t look at him.

she doesn’t look at you either.

“again. and this time, land the jump like someone who actually wants to qualify.” he barks.

you open your mouth like you were about to say something. but you don’t. you know better than to poke the fire when it’s this close to regionals. so you stay still and bite your tongue until it tastes like metal.

karina just nods quietly. 

like always.

like she’s learned to.

she runs the routine again.

it’s not bad.

but it’s not perfect. and he lets her know.

another critique and another sigh. then he walks away without even a good job to soften the blow.

you hear the door to the rink slam shut behind him.

and then it’s silent.

karina glides off the ice and sits on the bench without a word, untying her skates with trembling fingers.

you approach carefully.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i can’t do this.”

it’s so quiet you almost miss it.

her voice breaks on the last word, and she’s leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, hands gripping her hair like she’s trying to hold herself together.

your chest hurts.

you kneel in front of her without thinking. 

“karina—”

“i can’t breathe anymore. every time i mess up it’s like— he looks at me like i’m wasting everyone’s time. like i’m not worth it.” she chokes out. 

“hey. that’s not true.” you whisper, reaching up slowly but not touching her.

tears fall down her face, but she doesn’t wipe them. “i’ve done everything. i’ve pushed myself so hard i can’t even feel my legs anymore, and it’s still not enough.”

“you are enough.”

she shakes her head. “i’m so tired. and i don’t even know why i’m still trying. i keep thinking maybe… maybe if i do it perfectly, just once, someone will finally say i did good.” she whispers, voice trembling.

you feel your heart break. because you know that feeling.

so this time, you do reach for her.

you hand lands lightly on her knee. “i see you. i’ve seen you this whole time.”

karina finally looks up.

it looks like she’s been holding this in for years.

“you skate like it means something. i don’t care if you fall or if it’s messy. or if my dad doesn’t say anything. i’ll always think you’re perfect.”

she blinks and more tears slip down. then her lip quivers.

and then carefully and hesitantly, karina leans forward and rests her forehead on your shoulder. its not a hug but it’s close.

you don’t move.

you just stay there with her in the silence, letting her fall apart without asking her to stop.

because she’s always been the strong one. and maybe this once she needed someone to hold the weight.

───────────────────────

it’s late when your phone buzzes.

you’re still awake, staring at the ceiling. you’ve been replaying the moment in the rink all evening. the way her forehead pressed to your shoulder like she was scared to go any closer.

you reach for your phone.

karina are you still up?

you sit up instantly.

you yeah. are you okay?

there’s a pause. it’s long enough that you start to wonder if she’s fallen asleep.

karina can you come over? i don’t want to be alone tonight.

and in less than fifteen minutes later she opens the door in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. her hair was pulled back messily.

you love her so much in that moment it actually hurts.

“hi.” you say softly.

karina steps aside to let you in.

“you didn’t have to come.”

“you asked.”

she doesn’t argue.

her skates are drying by the heater, and sits cross legged on her bed. you follow hesitantly, leaving just enough space between you to make her feel safe.

“thank you.” she mumbled.

“for what?”

“for being there today. i don’t think i could’ve kept it together if you weren’t.” she shrugged. 

“you don’t always have to keep it together.” 

“yeah. try telling my brain that.”

“he was hard on you today.” you say after a while. 

karina nods, looking down. “he’s always been that way. but i guess it hit harder today.”

you watch her for a moment.

“i already think the world of you.” you say without thinking. 

karina blinks, breath hitching.

and she leans in. just a little.

“if i ask you to stay… will you?”

you don’t hesitate.

“i’m already here.”

and you don’t know what time it is now.

only that the world has gone still.

karina hasn’t moved in a while. not since she adjusted the blanket over your legs. she’s barely said anything, really. but she hasn’t stopped looking at you.

and you haven’t stopped pretending you don’t notice.

you should go.

you tell yourself that again and again, but instead you turn your head and find her already watching you. her lips were parted like she was about to say something but changed her mind.

“what?” you whisper.

she shakes her head. “nothing.”

you hesitate. 

“you can say it.”

karina’s eyes search yours, and for a second it looks like she might. like she’ll confess something. or maybe let go of something she’s been holding in for so long.

instead, she mumbles. “i skate better when you’re here.” she says again. 

“i’ll be here. if you want me to.” you say.

“that’s the problem.”

your heart stutters.

she doesn’t explain. but she doesn’t have to.

you’re the coach’s daughter and she has a championship to win. and yet, you’re here.

and she wants you.

you’re both still sitting close, knees brushing under the blanket. close enough to kiss if you leaned in just a little.

and maybe she’s thinking the same thing. because she leans in.

barely.

barely enough that it could be a dream.

your breath catches.

your eyes flutter down to her mouth. and she hesitates.

she sits there, fingers twitching like she wants to reach for your hand.

but instead of kissing you, karina leans in further and folds herself into you.

her arms go around your waist, gentle and unsure.

her face buries into your neck.

and you hold her without saying a word. you let her heart beat against yours. your fingers find the edge of her sleeve and just stay there, gripping gently.

you don’t move after that. neither of you do. 

you’re half-asleep when you feel her exhale against your neck. 

her arms tightened slightly around you, and her forehead rests just beneath your jaw now. her warm breath fans your collarbone.

“i don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

you freeze. not all the way, but enough. enough that your breath stutters.

you don’t breathe for a full second after she says it.

you wonder if she even knows she said it or if it slipped through the cracks of exhaustion and everything else that she’s been holding in.

you feel her body relax against yours a moment later. her breathing slows. she’s asleep.

and you’re still wide awake, repeating her words in your head. 

you close your eyes and press your cheek lightly to the top of her head.

“i don’t want you to stop.”

she doesn’t stir. she doesn’t answer.

maybe she won’t remember the words she said. maybe she won’t remember yours. but you will. you always will.

───────────────────────

the rink is full of silence. when you arrive you just stand there and watch her for a moment.

karina is skating slow mindless loops, nothing like her usual precision. she’s moving like she’s trying to outrun invisible. you know what it is. because you heard it.

your father’s voice still rings in your ears, loud and relentless. it was another round of “you’re still not landing clean” and “if you’re gonna do that tomorrow, don’t even bother showing up.” it was another night where she nodded without speaking, biting her tongue hard enough to keep the tears from slipping out.

you didn’t interfere. you never do. but you watch. you always watch.

and maybe that’s why you’re here now, stepping through the gap in the railing and walking out onto the empty rink.

she doesn’t notice you right away. her eyes are focused elsewhere and her gaze is distant. you wonder if she even feels her skates gliding beneath her anymore, or if she’s somewhere else completely. a place where no one’s yelling.

you kneel at the edge of the rink. “karina?”

she slows instantly, head snapping toward your voice like muscle memory.

“hey.” you say softly. 

she looks at you for a moment.

“you— uh— your dad said that you left.” she says. her voice is quieter than usual.

“i came back.”

she skates closer, finally stepping off the ice. she doesn’t sit, she just stands in front of you while hugging herself.

“you saw.”

“i did.”

karina lets out a humorless laugh and looks away. “whatever. i’ve had worse. 

“that doesn’t make it okay.”

her eyes flicker back to yours. there’s a flash of something there but she looks down quickly, beginning to untie her boots.

“you were good today. better than good.”

“not good enough.”

“for him. but you don’t skate for him.”

her hands fall away from her laces. she straightens slowly and finally looks at you. there’s something about her expression, like she’s trying to figure out whether to let this moment happen or shut it down.

“and who do i skate for then?” she asks. your heart skips. “i don’t know. but when you skate, i can feel it. the emotion. it’s indescribable.” you mumble.

karina swallows.

you take a step forward, closing the space between you.

“but i can see it.”

“you always show up when i need you most. even when you don’t know it.” she whispered after a bit. 

“what, are you keeping track?” you laughed. 

she hums. “maybe.”

you don’t know that she cried last night. that her hands shook as she held the letter. she read the email from the coach six times before your dad finally admit that he recommended her. that she almost said no.

almost.

you also don’t know this might be the last time she skates in front of you.

not yet.

“you nervous about tomorrow?”

“you’re the one competing.”

“yeah, but… i skate better when you’re here.”

there it is again. the quiet truth that she keeps letting slip piece by piece.

you don’t know how to answer, so you just stay silent. karina’s blades click softly against the ice before she kicks them off and pulls on her sneakers.

then she’s looking at you again. the look that always makes your heart clench a little too tight.

“you ever think about what happens after regionals?” she asks suddenly.

“like nationals?” she hesitates. 

“no. i mean like… after us. after the season ends.”

you pause. “i haven’t. not really. why?”

but she’s already looking away, shoulders tense in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“you okay?”

“i just… it doesn’t matter.”

it does matter. you know it does, but you don’t push. instead, you laugh quietly. 

“you’ll win tomorrow.”

she laughs a little brokenly. “that’s not what i’m worried about.”

you don’t ask what it is. because maybe you’re scared to hear the answer.

karina fiddles with the edge of her sleeve with her eyes fixed on the rink, but her focus is elsewhere.

“you sure you’re okay?” you ask again, softer now.

she inhales. her throat bobs as she swallows.

“i got an offer. to train in america.” she says finally.

“america?”

“yeah.”

“for summer training?”

“no. like— move there. train full time. i’d be part of a national development program.”

your stomach drops. “oh.”

“it’s… huge. like, dream level. career changing.”

“wow. that’s amazing.”

and it is. it is. but you feel the words hurting in your throat like they’re glass.

karina’s fingers flex against her knee. “i leave monday.”

silence crashes over you.

“oh.” you say again, because it’s all you can say. your voice barely comes out. she finally turns to look at you. and this time, she looks right at you.

“i wasn’t going to tell you. i didn’t want to ruin tomorrow. but then you showed up and i… i needed tonight.” she says.

your heart twists.

“so this is goodbye?” you ask and you hate how small you sound. karina’s jaw clenches. “don’t say it like that.”

“how am i supposed to say it?”

you get ready to leave and she follows.

“i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t want to leave. but your dad— he pushed for it. he said it was the only way i’d make it.” she says.

your eyes sting. “and you didn’t tell me?”

“i didn’t want to make it harder.”

“it already is.”

she’s standing right behind you now. you can feel the warmth of her breath on your shoulder.

“i would stay. if i could. i almost did.” she whispers.

you turn to face her and she’s right there. closer than she’s ever been. her eyes flick to your lips once and that’s all it takes.

you kiss her.

it’s instinctual. you don’t even mean for it to happen. you just do it. a gentle kiss pressed to her lips. 

she goes very still.

you pull back the second you realize what you’ve done, already panicking.

“i— i’m sorry. that was— god, i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have—“

she grabs your wrist and pulls you in again.

she pulls you back in like she’s starved for you. your back hits the rink railing with a thud and the cold metal shocks you through your shirt, but you don’t even register it. not when she’s kissing you this messily, frantically, and desperately. 

her hands are everywhere. gripping into your hair, hugging the curve of your waist, keeping herself against your hips like she’s scared that you might disappear if she lets go. and maybe she is. maybe she knows.

“karina—” you gasp in between kisses, but she cuts you off with another kiss.

“i shouldn’t. you’re the coach’s daughter. i shouldn’t—“ she murmurs against your lips, but she doesn’t stop.

she pulls back long enough to look at you, eyes revealing that she’s trying to memorize this moment. and then she kisses you again. harder.

her hands slide under your jaw, cupping your face like it’s fragile, even though she kisses you like you aren’t.

the railing rattles under your grip as your body arches into hers, needing her closer before this all slips through your fingers.

because she’s leaving soon. because this ends soon. and you both feel it.

that’s why she kisses you like this. like she’s trying to carve the memory into her brain. like she’s terrified that this might the only time that she’ll ever get to touch you like this, and she needs to make it count.

“i’m so scared. i could win everything and i’m scared of what happens if i lose you after.” she whispers, forehead against yours.

you don’t answer.

you just hold her tighter.

you stay like that. pressed between her and the railing until the lights in the rink finally begin to dim for the night.

and she pulls back, with teary eyes.

