Side Effects May Include: Marriage, Blushing, And One Shirtless Husband. | Zayne
side effects may include: marriage, blushing, and one shirtless husband. | zayne
synopsis : You never planned on getting married straight out of college—especially not to a broody, absurdly attractive cardiac surgeon with the emotional range of a paperweight. But one wine-infused chocolate, a half-unbuttoned shirt, and an accidental kiss later, you’re rethinking everything.
content : arranged marriage!au, pure fluff, comedy, writer on crack
writer’s note : yay! the arranged marriage au’s have come full circle.
The letter in your hand crumples with the weight of betrayal as you wave it in front of your mother’s face like a white flag soaked in passive-aggression. “What is this?”
She barely glances up from her tea. “Your marriage agreement,” she says, taking a sip as if she hadn’t just casually handed your freedom over like a lunchbox.
“Why didn’t I know about this?!” you exclaim, arms flailing like you’re directing traffic in a thunderstorm.
“Because you wouldn’t have agreed,” she replies smoothly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.
Which, apparently, to her, it is.
“Mom, I literally just graduated,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face.
She raises a perfectly plucked brow. “I married your father before I even finished.”
You let out another groan, louder this time, before collapsing face-first onto the designer couch like a Victorian heroine with a Wi-Fi addiction.
It probably doesn’t help that your family owns one of the biggest tech companies in the country.
Wealthy, yes.
Emotionally prepared for an arranged marriage? Absolutely not.
“I don’t even know the guy!” you practically shout, sounding one emotional notch away from launching yourself into a soap opera.
“I do,” your mother says, flipping open her book like this conversation is just background noise. “He’s a very charming young man.”
You grab the nearest pillow and dramatically smother yourself with it. “I’m not doing it,” you declare, voice muffled and full of angst.
“It’s already been decided.”
You fling the pillow aside like it personally betrayed you. “No!”
Somewhere in the distance, a rich person’s violinist probably sighed in sympathy.
“You can’t make me do this!” you cry, pointing an accusatory finger at her like you’re about to cast a spell of teenage rebellion.
“You will move into the new house in a week. Pack your things,” she replies, turning the page of her book without even looking at you, as if she’s ordering takeout instead of destroying your life.
You gape at her. “I’m not going to prison, Mom. I’m just trying to live my mediocre post-grad life in peace!”
She sips her tea. “And now you’ll do it as a married woman. Congratulations.”
You consider packing alright—packing your bags and running to a country where arranged marriages are considered ancient history.
Except, here you were—one week, three tantrums, and a very dramatic attempt to fake your own death later—standing in front of your husband.
Tall. Towering. Probably sculpted by ancient gods who had nothing better to do.
In your new marital home.
You blink up at him, still hoping this was an elaborate prank and Ashton Kutcher was going to leap out from behind a curtain with a camera crew.
No such luck.
Your new husband just stood there, looking like he stepped out of a magazine and into your worst-case scenario.
“I’m Zayne,” he says calmly, like you’re meeting at a networking event and not at the start of your forced domestic partnership.
You stare. Tall, brooding, buttoned-up like he’s allergic to joy.
Of course his name is Zayne—the kind of name that comes with a tragic backstory and an impressive skincare routine.
A shudder runs through you.
You’re married to that?
Somewhere in the background, the universe probably gave you a thumbs-up and whispered, “Good luck, sweetheart.”
You gulp, trying to summon the dignity your pajama-clad soul clearly lacks. “I’m Y/N.”
He nods. Nods. No handshake, no smile