“come tomorrow. please.”

you nod. 

three months after regionals. 

karina didn’t mean to come back to korea for long. it was just a short break so she could breathe again. she told everyone it was to reset. to clear her head before the next competition cycle. but no amount of sleep, early morning runs or phone calls with her mother, can ever fix the ache that settled in her chest three months ago.

not since she left you.

now she walks through familiar streets with a scarf tucked around her neck, hands in her coat pockets. she doesn’t tell anyone where she’s going. just says she’s going out for a bit and slips away before anyone can ask too many questions. her feet know the route before she does. every turn.

the closer she gets to the rink, the quieter her thoughts become. she pauses at the entrance for a long time, fingers stuck at the metal door handle. thr old banner hanging above the entrance has started to peel at the corners and a few letters faded. but it’s the same. everything is the same.

except her.

when she steps inside, it hits her all at once. the soft echo of her own footsteps against the floor reminds her of it all. this is where she became who she is.

and this is where she left the person who made her feel like herself.

she doesn't lace up her skates. doesn’t even sit down. she just walks the edge of the rink slowly, one hand following the railing. she can see her reflection staring back at her in the glass. she’s more tired and her eyes are flooded with something deeper than exhaustion.

she stops near the bench where she used to sit after practice. the same bench where you handed her water bottles, chocolates, and hand warmers. the same place where she started to let herself hope.

her chest tightens.

she doesn’t know what she was expecting. a sense of closure? a ghost of you?

but instead. you’re really there.

like no time has passed at all. like a prayer she didn’t know that she was still saying. and she can feel herself breathing again. 

at first, she thinks she’s imagining you.

you’re sitting on one of the benches, and your coat is pulled tight. your hands tucked into your sleeves and there's a water bottle resting beside you.

her heart stutters.

she blinks hard. more than once. and you’re still there.

she opens her mouth before she can stop herself, voice shaky and unsure for the first time in months. “…y/n?”

you look up. and that’s all it takes. karina swallows hard, taking a step forward. “is it really you?”

you nod slowly. like you can’t believe she’s real either.

“i didn’t think you’d be here.” you say quietly.

“i didn’t think you would.” she answers. “i was just just… I was passing by. I didn’t mean to—”

“you always pass by when you’re thinking too much.”

she huffs out a breath that was almost a laugh. her eyes are glassy now and she tries to blink it away but it clings.

“you look the same. but different.” she says.

“so do you.”

she hesitates before asking. “can i… come closer?” you don’t answer right away. you just shift slightly to the side on the bench to make space for her. that’s all she needs.

she walks across the empty floor slowly, skates swinging from one hand. she sits beside you, like the months between now and the last time meant nothing. or maybe they meant everything.

she finally breaks the silence with a voice that was barely above a whisper. “i skate better when you’re here.”

you turn to her and she’s already looking at you. “i don’t know why i said that,” she adds, flustered now. 

but you do. you know exactly why.

you lean your shoulder against hers and she leans back, like muscle memory.

neither of you speak again for a long time. but the familiarity of the silence is inevitable. like no matter how far you run, this was always where you’d end up. 

sitting next to each other. 

taglist — @saysirhc @prologue-ae @yuyuy90

[akutasoda]

hold my hand, lean on me

synopsis - jiaoqiu adjusting to domestic life with you

includes - jiaoqiu

warnings - gn!reader, spoilers for 2.5, angst w/ some comfort, fluff, maybe ooc, wc - 1.3k

a/n: i actually cannot get this darn foxian out my mind :( shouts to @thelightofmylife for some vv helpful pointers and information ^^ tbh i feel like this is just 1.3k words of word vomit HAHA

the healers finished informing you of the situation, thanking them you then closed the door to the shared abode. a sigh you didn't know you were holding back escaped alongside a glance down to the papers the healer's handed over. you could read them later, the news followed by the details of it wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, if anything it might be a final push for the tears to start falling.

your thoughts were distracted by the sound of hesitant, shuffling footsteps. turning around, you were met with the sight of jiaoqiu standing idly not too far from you - almost as if he was taking in the surroundings, although now it was more him trying to piece together the memories of what it looked like.

jiaoqiu had arrived back at the yaoqing not too long ago, admittedly rather late, but the luofu's alchemy commission had kept him for a while. he'd been forced immediately to the yaoqing’s alchemy commission as they were now the ones responsible for his treatment plan for the future. a short talk with them had then led to him being escorted back home. to you.

upon arrival, some of the alchemy commission healers explained to you about the entire situation. they kept it short but soon handed you a full document containing everything from “patient’s injuries” to “doctor’s post-charge advice” - each and every sentence pained you more and more, you refused to acknowledge what would've happened if moze hadn't found him, you would have to thank him later.

the healers had asked you to take upon the responsibility of looking after him at home, and in most day to day life scenarios - at least until he adjusted properly. they asked you to keep strict to the “post-charge advice” as otherwise it probably would cause more harm to him, making his healing process longer and maybe even worsening it beyond healing.

“jiao-ge” you called out, to let him know that you were still near. it pained to see the somber look on his face. the last thing jiaoqiu saw wasn't anyone, anywhere or anything he loved. no. it was something he hated, someone he loathed in unfamiliar territory surrounded by no-one he knew.

now he stood in familiar territory, with the person he loved the most. but he couldn't bask in the sights or even see you. all he had was memories to cast images in his mind, to help pretend that nothing was wrong and that he could see what he remembered.

you knew that he wouldn't want you doting on him. jiaoqiu needed to adjust, to learn how to go about his life as usual and you overly fussing over him would only probably annoy him and prolong that.

it had been a long day, any proper conversations could be held tomorrow. to no surprise, jiaoqiu insisted he could get ready and do everything by himself. you granted him that independence. eventually, admittedly with some help, you two were ready for sleep. and even though you were right there beside him, jiaoqiu never felt further from you.

---✩

the process was slow. nobody would've said that it was going to be anything other than that. jiaoqiu very clearly wanted independence. he didn't want to seen as a burden, he chose to do this, and knowing that people were constantly doting on him instead of continuing with their lives made him feel awful.

one of the first things you did was help make your shared abode more compatible with his needs. an easy step was making sure that everywhere was clean and free of obstruction, normally moze always

showed up and helped with cleaning as well. another step was helping jiaoqiu become able to navigate the home on his own, mainly he acted on memory but you needed to make sure that where he frequented was always obstruction free.

occasionally you could hear a bump or hurried shuffling from the room over, each and every time you dropped what you were doing and checked up on him. it was never anything major and if anything it always resulted in jiaoqiu silently cursing at the piece of furniture he walked into.

you two always adopted a verbal calling system at home. should you need to leave the room he was in, you would tell him exactly where you were going and what you were doing - that way he knew where you were. jiaoqiu would also inform you of where he planned on going just in case something happened or he got lost.

although, admittedly, for the first couple of weeks jiaoqiu stuck to you like glue. to him, it was a way to quickly adjust and therefore he wouldn't have to be a burden for long. however jiaoqiu subsequently had developed a rather interesting habit, one neither of you addressed - you because you thought it was sweet and didn't want to embarrass him, him because he didn't want to admit it.

and that was him using his tail as a guidance. at home, it was either curled around your waist, wrist or leg. in public, it lingered around your wrist, so much so that it constantly tickled you. it was a way of him making sure you were there with him, you hadn't left him and he was okay.

although most admittedly it was worse at night. he would hold you close, an ironclad grip that usually you would ask for him to let up but you knew he needed this. tail curled around your waist, preventing you from escaping. in his opinion, you helped him sleep easier, much easier than any fragrances he was prescribed.

however, this always came with a risk. due to residual lupitoxin still in his body, jiaoqiu became frequently prone to nightmares which plagued him constantly. everytime his mind was tricked into believing that the borisin were waiting, patiently looking for an opening to get revenge.

he wakes up because of them, drenched in fear and swear, and because he's so fearful the lupitoxin can take hold easier. suddenly he's tricked into believing that the borisin have found him. unbeknownst to the fact that it's you. so you sometimes take the liberty of sleeping away from him, but then he wakes up to an empty bead but he can hear someone in the room over and when he finds out it was you, sleeping away from him, he becomes consumed with guilt.

a major change for him was his inability to cook anymore. jiaoqiu was determined to do so with his impairment but he needed to learn. nowadays you cook with him. instead of being hushed out of the kitchen, you stood closely beside him, handing him the tools he needed, telling him where you put them so he could find them again on his own.

gently reminding him to lay off the spices when he requested more, he was to avoid spicy foods at all costs for the time being. a hard change, one that he absolutely despised but he knew better than to go against a doctor's order. helping him go out and buy ingredients, listening to what he told you and carrying out the tasks diligently.

---✩

and that was a shortlist of changes. you were very happy to accommodate anything for him, so long as he felt comfortable and loved. it wasn't uncommon for jiaoqiu to experience major lows, it was only natural and you needed to be there for him.

to listen to him, to show him that the support he needed was always a simple ask away - you didn't want to push to dote on him for many reasons. but that was different to showing genuine care and love to him when he started seeing himself as a useless, dependent person.

life would be different. for a while or maybe even forever, perhaps feixiao would strike lucky in her search for a healer that knew how to help. but for now, you two would have to learn how to adjust. to be there for eachother.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn

[alastor-simp]

Alastor with a female reader who is selectively mute Part 1

I always wanted to know how Alastor would react to a demon character like this or who is similar to Komi-san from Komi Can't communicate, so this is going to be my take on it.

**First Meeting**

Your arrival in hell wasn't a pleasant one. Literally the second you fell, you were approached by demons left and right, either trying to rob you or offering to sleep with you. Yelling at them would have been easy, but you were a very anxious person to the point you were mute with everyone you encountered. Surprisingly, you were able to run away from the unwanted problems you faced in hell, and was able to come across a flyer that was taped to one of the alley walls. "Come stay at the Happy Hotel" it read, and you figured that it might be a good place to stay for a while and try to make a sense of what you could do now that you were in hell. Having followed the map that was on the other side of the flyer, you were able to come across the hotel, but the neon sign was different then what the paper said, but you figured they probably were remodeling it.

The hotel was huge, it was plastered with neon signs, but also had a radio tower on one side, a large fish like contraption, and a pirate ship. "Amazing" you thought to yourself as you made your way closer to the door, and lightly knocked. A cheery voice was heard on the other side and soon the door opened to reveal a pretty, blonde girl. She had devilish features, but a very adorable baby face, and her smile was quite cute as well. "Oh! Hello! My name is Charlie Morningstar. How may I help you?", she said to you with big bright eyes, as she was patiently waiting for your response. Clenching your jaw, feelings of anxiety began to well up in your stomach, but you bared with it and simply held up the hotel poster in front of Charlie. Charlie was a little curious about your strange response, but she put the pieces together that you were wanting to stay at the hotel. "SQUEAL!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR COMING!", she said as she threw her arms around you in a bear hug, then letting you go as she pulled you into the hotel.

The inside of the hotel was nice, but needed some remodeling, but you liked it overall. Looking around, you noticed the other demons that were in the hotel. A mini demon was zipping around in a cute dress, cleaning the ceiling with a duster, a cat like demon was chugging a bottle of booze at the bar, and a very tall spider was standing next to the record player, picking out a song. Stopping what they were doing, they all turned to look at you, curiously. Nervous, you raised your hand at them, signifying a hello. The cat demon just nodded his head and continue chugging, while the fast demon zipped in front of you, waving back with a smile, before zooming away to finish cleaning. The tall spider gave you a wink, as they walked to the bar and took a seat. "Vaggie! We have another patron!" Charlie said, as she yelled out next to you, while also leading you to one of the lobby couches to have a seat. As Charlie walked away, your eyes began to scan around the hotel, taking in every detail, and also glancing at the portraits hanging on the wall with Charlie and what looked to be her parents.

"Why Hello there! Who might you be?", a static voice said, as you looked up to see a red suit man with a very sharp smile standing in front of you, leaning down to place his face closer to yours. He was dressed to the nines in a red striped coat, along with a monocle and bow-tie. He also appeared to be holding a microphone staff? Was he a singer by chance? Realizing you were getting distracted, you just nodded your head at the man, and pointed to the poster, similar to what you did with Charlie. The man raised an eyebrow, as he continued to lean closer, most likely waiting for your answer, as his smile got wider, almost breaking his face.

**Alastor POV**

Alastor's eyes continued to stare at the quiet demon, who was holding the poster and kept tapping against it frantically. Amused, Alastor leaned closer, while moving his staff to tap against her chin: "Something wrong my dear? Cat got your tongue?" Alastor watched as the demon remained silent, but he could tell by their eyes that they were nervous, oh how entertaining. "Oh Alastor! So nice of you to show up! This is our new patron who just arrived at the hotel", Alastor heard, as he turned to see Charlie smiling at him, while dragging Vaggie by the hand. Leaning back from his position, Alastor continued to gaze at you while turning back to Charlie. "Ah! So this wayward sinner is here to stay at the hotel! Excellent!" Alastor beamed, as he look down at you, while you shifted in your seat.

**Your POV**

You started to feel a little uncomfortable with everyone's eyes on you, making you clench your hands on your lap. You noticed the other demon next to Charlie. She had long grey hair, and only one of her eyes was showing. She did give you a hard gaze when she saw you, but it softened after few minutes. As she came closer to you, she waved her hand as a hello, while also asking what your name was. You stayed silent, as the butterflies in your stomach made you feel like you wanted to vomit, as everyone was watching you, waiting for your answer. "Whats the matter with you, toots? You deaf or something?", The spider demon had taken a seat next to you, while wrapping an arm around your neck with one of his arms, while poking your cheek with his other hand. Freezing up, you felt your eyes start to water, and you started to slightly shake. Charlie noticed your reactions and bent down on her knees to gaze at you, asking if you were alright. Taking a slow deep breath, you nodded then made a notion with your hands asking for something to write on. Charlie quickly got up and ran to the desk to grab a large notepad and pen, before coming back to you. Once you had the notepad, you began to write down what you wanted to say, before turning the notepad around for everyone to see, while giving them a shy smile:

"Hello my name is Y/N. I just arrived in Hell a few minutes ago and I saw your poster and wanted to stay here. I'm sorry for not responding to you guys normally, but I am selectively mute, I'm sorry again. Its very nice to meet all of you!"

Everyone around you slowly read the notepad and all turned back to look at you. Charlie and Vaggie looked very apologetic, the spider just shrugged his shoulders, the mini one just continued to smile at you, but more softly this time, and the cat demon just continued to drink from the bar. The man in red, or Alastor as they called him, continued to smile at you, seeming unfazed by what you wrote, but you noticed his eyes soften a bit, but he made sure to hide it from the others. "Oh! I'm sorry if we made you uncomfortable." Charlie began to bow her head, but you waved your hands, letting her know it was alright. Charlie raised her head, and soon her frown turned back into a bright smile: "Oh yes, let me introduce everyone! This is Vaggie, my girlfriend. The spider next to you is Angel Dust. Niffty is the small cute one. Husk is the one at the bar, and this is Alastor." You listened to all of the names Charlie said, and looked at everyone, while smiling and nodding your head. Angel Dust smirked while looking at you, turning you head to look at him: "You're quite a cutie aren't ya? I bet your voice sounds very sexy." Angel continued to wrap his arms around you, continuing to flirt with you, until Alastor's staff smacked him on the head. "Now my good fellow! It's not proper to talk that way to a lady! Please kindly remove yourself from them!" Alastor said, as he gazed at Angel, smiling still, but it looked more menacing this time. Angel let you go, while rubbing his head: "Satan F*** Al! You didn't have to hit me with that thing!" Vaggie then yelled at them both to be quiet, as she walked over to front desk and grabbed what looked like to be a room key. She walked back and handed it to you, telling you that your room is on the fourth floor and you can go up there and get settled. Nodding your head as a thank you, you began to walk over to one of the elevators and made your way to your room.

Arriving in your room, you scanned around the interior. The room had some dust and cobwebs, but a little cleaning would help with that. The room was decorated in a maroon red, with a large bed with black sheets, two large windows with curtains, a bathroom and a very wide closet. It almost felt like you got the home suite, which made you feel guilty as you really didn't need a extravagant room like this. Still in thought, you were alerted by a rhythmic knock on your door. Walking over, you looked in the peephole to see Al standing there with his big smile. Opening the door, you nodded your head at Alastor, as he smiled down at you. "Hello again my dear! I was wondering if you had time to chat!"

***Alastor POV***

The quiet sinner nodded her head at Al, while opening the door, allowing me to come in. How adorable! He thought, while making his over to the center of the room and turning back to look at them. "Now my dear! I am here wanting to apologize for how I acted in the lobby! I wasn't behaving like a proper gentleman and I understand if I made you uncomfortable, so let me offer you my sincerest apologies! Let's start over from the beginning, shall we?" Alastor bowed his head a bit, as a sign of him apologizing, and extending his hand out in a handshake. You appeared taken aback in Alastor's eyes, ,but you gave him a soft smile and shook his hand. Once you finished shaking hands, you grabbed the notepad and pen again and began to write to Al, as he gazed at you, wondering what you were writing before you turned the notepad around. Alastor leaned closer, and began to read the message:

"It is alright, Alastor. There is no need for you to apologize. And besides, I'm the one that should apologize for not answering your question when you asked me."

Alastor finished reading, and turned his eyes towards you. His sharp smile slowly turned into a soft grin and his glowing eyes had softened. "Don't worry about that my dear! Now I take it since you will have just arrived in Hell, you are lacking some necessities correct?" Alastor had moved away from you, as he continued to talk while walking around your room. Turning back to you, you gave him a small nod. "Then we will head to the city! Me and Charlie can accompany you! What do you think?" he said, as he turned back to you, with his large grin coming back. Nodding your head at Alastor was his indication that you accepted. Smiling wider, Alastor turned back to you, as he made his way to your door. "It feels that I have extended my stay, so I will leave you be darling! Do make yourself comfortable!" he said, as turned his head back to you. Pulling out the pad again, you wrote down another message and showed it to Al.

"Thank you."

"Your welcome my dear! Have a pleasant evening! Also don't forget to head to the kitchen later! My mother's famous jambalaya is on the menu for tonight! So good, it nearly killed her! HAHA!" , Laughing out his response, Al watched as he saw you give him a smile, a real smile this time. "My! What a gorgeous smile!" He thought, as he bid you adieu and made his way back to the lobby. As he made his way back, Alastor stopped and thought about you. Puzzling was a word he used to describe you. He had never encountered a sinner down here who chose to not speak while having the ability to do so. He mostly assumed you were terrified of him, due to his status as "The Radio Demon. Most feared overlord in Hell.", but that wasn't the case. Something about you made him feel odd, hell he even apologized to you, which he would never do given his massive pride/ego, so he wondered why. Seeing you write on the notepad and apologizing for not responding normally, made his heart ache. Why should you apologize for something like that? Realizing he had stopped in the middle of the hallway, he carried on back to the others, still thinking about you and also how would your voice sound when you spoke out loud. Alastor smiled wider, as he thought you were going to be a very special and entertaining sinner here at the hotel.

Part 2 of the story is Here

[zevrra]

hi! jayce x reader where she (or they whatever) is working in the lab w him and the experiment goes a little haywire, getting her hurt? please make my man as pathetic wet dog guilty as possible bonus points if you mention the beard please thank you

includes: [fluff!] something goes wrong in the lab and jayce feels really bad about it!

ft. jayce x gn!reader

extra(s): i hope i wrote jayce pathetic enough for you anon!! thank you for the request and i hope you enjoy it!! (also i love the beard and will take every chance i can to mention it KSHSKH jayce is SO FIONE)

you had wanted to surprise your lover, jayce talis, so you showed up to the lab with some lunch for the two of you. he hadn’t expected you and was so happy to see you. soot covers the side of his cheek as he wears his cute little goggles, hair a mess as he turns his back on his latest project to greet you.

“baby!” jayce chirps happily. his hands find your waist as he settles to stand before you, leaning down to place a kiss against your lips.

you smile and roll your eyes at your goofy boyfriend. moving his goggles out of the way before kissing him back. “thought i’d drop by with some food. is that okay?” you ask as jayce wraps you up in a hug. you move your thumb across his face, wiping away as much dirt as you can with a furrowed brow; it was never easy cleaning his face with his beard now. “maybe you should shave?” you tease him with a soft laugh, wiping your hand across his lab coat.

jayce pouts at your words, running a hand along his bearded chin. “what, you don’t like it?” he asks with a lifted eyebrow before shaking his head to get back onto the topic of food. “anyway, you have perfect timing actually! i could use your help with this…thing while we eat.” jayce sighs as he gestures towards the project he’s probably been slumped over for too long; hence the length of his beard. you smile as he joyfully takes the food you offer him before moving back to the lab’s desk while dragging you along with him. “i just don’t know what i’m missing.” he mutters as he takes a bite out of the snack you’ve brought him, leaning against the desk. his eyes glance from his notes, to whatever hex project he’s got sitting on his desk, before looking over at you.

you settle in beside jayce with a smile as you reach to pick through his notes. your eyes scanning over his messy handwriting as thoroughly as you can while jayce rests a heavy hand on your waist, needing to keep you close at all times when it’s just the two of you. something you dearly loved about the man. “have you tried upping the voltage?” you ask as you read through the notes; to which jayce nods in response, mouth clearly full. “what about switching the plus and minus here around?”

jayce stops his snacking for a minute, clearly thinking about your proposal, as he considers the option. he sets his lunch down and turns around to face the notes in your hand, reading over where you point to. “no but…here, i think channeling energy here instead might work!” jayce states with a newfound confidence, slipping his goggles back on as he fully turns to the hex project.

and then it all happens so fast.

seconds within jayce toying with the rune, an explosion sets off. the light blue shimmer of magic raises every hair on your body; and it sends a cold, dreadful shiver down your spine. you barely have time to react to get away but luckily, jayce does. his hands are grabbing your body, yanking you away while turning his back towards the explosion, pulling you entirely into his chest to cover you from the blast. thankfully, by some miracle, before the “big boom” the rune fizzles out and dies, and only a very small shockwave shatters some nearby glass; leaving you and jayce intact but shaken up.

after it quiets down, you manage to peel your face off of jayce’s shoulder and look around. his desk is a mess, notes mixed with broken glass lay all over the floor— meanwhile smoke rolls silently around the project. jayce, suddenly realizing that he and you were both, in fact, still alive, gasps, squeezing you a little tighter before barely pulling inches away.

“oh gods,” jayce mutters as he quickly scans over your face. he pulls you gently further away from the blast, hands roaming your entire body to inspect you before caressing the side of your face. his thumb wipes gently along your face as he inspects a cut you didn’t know you had. “shit!” he curses under his breath, hazel eyes full of agony and sorrow as he looks at the wound inflicted upon you. “are you ok? does it hurt anywhere else?”

your heart beats hard in your chest but you shake your head at his question, still in shock from moments ago but relatively you’re physically okay. your hand slightly trembles as you manage to reach up and touch where his hand gently caresses you, feeling the sticky of your blood from your open cut. it stings, pretty good, but not deep enough to need any kind of stitch work. jayce holds your face dearly in his hands as his eyes fill up with tears. “i’m so sorry. my god i could’ve killed you.” jayce practically sobs as both of his hands hold your face gently now, pressing his forehead against your own. “i’m so sorry love. please forgive me.” he mutters, defeated as he holds you.

you take a deep breath in, hold it for a second, then release it; squeezing jayce’s hand gently. “jay, it’s not your fault. please, are you okay?” you whisper in a worried tone, pulling away just enough to look at him.

“i don’t care about me!” he responds with a tremble to his voice; seemingly biting back his sobs.

you shake your head, giving his hand one more squeeze. “well, i care. now come here.” you frown before taking a step back and dragging him along with you. without struggle, he let’s you lead him further away from “ground zero” and finally allows you to check him out now. and thankfully jayce has only suffered a few small cuts to the long coat he wears. and if it weren’t for that damned lab coat he wore, things could've been a lot worse. “you’re okay.” you sigh with relief, smoothing your hand across his jaw and neck. “no serious bleeding or any open wounds that i can see.” you add with a soft smile.

but his eyes continue to tell you how upset he is. unhappy at all about the injury on your face but he remains unscathed. he can barely look at you; and when he does, he stares at the scratch along your cheek. “i can’t believe i got you hurt.” jayce says, drooping like a wilted flower as he looks up at you through his eyelashes as he sits down in a cleaner area.

“jayce, darling, you didn’t do anything. you can’t control the uncontrollable.” you hum softly, taking his face into your hands as he settles himself down. and at your touch he melts into your palm, puppy dog eyes staring up at you as one of his big hands covers over one of your hands.

“i am so sorry.” jayce mumbles with a sad pout.

you frown a little, pouting, as you move the flat of your palms across his beard, scratching his face just a little as you try and will his self blame away. “maybe this beard is just bad luck.” you grumble but the tease manages to get jayce to crack the tiniest smile. you chuckle as his face softens in your hands. turning his lips to kiss the inside of your palm.

“ha, nice try. i’m not shaving.” jayce teases with a smile he hides behind your hand. you mirror his smirk as he pulls you down to him, pressing his lips into yours in a tender kiss.

yeah. you two were going to be okay.

[clockwayswrites]

@redghostbirdy Dick/Danny, skeleton shaped sugar cookies cw blood and stitches

Of course Dick still had to take his trash out after getting back from patrol. He was exhausted and wounded, but the trash had really gotten untenable and now had bio-waste in it. He had to take it down to the dumpster. It was almost a compulsion at that point to get it taken care of, or he knew he wouldn’t sleep well. As much as his family teased him about the state of his apartment he had his limits.

So, Dick tied up the bag, tugged it free of the bin, managed to slip on some shoes after a few attempts, and headed out into the hallway. And right into his neighbor.

His hot, brick wall of a neighbor that could totally bench press Dick in all the meanings of that phrase that Dick had totally been thinking a little too much about for the last few months.

“Whoa, careful there, darlin’,” Danny drawled, steadying Dick with large hands on both of Dick’s shoulders. “What are you doing wandering around out here at this time?”

“Um, trash?” Dick said ineloquently and raised the bag a little. The bag which apparently was leaking because his hand was wet.

Dick looked down at his hand and the red blood that coated it. Did his stitches pop?

“Ah, fuck,” Danny cussed and stepped back a little.

(Embarrassingly, Dick almost swayed after him.)

Danny lifted up the edge of his shirt, which may have killed what was left of Dick’s brain functions, to show blood flaked skin and—

“Is that a menstrual pad covering a wound?!”

Danny shrugged. “It’s just a little knife wound and Jess, the bouncer, hand one handy.”

“Oh my god. Just, come on, we’re getting that stitched up or at least bandaged properly,” Dick said. He set his bag of trash down by the door and grabbed Danny’s hand with his clean one to drag the bemused man into his apartment.

Luckily the first aid kit was still out on the little island counter and Dick all but pushed Danny onto one of the stools. Dick peeled the offending pad off maybe a little more harshly than was necessary and found a plastic bag to drop it into.

“I can’t believe that’s what you were using. And you call that little? How did you even get that? You’re the bartender! You’re supposed to be behind the bar.”

Danny just shrugged, an easy going and not at all repentant grin on his face. “I had to stop someone from being a creep.”

Dick just glared, mildly, at him as he washed his hands. He couldn’t really argue with that. He snapped on some gloves instead and set about cleaning Danny’s wound.

“I think this could use some stitches. I can do them, but I can also just get you patched up enough to go to urgent care if you’d feel more comfortable with that.”

“You can do them.”

“…yeah?” Dick asked just to be sure and glanced up at Danny.

Danny shrugged again. “I mean, you do have a very well stocked first aid kit on your counter already. Why was that?”

“Hush.”

Dick covered the area around the wound with a numbing agent while Danny chuckled at the non answer.

“If I promise to be a better patient than your students, do I get a cute bandage?”

Dick smiled despite himself as he threaded the needle. “All the cute bandages are at the gym. Stay still now.”

“Damn,” Danny said, and then waited until after Dick had started the stitches to ask, “What about a lollipop?”

“I might have some jelly beans still,” Dick said, grinning now. He kept his eyes on his work though, not wanting to give Danny uneven stitches.

Thankfully, Danny didn’t need that many and Dick was soon tying them off and taking a step back.

“No fun bandage, no lollipop,” Danny sighed, “what about a kiss to make it all better?”

Dick’s gaze shot up to look at Danny and his cheeky little smirk.

“Or did I miss read things completely?”

Dick rolled his eyes at Danny’s confidence, though it made him smile. “I think a kiss to make it better I can do.”

Danny’s smile turned into a full on grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dick said and leaned in to press his lips to Danny’s.

He tasted like spice, lime, and sugar.

[shurisneakers]

HIII, HOW ARE YOU

I was thinking if you could write Bucky's version of "Who did this to you" 🥰 Also, I love you writing so much! The way you describe things makes it so easy for me to imagine the scenes

a/n: hello my love! thank you for sending this in, I hope you like it<3

this is part of misery loves company but is just a stand alone fic. you don't need to read anything before this

warnings: blood and hurt, implications of violence and killin klg, hurt comfort, swearing

The longer you spend in this business, the more sleep feels like a favor the universe begrudgingly grants. Rest without nightmares is a luxury, and your salary simply did not budget for it.

So when it’s 3 a.m., and someone slips into your room without a word, you’re already awake before the light in your bathroom flickers on.

You hear the faint shuffle of movement, the sound of cabinets opening and closing. His silhouette moves inside, quiet and deliberate.

There’s no urgency to it, no noise loud enough to wake anyone else. He knows better than that. He just doesn’t know better than to pick your bathroom to raid.

Sighing, you push off the bed and head toward the bathroom.

The door creaks when you nudge it open, and he doesn’t even flinch. He’s still bent over the sink, head in your cabinet, his shoulders slumped like he’s half-asleep himself.

“Go to bed,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, not bothering to look at you.

“Sure, right after you get the fuck out of my bathroom," you reply, leaning against the doorframe. “You know there’s one in your room, right? Or did you get lost again?”

“Crazy. Here I was, thinking I’d take the scenic route,” he deadpans, pulling out a bottle and squinting at the label. “Must’ve missed my bathroom. Maybe it’s hiding behind a bookshelf or something.”

You roll your eyes and press a hand to his shoulder, shoving him aside as you rifle through the cabinet yourself. “Move. You’re just making a mess.”

Bucky doesn’t protest, just leans back against the wall with a sigh, watching as you shove aside bottles and boxes. When you finally find the first-aid kit, you shove past him with more force than necessary.

“Sit down.”

To your surprise, he obeys, perching on the edge of the bathtub. His silence almost irritates you more than his usual backtalk.

You crouch in front of him, ignoring the way his gaze follows your every movement as you pull out antiseptic wipes and gauze. You don’t want to look at him yet. You don’t need to see his face to know he looks like hell.

But when you finally glance up, it’s still worse than you expected.

If you hadn’t trained yourself to stay composed in the worst situations, your breath might’ve hitched. His lip is split, an eye swollen shut, cuts scattered across his face, and a dark trail of dried blood streaks from his nose to his jaw. The faintest smudge of crimson still lingers on his temple.

"What?" his voice comes out sharper, like he's testing you to see your reaction.

He sits too stiffly for it to just be his face. There are ribs involved, at the very least.

You don't grace him with a reply.

"I'm fine," he says, as if that’s enough to wave away the mess of him.

“Didn’t ask,” you reply flatly, though your jaw tightens.

“Did someone teach you how to be this kind, or is it a God-given talent?” he mutters dryly.

You don’t respond, ripping open a packet of antiseptic wipes and crouching in front of him.

“How’d your day go?” he drawls, voice flat but testing.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“God, the hospitality,” he drags, voice dry and cracked. "For a second there, I was worried bleeding out in your bathroom might make you care.”

“So fuckin' dramatic,” you breathe, swiping a wipe across his busted lip with a gentleness you hate admitting to. “You’re not bleeding out. And I don’t care."

The silence stretches as you clean him up. He doesn’t flinch-- not at the antiseptic or the sting of your touch-- but you notice his sharp intake of breath when you press a little harder on his ribs.

“Who did this?” you ask lowly, your tone sharp without meaning to be.

He exhales through his nose, something like a grunt. “Why? You plannin' on punching them for me?”

"If that'll keep you out of my damn bathroom at night."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and unyielding, but you refuse to meet it, focusing instead on wiping the blood crusted beneath his nose.

Finally, he mumbles, “Doesn’t matter. Kids are safe."

“Good,” you say, but the word sticks in your throat like glass.

When you glance up, his good eye is already on you, his gaze sharper than it has any right to be. His breathing is steady, heavier than usual but not alarming. Whatever he’s looking for, you don’t know, but it’s enough to make you shift uncomfortably.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, softer this time, almost like he’s trying to convince you.

“Didn’t ask,” you mutter, though your hand slows for a fraction of a second before you move on to the next cut.

His lip quirks at that, the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Noticed."

When you move to dab at the cut above his brow, something in his hair catches your eye. Your fingers brush against it, and you pull the strand closer for inspection

That’s when you notice it.

The small braid in his hair, crooked and messy, like it was done by clumsy hands.

You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers tugging gently at the braid.

"Who did this to you?” you ask again, this time biting back a smile.

“Don’t,” he mutters, ducking his head to pull away, but your hand finds his neck, stilling him. His skin grows warm under your hand.

“One of the kids?” you press, voice softer now.

He clears his throat, his cheeks flushing faintly. “The jet was too dark. They needed a distraction.” He pauses, as though considering how much to share. “Missed that one, I guess.”

Your thumb brushes his jaw as you inspect the braid, lingering a little too long. “Shame. It makes you look less hideous.”

Bucky huffs, more exasperated than offended. “You’re shit out of luck, then. Gotta put up with this mug as it is.”

You realize you’ve been staring too long when his eyes flick to yours. Clearing your throat, you drop your hands and reach for another wipe.

He leans back slightly, his gaze dragging over you. “You look like you’re about to punch someone.”

“Surprised there’s anyone left to punch.”

“There isn’t,” he replies breezily, though the weight of his words hangs in the air.

“Good, I don't have to waste my time cleaning up after you.” You swipe the antiseptic across his lip, slower this time, and your fingers linger a fraction longer than they should.

You don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your hands as you tear off another wipe, the way his jaw tightens when your fingers brush against his skin again.

“You’re happy you don’t get to punch anyone?” he asks, “Careful, or I might start thinking you care.”

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you press the antiseptic down just hard enough to make him wince.

Bucky hisses, but his lips twitch, and you hate how much you want to smile back.

Instead, you pack away the first aid kit and push it into his lap.

“Go to sleep,” you mutter, turning away.

“Sure thing,” he says, but when you glance back, he’s still sitting there, watching you like he’s not quite ready to leave.

Like maybe you don’t want him to.

"C'mon," you say quietly. "It's late."

He finally pushes himself off the tub, and drags himself silently to your bed.

[sprite-writes-fanfic]

Hey , I was wondering how do you think the Bay Turtles would react to that Tik Tok trend where the gf called their bf their husband ? Like they could be at the lair and April calls reader amd reader is like " Ya I'm at my husbands place " etc.

This is the trend I'm talking about

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeypmGWK/

Very cute idea! Also Bayverse request! 😚👌💙

🐢Calling Them Your Husband🐢

💙❤️Bayverse TMNT x Reader💜🧡

Word Count: 917

CW: Gender-neutral reader, calling him your husband 🥰, fluffy as hell, not proof-read.

TikTok was an interesting platform that you enjoyed scrolling through occasionally, and it wasn’t until one day you stumbled upon the couple side of TikTok. You were planning on scrolling past until a certain one caught your attention, and it certainly got you thinking…

Later that night, you and your boyfriend were doing your nightly activities as you usually did, when you got a sudden call from April. You answered with a smile, “Hey April, what’s up?” You ask, the conversation flowing naturally until she asked where you were at. Without hesitation, you answered, “Oh! Yeah, I’m at my husband's place.” You smile, before glancing over at the turtle beside you, getting the following reaction…

🐢💙Leonardo💙🐢

💙 Leo was staring rather intensely at you, feeling a flood of emotions course through him as he stared at you. He would then let out a soft chuckle, and waited until you hung up. He really liked that, oh he REALLY loved that actually, you saw him as your husband, huh?

💙 Once you hung up, he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you sweetly, “So, what was that about, hm?” He mused, as you giggled a bit. “You want to get married? Why didn’t you just say so?” He smiles, and you couldn’t find it in your heart to tell him it was a TikTok, you just couldn’t, not at the time anyways. And plus, I mean the topic was on your mind after all.

💙 “Oh yeah.” You grin as you draw him into a loving kiss, “Let’s get married?” You ask, smiling at him. A chuckle escapes him and he presses his forehead against yours, “Yeah… Let’s get married.” He swiftly lifts you up, bridal style, “And let’s make it soon. I want this husband title to be more permanent.” He chuckles. (Though you would have to tell him later down the line about this because you felt a tad bit guilty, spoiler; he was confused, but he was fine with it.)

🐢❤️Raphael❤️🐢

❤️ Raph gave you a soft chuckle, before placing a hand on your hip, “Damn right you are.” He smirked down at you. Now this, dear reader, stroked his ego, he absolutely loved it. He waits for you to finish up the call with April, lightly rubbing your skin in a loving manner as he was left with his thoughts for a moment.

❤️ Once you hung up, he kissed your head, “Husband, huh? Get that from somewhere?” He asks, and you couldn’t help but chuckle, “Yes… I did, it was a TikTok idea.” He playfully rolled his eyes, “Now you didn’t mean it?” He teased, making you panic, “Of course I did, Raph!” He let out a small laugh, “Easy, Dollface. I’m messing with you.” He would kiss your forehead, calming you down.

❤️ He was a little disappointed that it was a TikTok trend, but he does have to admit, you calling him your husband certainly felt good. Now he was rather tempted to make you a Hamato, if you catch my drift. But he’d wait, he wants it to be at the right time… For now, he’s just relentlessly bullies you (lovingly) about this for a good while.

🐢💜Donatello💜🐢

💜 Chokes, Donnie literally chokes. He was in the middle of drinking some apple juice when the phrase, ‘my husband’s’, gave him some whiplash with this one. He was choking and coughing, wiping away dripping juice as you panicked and hung up on April to help him, (RIP Donnie, died to apple juice 💀).

💜 Once you finish helping him clean up, he would finally regain his composure, his nostrils still stinging from the apple juice, he asks, “What was that about?” He wasn’t angry, not at all, just really confused about this whole thing. Husband? That’s not the right term, you guys aren’t married (yet)! You end up explaining, “Well… It was a TikTok trend and I kinda wanted to see how you’d react.” You admit.

💜 He chuckles and shakes his head at this, “A TikTok trend?” He asks, “Well, it certainly caught me off guard… But maybe don’t do that the next time I’m drinking apple juice, it isn’t pleasant in the throat nor the nose.” He warns, making you smile, “Right, sorry Don.” And you kissed his cheek, returning back to your fun nightly activities of working on his latest invention.

🐢🧡Michelangelo🧡🐢

🧡 Mikey goes along with it, he’s seen this trend. He wraps his arms around your waist and leans against your shoulder, speaking closer to the phone, “Yup~ Wifeys at my place!” He grins, and now you were feeling yourself get red in the face, now a little flustered that he went along with it. It kinda made you feel a little giddy inside.

🧡 Once hanging up, Mikey was giving you a smug smirk, “Tried to pull that one on me? Well I’m two steps ahead of you, angelcakes!” He grins as he’d kiss your cheek, making you groan, “Damn it, Mikey. I was hoping you’d be a little more on the surprised side, but alas, you know TikTok better than I do.” Making him laugh and nuzzle against your neck.

🧡 He placed sweet kisses along your neck, “Nah, that just takes the fun out of it.” He grins widely, pulling away to look into your eyes, “Plus, I’ve always wanted to call you wifey.” He smirked again when he saw you blush a little harder, making you sigh, “Fine fine! You win.” You groan, hugging him around the shoulders, as he laughed softly and nuzzled your cheek lovingly.

[socialobligation]

needle & nerve | e. kirishima

he came in for a piercing. what he didn’t expect was the artist behind the gloves—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and maybe his new favorite reason to come back. (987 words)

your shop sat just off the main street—half tattoo studio, half piercing parlor, with walls that held a little bit of grit and a whole lot of story. incense burned low in the corner, masking the sharp scent of disinfectant, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed beneath the soft thud of bass-heavy music filtering in from the back room. framed flash sheets covered the walls, inked with dragons, snakes, roses, and teeth. some were faded from sun, some fresh, some yours. all of them meant something to someone.

you leaned over the front desk, chin in your palm, scrolling idly through a list of upcoming appointments when the door chimed. you didn't look up right away—it wasn't rare to get walk-ins—but something about the shift in the room made your hand pause over the mouse.

he stepped inside like he wasn’t sure how loud to be. tall, square-shouldered, all muscle and nervous momentum. red hair pulled back in a headband that didn’t quite tame it, and eyes—bright, dark-lashed, darting around the space like they were trying to memorize it before it could change.

"uh—hi," he said. his voice cracked slightly on the first syllable, too loud for the low hum of the shop. "i’ve got an appointment?"

you looked up and found a boy who seemed more like a mountain in training. his cheeks flushed deeper when your gaze caught him.

"eyebrow at three?"

"yeah." he nodded, breath like it had been held since the sidewalk. "that’s me."

"cool. i’m your piercer today," you said, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing toward the back. "i’m y/n."

he blinked, then smiled like he hadn’t expected introductions to be part of this. "eijiro. kirishima eijiro."

you gave him a nod and a smirk. "nice to meet you, eijiro. let’s make you bleed a little."

he trailed behind as you led him through the studio, past tattoo chairs draped in black leather and chrome trays lined with freshly sterilized tools. his eyes lingered on the art pinned above each station, pausing longer at a piece you'd done last week—three snakes coiled through the jaw of a skull.

"first piercing?" you asked, tugging on gloves.

"yeah." he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "figured it was time. always thought about it but... i dunno. guess i needed a push."

"it’s a good pick," you said, voice easy, hands already arranging your tray. "subtle. sharp. very you."

he blinked, then smiled. "you don’t even know me."

"don’t need to. i read people."

he laughed, louder this time. "and what do i read like?"

"someone who talks a big game and still gets nervous walking into places like this."

he opened his mouth, then closed it with a grin. "fair enough."

you motioned to the chair. "you’ll feel a quick pinch and then a little pressure. it’s not that bad. just don’t flinch."

"i won’t. promise." he slid into the chair like it was a test. his hands settled in his lap, though you could see the way he kept flexing his fingers.

you moved around him with steady precision. sterilized clamp. single-use needle in its packaging. mirror nearby. you sprayed his brow with antiseptic and caught his flinch out of the corner of your eye—not from pain, but from cold.

he glanced at you. "you do tattoos too?"

"yep. mostly blackwork. fine line, sometimes flash. i draw all my own sheets."

"that snake piece on the way in—that was yours?"

you nodded. "you've got a good eye."

he flushed again, red creeping across his ears now. "guess i’m just a fan of good linework."

you leaned in close, brushing his hair from his temple. his skin was warm under your gloves. close like this, he smelled like clean laundry and just a little sweat, like maybe he’d psyched himself up before walking through the door.

"keep your head still. i’m gonna mark you."

you felt his breath hitch as you pressed the pen lightly to his skin. you could feel the tension in his shoulders—not fear, exactly. more like anticipation wound tight beneath muscle.

"you alright?"

he nodded. "just thinking."

"about what?"

"if this actually makes me cooler or if i’ll just look like i lost a bet."

you smiled. "only one way to find out."

you lined the clamp up gently. "deep breath in."

he inhaled, and you pierced through his skin.

a second passed. then two.

you pulled the needle through, swapped it for the jewelry, and clipped the hoop into place. he didn’t move, not even when you wiped away the smallest dot of blood.

"that’s it?" he blinked at you, like he expected to be bleeding out.

"that’s it."

he touched the edge of the new ring, careful, like it might still sting.

"damn. kinda expected to cry or something."

"give it five hours. you might regret it."

he laughed and stood, slowly, adjusting to the sudden lightness in his posture.

you peeled your gloves off with a soft snap, tossed them in the bin, and reached for the aftercare sheet. when you turned back around, he was holding something in his hand.

a post-it. yellow. handwriting a little slanted, a little rushed.

he stuck it to the counter next to the tip jar. his number written in black ink on the paper.

"in case i want the other side done," he said casually. "or, you know, maybe a snake tattoo. or maybe coffee."

you tilted your head, one eyebrow raised. "you just hand out your number to everyone you meet under bright lights and sharp metal?"

he grinned, sheepish and bold all at once. "only when they’re the prettiest person i’ve ever met."

he waved over his shoulder, and the bell above the door chimed as he left, hair catching the light like a flame, and you were still staring at the post-it note—still smiling—when the door eased shut behind him.

[souriru]

hello Soru, I’m evil now and I think a fic about Leona doing something villainous to protect women / women’s rights etc. would make me feel better

if the dimly lit room was an intimidation tactic, leona would scoff in the faces of that faction. he'd grown up practicing and perfecting his magic in the dead of night, when the servants would rest easy for the night knowing that their lieges were in their beds for the night. the night was his home and the moon and stars were familiar friends.

"you want to tell me, that this is your proposal." he starts, and the ministers scoff lightly at his audacity to start negotiations without his brother or father's approval, but this was no mere negotiation- this was an active war. "give me an example of what you think would happen were i or my brother and father were to give you the go-ahead. go on."

the room remains silent, and even his brother and sister-in-law have nothing to say. "the traditional roles of the sunset savannah ensure the woman is in power. they are the hunters, the feeders, the birth-givers, the teachers. i feel sorry for your mother who married the pathetic man whose dick you shot out from- or maybe she wasn't even married to him, because marriage is something equal. excuse my language, brother."

farena merely nods by his side and swallows, and leona takes that as further permission to rip them a new asshole. "you're a self-serving maniac who couldn't get a woman to stay by your side willingly, so you decide to punish all the women ever born for that. it's not their fault you do not have the capacity to be a nurturing, capable, and worthy man."

the council members at this point are also exchanging glances. "i'm trying to push this nation to modernity, not take it back to the ancient times of a completely different land. do not bring that tradition here again, or i will make your lives so, very, very, very miserable, that even if you have the power to establish these rules, you will hear me down the halls of the office you walk in. understand that we rely on them even more than they rely on us, because what can a man do that a properly grown woman cannot?"

but as the representatives stand up to leave, one decides to taunt the royal family and their archaic ways, and farena's eyes widen as the man himself turns to sand, his brother nonchalantly looking at his nails before sniffling and getting up. "someone better clean that up. dump that out with the rest of the mud, he'd be doing something useful then, i suppose."

i hope you like this nettles 🫶🫶🫶🫶 428 words stay safe, my american mutuals and friends <3 and if anyone who reads this voted trump (highly unlikely that you simp for leona and can be a trump supporter) pls do not interact with me <3

[kestisvrse]

you don’t know me

pairing ⋆ spidey!luke castellan x gn!reader au. fluff with a bit of angst. friends to lovers.

synopsis ⋆ spider-man appears at your window for help, and accidentally reveals his identity.

warnings ⋆ blood descriptions, stitching, swearing, stranger danger tbh, bit dramatic(?), kinda rushed i apologize | wc: 2.5k

a/n ⋆ i hate the ending of this so feel free to not read it😭😭

♫ - jackie and wilson by hozier

1:33am

it was hard trying to stay awake at this time, sound of the rain against your window and the soft snores of your roommates made it was easy to focus on closing your tired eyes instead of looking over all the notes scattered on your desk, it seemed nothing could stop you from drifting off to the peaceful place despite the thought of your sore neck in the morning from being slouched over your desk, but three taps against your window made your eyes shoot open.

he regretted it immediately, as he watched your head rise from the desk, but what else could he do? he gripped his side as he watched you mumble to yourself at the sight of spider-man on your fire escape, but you quickly opened the window.

“what the fuck?” you whisper at the sight, the heavy rain began to cover your window sill and floor but you didn’t even notice.

“hi, um i know this must seem very odd..” the superhero in front of you trailed off as you let him in, “shit, i’m bleeding on your carpet.”

“what- oh shit!” you gasp, noticing the giant gash he gripped on his torso, without a second thought you grabbed his hand and dragged him into your private bathroom, pushing him to sit on the toilet as you rummaged in your cupboards, as you pulled out a first-aid kit, you rummaged for supplies, “can i ask why the hell spider-man is bleeding in my bathroom right now?”

“i- i lost a lot of blood, i wouldn’t have been able to make it to my place in time.” he lied, “not to sound creepy but i saw your light on and.. and i needed help.”

“can you take the top half of your suit off?” you ask, washing your hands, as if you hadn’t even acknowledged what he had said. he nods, unzipping the back and removing his arms from the sleeves, letting the suit rest at his waist, his mask still hiding his identity, “this will hurt.” you warn, even though he had definitely experienced worse than a wound being wiped down.

but still he winced, clenching his jaw, as you realized it wasn’t just a cut, he had been stabbed.

“thank god you stumbled across a med-students dorm.” you mumble to yourself, trying to lighten the mood as you get ready to stitch his side together, as he went to laugh at your comment he was interrupted by a groan of pain emitting from his throat.

“i know it hurts, but try to be quiet. if you wake clarisse, my roommate up, she will not make this situation any better.” you say, luke holds back a laugh knowing it was definitely true, he bites down on his lower lip as you stitch him up. luckily it was a shallow cut,.

you worked in silence, occasionally broken up by strewn out swears and winces from the superhero, biting your lip in concentration. as you tied together the final stitch you let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

“okay, the hard part is done.” you informed him, wiping down any excess blood that stained his skin.

“thanks.” he mutters weakly, moving to adjust his posture but immediately freezing as pain shoots up his body.

“stay still.” you say, “i still have to bandage it.” pulling out medical tape and gauze out of your medical bag, he felt as your hands occasionally slipped off the white bandage and touched his stomach. the pain almost subsided as the feeling of your fingertips burned into him. wrapping the bandage around his torso and taping it down you lean back on your knees, letting out a sigh.

he focuses on you as you stand, washing blood off your hands in the sink before cleaning up your supplies, you glance at him catching him staring, as he pretends to admire your bathroom as if he hadn’t been in here before.

“um-“ he clears his throat, “sorry for bleeding on your floor.” he mentioned, guilt evident in his voice.

“s’okay, i didn't like that carpet much anyways.” you say, which was a lie. luke remembered vividly how happy you were to get what you called, ‘the best rug ever’ for your room, his brows furrow.

you lean back against the bathtub, letting out a sigh, he goes to move but you nudge him with your foot, “don’t go just yet, won’t be good to swing on new stitches.” you explained to him, as he leaned back against the back of the toilet.

his breathing was sharp and inconsistent as his stomach stung in pain, his eyes squeezed shut, “the only thing i have for pain is like advil and tylenol. i don’t know if that helps with stab wounds though.” you spoke up, he shakes his head in response.

“i’ll be fine, just- just need to catch my breath.” to which you nodded in response.

“can i get you water?” you suggest, quickly standing as a ‘please’ is heard from under the mask, him suddenly noticing the scratchy and dry feeling of his throat. you rush out the room, tiptoeing into the kitchen to grab water for the superhero, as you return and hand it to him, you spin around so he can remove his mask.

his face was red as he watched you carefully, slipping his mask above his nose to gulp down the glass. scared you’d spin around to discover it was your friend bleeding out in the bathroom.

but you didn’t, as he pulled the mask back down and placed the cup on the counter, is when you turned and returned to your spot on the floor, bringing your knees to your chest.

he begins to shuffle uncomfortably on the toilet, breathing harder as his back slouched and his body tensed. the bandages felt tight on him, as he resisted the urge to rip them off, he was quickly distracted as you kneeled in front of him, placing your hand on his exposed wrist.

tingles shot up his body at the feeling of your skin against his again, it felt so odd, knowing he had hugged and brushed past you so many times but this was different, every touch had him blushing as butterflies flew around his stomach, he didn’t know you felt the same way, but with luke, not spider-man.

“control your breathing, your pulse is out of control.” you breathe, your pointer and middle finger pressed against his wrist feeling his pulse.

he began to focus on your breathing, watching as your chest rose and fell while you seemingly seemed focused on the wall of the bathroom. he quickly matched his breathing with yours, sitting up straight as your hand pulled away from him.

“thank you, for helping me.” he stammered, suddenly self conscious of his voice, how hadn’t you recognized it?

“i mean, what else was i supposed to do? there was a superhero at my window sill.” you scoff in disbelief, “it’s fine, i mean, it’s the least i can do for you keeping me- uh new york, safe.” you clear your throat, staring at your hands that rest atop your knees. “can i ask you something?”

his throat dries, “yeah?”

“i mean- obviously don’t answer if it’s too personal or gives away your identity, but.” you tilt my head, “do you like… live a normal life during the day? or are you always spider-man?” you ask cautiously.

he pauses to think about his answer, narrowing his eyes at you, “oh yeah, i-i do have a normal life during the day.” he confesses, the hand that grasped his stomach moves to scratch the back of his neck.

“cool.” you reply, stopping yourself from question him farther.

“you aren’t asking any questions,” he stated quietly, almost in disbelief. as he spoke, he shifted his attention to your face. “i was expecting some like freaked out reactions. but you’re... you’re really chill about this.”

“you have a secret identity for a reason, i wouldn’t want to ruin that for you. you keep the city safe, and that’s all i need to know.” you shrug in response, staring at the white eyes of his mask.

“i mean it’s so crazy.” you say randomly, causing his head to tilt in confusion, “i’ve thought about it before you know, imagine one of my friends was a masked superhero.” he tenses, knowing that in fact it was true, “like my friend luke, he’s always disappearing at random moments.” his eyes widen but you don’t notice because of the mask, chuckling to yourself at the thought.

“yeah, imagine that.” he murmurs in response, suddenly very sweaty in stress.

“how’re you feeling?” you turn your attention back to him.

“still hurts a lot, but i should go now.” he explains, his hand on the counter to steady himself as he stands, “again, thank you so much.”

you walk to the window, opening it and helping him climb out onto the fire escape, “again” you repeat him, “it’s the least i could do.”

4:56pm

you yawn as you open the door revealing luke castellan, bag swung over his shoulder and hair messy from the wind, he gave you a lopsided smile, “ready to study?”

you shake your head as he enters your apartment, “i was studying all night, barely got sleep.” you respond, leading him to your room.

he just nods his head at you in response, cheeks growing hot, sure you were studying, before his alter ego stumbled through your window.

as he walked into your room, he immediately took notice of the spot of your carpet that had been rolled over, to cover the evidence of the blood stain. his stare lingered there, before quickly collecting himself to sit on your bed.

“i made these flashcards for you last night.” you break the silence, holding up pastel green cards, “ready to be tested, castellan?” you tease, plopping onto the bed and leaning against the headboard as he takes his jacket off.

“oh bless you for those.” he praised, comfortably laying down at the end of your feet.

“just admit i’m your favourite person.” you giggle, he rolls his eyes before encouraging you to begin.

thirty minutes past as you tested him, reaching the end before you would swap over, “alright” you clear your throat, “next- luke?” your gaze drifts up from the card.

“yeah?” he asked, waiting for you to continue.

“you’re bleeding.” you point at his shirt, he looks down to find his blue t-shirt slowly bleed red, dripping down his side. immediately, he reacted by pressing down as hard as he could against the wound, a small whimper escaping his lips in the process.

“what-“ you cut yourself off, to look up into his eyes, eyes widening in the process “no fucking way.”

he tore his attention away from his wound, blood seeping into your bed sheets, “i-“ in a flash you’re up from the bed, cards spilling onto the floor as you yank him up causing him to yelp. he sits down on the toilet as you rummage for the first aid kit, again.

“take off your shirt.” you demanded, and despite the surprise this brought him, he didn’t resist. he removed his shirt almost immediately, revealing the bloody coated bandages.

you stared at his chest, the fact that it was the exact same as spider-mans made you wanna scream, but you held back, removing the bandages and staying quiet to patch him up, too scared to speak.

luke stayed silent, staring at you with sad eyes, praying you would forgive him. he winced every so often at the sting of you restitching some stitches that came loose, and rewrapping his stomach with fresh gauze.

your lips pursed together as you washed your hands, refilling the same cup from last night with water and placing it beside him before walking off into your room. luke quickly tugs hair shirt back on, ignoring the blood stain and the pain that shot up his body at the sudden movement, before going to stand in front of you in your room, “i’m sorry.” he whispers.

“you could have died, and it would have been my fault.” you remarked, “can you imagine? spider-man dies in my bathroom and i take his mask off to reveal my best fucking friend.” you scoffed, tears covering your waterline.

his expression softened, as he nudged your foot with his, “but i didn’t.”

“but you could have!” you yell, shooting up to stand in front of him, “jesus luke, this is what you’ve been doing all year? this is why you disappear all the time?” he stares at his shoes as you rub your forehead.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, a sad expression covering his face, as he blinked rapidly, “i’m sorry for putting you through that. i didn’t mean to worry you.”

“you-you’re spider-man.” you gasp out, in disbelief. your hand clutches your chest as tears roll out onto your cheeks. his hand brushes your bicep as you flinch.

“yeah… yeah i am.” he sighs, guiding you to sit back down on your bed, “i wish i hadn’t come here last night but- i wouldn’t have been able to stitch that up myself.” he sighed as you sobbed into your hands.

“you could have died.” you choke out, repeating yourself before falling into his side, almost on instinct he wraps his arm around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. he knew you wouldn’t respond well if he had ever told you, but he hadn’t thought about how you would feel to him almost dying in your bathroom.

“i’m okay. i promise.” he breathed into your hair, but you just shook your head in response, unable to respond as you tried to catch your breath.

“i don’t care if i am fast asleep, if this ever happens again, you come to me luke, i stitch you up.” you begged, looking up to him teary eyed.

his gaze softens looking at you but nodded in response, “okay, i promise.” his hand hovers over you neck, “i didn’t want to put you in danger or worry you. i would have told you. i was also scared you wouldn’t… wouldn’t look at me the same” he whispered.

“you’re still luke castellan, i still will like you no matter what, you just… you scared the shit out of me.” you sputtered out, not thinking about what you were saying to the boy in front of you, his body tensed.

“like me?” he asks, brows furrowed to see if you meant as friends or.. as more. he got his answer as he watched your eyes widen slightly and you began to stutter, “you… you like me?”

“what- no i meant-“ you shake your head so hard he thought it might spin off, and so he took his chance. the hand that hovered over your neck held your face still as he connected his lips with yours.

you found yourself unable to kiss back in shock, he heats up in embarrassment as he began to pull away, which brought you to your senses as you pulled him back down to press a soft kiss against his lips.

he pulled away for air, leaning your foreheads against each other.

“i can’t believe i accused you of being a secret superhero, while infront of you last night.” you mumbled, as he just laughed in response and shook his head.

“i promise to be more safe, just for you.” he said, leaning in to peck your lips.

[ryewwww]

hi baby! i wanted to ask if you could do a yandere!eren x virgin!naive!reader? like, the reader is very naive and kind and she loves eren a lot, and eren becomes very possessive and obsessive over her? can it be nsfw with soft slapping, noncon, and praise while also degrading her? thank you <3

- hihi! I hope this is okay :)

⚠️: NONCON, slapping, degradation, praising, loss of virginity, jealous!eren

Read at your own risk. I am not responsible for your media consumption

Eren had never seen someone as sweet as you—so soft, so innocent.

You had just moved to town, wide-eyed and unsure, making you an easy target.

He noticed right away how shy you were, always avoiding direct eye contact, fumbling over your words.

The way you dressed made it even worse for him. The flowy sundresses, soft pastel skirts, all delicate and feminine.

You were exactly the kind of girl he could break, and that thought excited him.

He spent a week watching you, studying the way you carried yourself, how you interacted with people (or rather, how you struggled to).

Then, he made his move, smooth, charming, effortless.

His flirting had you melting, cheeks warm, voice small. You were too sweet for your own good.

At first, he thought it was just lust—he’d fuck you once and get you out of his system.

But then he saw how easily you clung to him, how much you wanted him, and it made him hungry for more.

Getting your number was effortless. One conversation, a soft smile from him, and you were handing it over like it was nothing.

“Wanna study together?” was all it took to get you alone.

Study dates turned into real dates.

You didn’t party, which meant he had to wait a little longer to get you in bed. But it’s fine, he liked the build-up.

He knew you were in deep. After three months, you were already looking at him like he was your whole world.

He had you wrapped around his finger, and you didn’t even realize it.

And when the moment finally came, when you shyly whispered that you wanted him. He didn’t hesitate.

You were nervous, trembling underneath him, completely untouched.

He made sure to whisper sweet things, how pretty you were, how good you were being for him.

But the moment he pushed in, he couldn’t help but laugh at your little whimper.

“So fucking tight. Saved yourself just for me, didn’t ya?”

You were struggling to take him, eyes glassy, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He hushed you, cupping your cheek, murmuring praise but his hips didn’t slow down.

“Shh, baby, you can take it. Don’t cry now—you wanted this, remember?”

Soft slaps against your cheek whenever you tried to squirm away.

He kept you pinned, forced you to feel every inch.

“No one’s gonna fuck you better than me, baby. I’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

You were overwhelmed, overstimulated but fuck, Eren’s so hot, you couldn’t get enough.

And when he finally filled you, pressing deep inside, he grinned at the sight of your fucked-out expression.

“That’s it, baby. Good fucking girl.”

Once he finishes, Eren’s sense starts coming back

He pulled out with a satisfied sigh, barely sparing you a glance.

He cleaned himself up, then wiped you down carelessly

Handed you your clothes, barely looking at you. “Get dressed.”

The warmth was gone, replaced with indifference. You felt like you were nothing to him. And maybe you were.

The car ride home was silent, tense.

When he dropped you off, he didn’t wait for you to get inside, didn’t say a word, just drove off like it was any other night.

You cried yourself to sleep, heart aching, body sore, wondering what you did wrong.

The next day, you searched for him on campus, hoping for some kind of explanation.

But when you finally saw him, his eyes barely flickered in your direction.

Cold. Careless. Like you were a stranger.

You tried texting but got no response.

Calling him went straight to voicemail.

He got what he wanted, so why would he bother with you now?

Two months passed, and you forced yourself to move on, burying the hurt.

Eren should’ve been fine—he was fine.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself. But no matter how much time passed, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Your soft little whimpers, the way you trembled beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was everything.

He doesn’t want to admit it but he misses you. Misses you so fucking much that sometimes he’ll drive by your house to make sure you’re not with anyone else

It was hard to get a hold of you (without seeming like he’s trying too hard bc he has a massive ego lol) you weren’t around anymore. No classes together. No run-ins.

University was too big. The chances of seeing you again were slim.

That is, until one afternoon, when he walked into the library and froze.

You. Sitting beside some guy, leaning in close, brows furrowed as you worked on something together.

You looked focused, innocent, completely unaware of Eren’s presence

Jealousy burned in his chest. He didn’t like the sight at all.

But he didn’t make a scene. Instead, he watched, waited, planned.

Two hours later, you packed up, smiling politely as you waved goodbye to the guy.

You had no idea you were being followed.

The halls were quiet. It was nearing 6 PM, most students had already left.

As you walked down the empty corridor, a strong hand suddenly gripped your wrist.

Before you could scream, you were yanked into an empty conference room, door slamming shut behind you.

A hard body pressed against yours, a familiar scent filling your senses.

You struggle immediately, hands pushing at his chest, trying to twist out of his grip.

Eren shoves you against the table, pressing his body flush against yours, caging you in.

His voice is low, mocking, "Miss me, sweetheart?"

“N-no! Let me go!”

He slaps you when you try to protest. “Don’t start whining, now.”

He’s furious, but it comes out smooth, asks if you really thought you could just forget him, move on so easily.

Hands roaming, gripping your waist, your hips. He doesn’t give you a chance to run.

“That guy in the library—you let him touch you?” His jealousy is seething, fingers tightening.

Shoves a knee between your legs, forcing them apart.

You shake your head, stammering, but he’s already convinced himself that you were going to replace him.

"You let me take your virginity, and now you’re acting like some untouched little thing again?"

Yanks up your skirt, rips your underwear like it’s nothing.

“Bet you’ve been aching for this, huh? Acting all innocent, but you love it when I handle you like this. Stupid little thing. Such a fucking tease.”

He forces you onto the table, holding you down by the nape of your neck.

He pulls down his sweats, thrusting his hard length between your wet cunt and you whimper.

When he does thrust in, it’s with no mercy.

Overpowering, forceful—you’re gasping, crying, but he doesn’t stop.

More slaps, this time to your ass when you squirm too much. “Stay still, baby. I’ll make you feel good.”

He’s pulling your hair, softly slapping your face when you don’t answer his questions.

“Tell me. Were you whoring around for the last two months? So upset that I didn’t care for you so you spread your legs. Classic, sweetheart.”

His voice turns almost sweet, condescending. "Aw, you crying? Thought you wanted this.”

Doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied, grinding deep inside you, pressing a kiss to your trembling shoulder.

When he finally fills you up, he stays there, making sure you take every drop.

You’re breathless, laid on the table bare, pussy sore from taking the pounding.

Your skin gleamed in sweat and your thoughts were all over.

“Let’s go back to my place, yeah?”

[crashandlivewrites]

Spread Your Wings- Part 2

First off: thank you to @your-grace-the-raven-queen for being an amazing beta (and also because she gave my ass hell when I didn't tag her in the first part which was very wrong of me). We support beta readers in this house!

Pairing: PornStar!John Price x PornStar!fem!reader

CW: MDNI 18+ content, NSFW, porn industry innaccuracies, your manager being a cunt, things get a lil hot and steamy but no piv yet!!!

Word Count: 3.9k

< Part 1

Read on Ao3

An assistant stepped forward as the cameras stopped rolling, handing you both a couple of wet wipes before placing a towel on the floor, mopping up your mess. Scrubbing his beard with the wipe and tossing it aside, John then turned his attention to you, gently cleaning the inside of your sensitive thighs quickly and efficiently as he’d surely done hundreds of times before. 

“I can do it, it’s fine.” You murmured, hand reaching down as he moved higher up your thigh. He shushed you, shaking his head as he squeezed your arm tenderly. 

“S’alright, sweetheart. I got you. Just rest for me, yeah? We’re not done just yet.” He chuckled, glancing at your eyes to check on you yet again. The hand that wasn’t cleaning between your legs rose up to cup the back of your neck, thumb pressing gently against your skin. “Did it feel that good?” 

“Shut up, you know it did.” Lifting your head up, you focused on his cocky expression, his teasing smirk, his raised brow. Scoffing, you smacked him lightly on the chest, shaking your head as you did so. “You’re incorrigible!” 

“And you squirted. For real. None of that fake shit. I know for a fact Johnny didn’t get that out of you.”  The expression on your face morphed into a pout and he chuckled, tapping underneath your chin. “Don’t pout, sweets. I liked it. Like knowing I made you feel that good.” He tossed the wipe aside and rested both of his large hands on your thighs as he nestled between them. 

Drawing your lip between your teeth, you tipped your head to the side as you stared at him, eyes tracing over the attractive features of his face; the fullness of his cheeks, and the crow's feet around his eyes as he smiled kindly down at you. Your breathing had settled, your heart had calmed down, and so you pushed yourself up a little straighter. Your legs were still quite shaky, but you hooked them back around his hips as best you could, pulling him back into you, his brow cocked with interest. 

“Feeling better already? Mustn’t have done a good enough job then.” Grinning coyly at his words, you ran your hands up his chest, feeling the softness overlaying the firm muscle. 

“You definitely did a good enough job. But maybe I just want more.” It felt easy, natural almost, falling into this flirty banter with him. He’d made it that way with his own flirtatious words and lingering touches. He beamed at your words, nosing along the line of your jaw, inhaling deeply. 

“You know…” he mumbled into the skin of your neck, breath tickling you slightly. “Johnny was right about something. You smell fucking divine, sweet like cherries.” Cupping the back of your head, he tilted it slightly, exposing more of your neck to him as he breathed in deeply and pressed soft kisses along your neck. 

“Yeah?” Your voice was raspy as you felt yourself getting pulled back under the haze of arousal. Before he could respond, a pointed cough broke the intimate moment between the pair of you. John clicked his tongue, sucking in a breath as he pulled back to reveal your manager standing just off to the side expectantly. 

“Can we talk?” His tone was pinched, head jerking over his shoulder as his toe tapped impatiently, causing your body to tense in response. Clearly, John felt the tension, his hands moving to squeeze your shoulders as he faced the smaller man. 

“She’s still feeling a little shaky from the session. Whatever you need to talk to her about, you can say it here.” John turned to you, eyes both warm and serious.  “That good with you, sweets?”  You held his gaze giving a firm note before glancing at your manager’s narrowed eyes and raised eyebrow before the man turned his apathetic expression to you. 

“We’ve got a fair amount of marketable footage, but I’d like more vocals from you. There’s some good audio, I’d just like you to be a little louder, play it up for your audience, y’know?” John bristled at the words, fingers digging slightly into your body as he turned to the side. 

“I think she performed extremely well. Especially for my usual productions—”

“I’m trying to advance her career.” Your manager interrupted without a care, turning a pointed look at you. “Moaning out another man’s name isn’t going to attract people to watch your content. And you need to perform a little more for the camera, too.” 

You glanced between the two men, watching your oblivious manager blinking expectantly at you as John straightened, arms folding across his chest, his head tilting to the side. 

“She’s doing just fine.” He grits out, moving to lean on the bench between you and your manager. “I’m guessing that’s your first time hearing a woman really orgasm. Sounds a bit different than the produced shit you’re used to but let me tell you something.” John stepped forward again, using his height as an intimidation factor as he loomed over the other man. 

“Real shit like that is what keeps people coming back to watch it again and again. She’ll build up a loyal fanbase who appreciate the genuine content. Have a conversation with Kate. She’ll tell you my numbers.” 

“You’re a man. Women like the soft shit. Men don’t. Men wanna hear her cry out like a whore—” 

“I’m a man, aren’t I?” John’s voice was venomous, sending shivers down your spine as you watched the confrontation unfold, legs still feeling too unsteady to step between the men. “And I fucking adored hearing her cum like that.” 

Well, if that didn’t send a fresh wave of arousal directly into your still-wet underwear. 

Your manager simply sniffed, turning his nose up as he spat a final retort before he stalked off. 

“It’s her career anyway, not mine.” 

Snorting, John turned around, anger evident in his eyes and furrowed brow as he stepped back over towards you. His hands returned to rest on your hips as he nestled between your legs once more as you mumbled a soft thanks. 

“What’re you doing with a wanker like that, sweets? He won’t treat you right.” Shrugging, you leaned into him, head resting on his chest as you groaned in frustration. 

“Studio assigned him to me. He’s been alright for the most part, but he’s got a very fixed idea about what a porn star should be.” John hummed at your response, dipping down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head as his thumbs stroked mindless patterns just above the line of your underwear. 

“I’ll link you up with Kate after this, yeah? Give you a better standing in the field. She’s dedicated and will always advocate for your safety and preferences.” You blinked at him in disbelief, but his face seemed genuine. “Nothing to it, I swear. Lemme help you out, alright?”

And how could you say no to that? Not when he was looking down at you with a sharp glint in his eye, and his palm cupping your cheek. Your mouth parted, already leaning in to kiss him when he placed a thumb over your lips, halting your movements.

“You ready for round two, sweets?” You nodded, his thumb still pressed against your lips, just begging to be bitten. He glances over your shoulder with a gorgeous half smile.  “Nik? We’re ready.”   

Nikolai started getting the crew into position as John returned his gaze to you. “And you… don’t think about what that bastard said. With me, I want you to be real. Within reason, of course. Let me hear you moan my name as I kiss you, touch you, fuck you. Promise me that, sweets?” 

He’d enthralled you from the moment you’d first watched him on a whim. The snippet was something that had caught your eye on twitter and made you wet instantly. Here, with him standing before you, you were propelled back to that moment, feeling equally as enchanted. Lips parted slightly and eyes wide, you nodded. 

“Yes sir. Anything for you.” 

“Good girl. My good girl.” His possessive tone was backed up by his hands gripping at your body, pulling you close until your hips were flush with his. He claimed your mouth even before Nikolai had signalled the cameras were back up and running.

The kiss was all-consuming. His hand wrapping around the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he held you to him. Adjusting your leg, you dug a heel into his lower back, locking him into your body as you responded eagerly, hands clawing at his body. Though he was strong and broad, there was a certain softness to him that made it easier to grab eager handfuls of his body, even through the material of his shirt.

Sliding both hands underneath your rear, he lifted you off the counter, walking as he continued to kiss you. His tongue slid alongside yours, roaming and tasting every inch of your mouth as he cupped your ass, fingers digging into the flesh. 

You had no clue what he was planning to do next. All rational thoughts had left your brain. What remained had been taken over by the man you were currently wrapped around. Moaning softly into his lips, your nails scratched lightly at the back of his neck, egging him on. His hands gripped tighter as a deep rumble sounded in his chest. He sat down onto the couch, placing you on his lap so that your wet core was resting up against his prominent bulge. Unable to resist the allure of friction, you ground against him, moaning as you did so. 

Quickly, he took hold of your hair and pulled you back to look into your eyes. 

“Getting greedy now, are you?” He tipped his head to the side, eyes narrowing like a predator lining up his prey. “Ate that pussy out so nicely and now you’re just grinding on my lap like a desperate little thing?” 

He titters, palms sliding up your thighs to push up the satin slip once more, revealing your ass to the camera as his hands roam up your back. Your mouth kept opening, but nothing came out, his actions and words rendering you speechless. 

You knew you should say something, either banter back or be subservient to him for the good of the film, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Not with the way he was staring at you, mock disappointment evident in his eyes. 

“Was gonna take this pretty little number off, but I think I’ll wait now. Make you beg for it.” One hand pulls back, reaching up to hold your jaw and pull you closer so he could whisper into your ear. “Want you to grind on my thigh until you’ve soaked the material through. Got it?” 

“Uh-huh.” You managed to get out, already shuffling to change positions, moving to straddle one of his thick, muscular thighs as he turned your head back to look at him.

“Words, pretty thing. Wanna hear that voice of yours.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl. Now get to it.” He slaps your ass playfully, not enough to make it sting, but enough to jerk you into action. 

Slotting your legs on either side of his thigh, you began a slow grind, dragging yourself along the rough material of his pants, feeling the wide expanse of his leg flex underneath you. Whining softly at the pleasurable tingle spreading through your body, you built a steady pace, your clit throbbing as it dragged down the length of his thigh. Reaching forward, you curl your fingers around his shoulder, nails digging into the firm flesh to stabilise yourself as you continue rocking. 

John was simply watching you, elbow up on the armrest of the couch and tilting his head against his closed fist. His eyes were dark and heady, trailing over your body, humming occasionally as he ran his free hand along your side. 

The touch spurred you on, rolling your hips faster as you felt heat slowly build in your abdomen.

“Good fucking girl. Keep going. Know you can do it.” He grinned lazily, leaning back and bouncing you on the leg you were riding, causing you to loudly cry out his name. 

“That’s it, sweets. Moan for me, cry for me.” Cooing softly at you, his hand reaching down to grip his hard length, pressing against the zipper of his jeans. “See what you do to me? See what my pretty wife makes me feel? Got me so fucking hard, love.” 

You couldn’t help as your eyes immediately trained on the sizeable bulge. You’d seen his cock before, obviously, through your screen at home. But here and now, you were going to see it in person. 

“John… fuck, more John, please. Wanna… I wanna…” With your head hazy from lust, you couldn’t form the sentence, instead choosing to lean forward and reach out, palming at his groin, hips jerking faster, cunt aching and empty as you felt the size of him. 

“You wanna see it, baby? Wanna see my cock?” He whispered into your ear, his heavy breathing fanning over your neck as he groaned, his own hips jolting slightly at the contact of your hand. “No, not yet… fuck, not yet sweets. Just wait a little bit longer f’me, yeah? Gonna make it worth the wait, love.”

He pulled away, removing your hand before placing his palms on either side, hoisting you up so you straddled his lap properly, feeling the hardness of his erection against your throbbing clit. Barely needing the guidance of his hands, you immediately resumed your grind, moaning desperately, arms linking behind his neck. Cursing under his breath, John’s fingers were digging into your thighs, joining in the rhythm now as you felt yourself edging closer yet again. 

Your panties were stuck to you, wetness surely leaking through to his jeans as you continued to rub yourself on him like someone first discovering how good grinding on something felt.

“Oh fuck yeah, pretty girl, just like that.” John rumbled deeply, head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as his breathing came out in short pants. “Feel so fucking good grinding on my cock like this. This how you’re gonna ride me? Until your pussy’s drooling all over me and you can barely speak?” 

Tipping your head back and keening, you were completely enthralled with everything this man was doing to you. The feel of him under your body, the sound of his rough voice telling you just how good you were making him feel, the musky smell of him… everything. His mere presence could make you almost forget everything around you, the cameras, the set, the crew all melting into nothing as you were set alight. Nodding deliriously was all you could manage now, hands gripping tightly around him as you leaned forward, your chest nearing his face. 

Groaning, John latched onto your nipple, teeth and tongue swirling around the stiff bud through the satin of the dress you were wearing. Growling in frustration, his hands left your hips, gripping the neckline of the slip dress and tearing it down the middle. Your noise of surprise was cut off as he pushed you back to arm's length, halting your movements, his pupils dark and dilated as he stared hungrily at your exposed body. 

“Jesus, sweetheart. You have any idea how goddamn gorgeous you are? How fucking immaculate your tits are?”

“My husband does seem to tell me that from time to time.” You teased, surprising even yourself with the line, making sure to run your hands up your now bare body to cup your breasts and squeeze them enticingly for both the camera and for him. John let out a low whistle, brow quirking and eyes sparking mischievously at your response, as if he also had almost forgotten he was at work right now. 

“Yeah, that’s right. You’re my fuckin’ wife. Mine. Aren’t you? Putting on this show just for me, aren’t you?” You nodded; eyes fixing on his during the last line. His gaze was intense, his hands were perched high on your thighs, squeezing ever so slightly. Your mind trailed back to moments earlier, just before you restarted filming, when he said he wanted you to be genuine. For him.

Swiping your tongue over your bottom lip, you ran your hands up his shirt, toying with the buttons. 

“I wanna see you, too.” You whispered, a little more sincerely, keeping your eyes level with him for a scarce moment before grinning cheekily, and tearing his shirt open. Buttons popped off, skittering along the tiled floor. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, love. You’re gonna drive me insane.” He grunts, eyes wide in shock at your assertiveness. But you don’t even get to admire his glorious, fuzzy chest as he leans up to reclaim your mouth, spanking your ass as he did so.

This kiss was different than before. This kiss was carnal, heated, and possessive with teeth biting down on your lip. The bristles of his beard scratching against the soft skin of your face while his palms hungrily slid over your body, tugging away the last of the torn fabric, leaving you only in your soaked underwear as you begin to grind down on him again. The pace was rough, fast, and needy. Greedy hands roamed bare skin, clutching and tugging in exploration as your tongues melded together similarly, seeking to map out every inch of one another before it was too late, and the moment between you two would be over. 

“Feels so good— oh my god— fuck, John, please!” The noises coming from your mouth were loud and frantic as you picked up the pace. As if to shut you up, John pressed two of his thick fingers into your mouth, tickling the back of your throat as he leaned in. 

“Suck ‘em for me. Show me how well you can take them. Get them nice and wet. Gotta put my fingers in you first, stretch out that tiny little cunt for my thick cock, yeah?” His breathing was ragged, coming out in harsh grunts as he continued to drive his hips up to meet yours. 

Moaning around his fingers, your eyes fluttered closed as you sucked them deep, tongue sweeping between the digits, spreading your saliva as he pressed the pads of his fingers on your tongue. His lips parted as he watched you, as though engraving every single one of your features into his mind.

“Yeah, that’s it, pretty girl. Suck my fingers as you grind against my cock. Picture it’s in your mouth and gimme a show.” Hearing the roughness in his tone and you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he was just as affected by you as you were by him, even if it was just in this moment.

Looking directly at him, lips swollen from his brutal kiss earlier, you began bobbing your head along the length of his fingers, sucking and swirling your tongue around his digits, craving something else in your mouth. The feral glint in his eyes spurring you on, taking them all the way down. Blinking back tears from your lashes, you swallowed around his fingers, choking slightly which set him off. 

Swearing under his breath, John pulled his fingers from your mouth, placing them back down onto your hips as he controlled your movements. His eyes were focused on where you were rubbing against him, his thumbs digging into your skin as he thrust his hips up to match your pace. The friction making him groan gutturally and you whine softly. Tilting his head back, you could see his eyes were glazed and hazy, looking up at you in awe. 

“You’re something fucking else, sweetheart.” His voice husky as he panted heavily, rhythm turning uncoordinated and desperate. Resting your forehead against his and cupping his face gently, your uneven breaths intermingled with his as you screwed your eyes shut at the delicious throbbing of your clit every time it dragged up his hard cock. 

“So pretty, so damn fucking pretty like this.” He whispered, nose nudging against yours. “Makin’ me feel so good, fuck—” His praises cut off with a strangled moan and his grip tightened. 

In the back of your mind, you knew this wasn’t ideal for filming. Grinding on your partner like some high school teen in her boyfriend’s first car wasn’t exactly a top search in porn, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. It was you and him and the fire that was burning through your veins. 

Coming to his senses, John’s grip on your hips tightened as he pushed you back off his lap, effectively ceasing all your movements as you frown in confusion. 

“Did I do something wrong?” You asked hesitantly, the tone of your voice heavy and thick as you tried to regulate your breathing. John simply chuckled, shaking his head. He tipped his head back over the couch, letting out an exasperated sigh. 

“Jesus love, making me feel like a young lad again.” The corners of your mouth were twitching upwards, the pieces in your mind clicking together. 

“You need a breather there, John?” You couldn’t help but tease him, reaching down towards his crotch, but getting stopped by his firm grip. 

“You’re a downright menace, you know that?” Giggling, you leaned in to press soft pecks to his cheek, his nose, his forehead; covering his face in kisses as he laughed along with you. 

“Alright, you.” Pinning both your wrists behind your back and tugging your back, John managed to put some space between you both. “Menace, I tell you.” 

Regretfully, you relented your assault, sliding down onto the couch next to him. 

“At least I wasn’t about to cream in my pants.” 

“I’m sorry, love, have you seen the state of my jeans?” His own tone was ribbing as he gestured to the seat of his pants, which showed clear stains from your arousal. Biting your lip, you blinked up at him and shrugged. 

“I’m so terribly sorry, did you want me to stop?” His brow raised at your sarcasm, scoffing as he shook his head. 

“The gall of her?” John looked over at Kate who was flashing a smile of her own as she typed away on her phone. 

“Someone was bound to put you in your place, John.” Making a noise of protest, John looked over at Nik for support, but got none there either. 

During the exchange, you spared a glance over at your own manager, who was scowling in the corner with his arms folded and yet, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Turning your gaze back to John, you nudged him slightly. 

“It’s alright, old man, I can wait all day for you to get it back up.” 

Nikolai let out a barking laugh as John turned his head to look at you incredulously. Moving too quickly for you to process, he pushed you onto your back and pulled you closer to him by your ankles. Letting out a yelp of surprise, your eyes were wide as they stared up at him, his gaze a strange mix of playfulness and interest. 

“You’re cheeky, I’ll give you that. But I’ve got years on you, sweet thing. I can make your head spin in ways you’ve never even imagined.” 

“Prove it.” His eyes narrowed at the snarky retort and one corner of his mouth pulled into a vicious smirk. 

“Oh sweetheart, be very careful what you wish for.” He purred, caressing your skin softly and you felt yourself practically melt under him with anticipation.

Taglist

@ferns-fics (I thought there was another couple who asked but I couldn't find you, apologies! I'll try and make better note for next time)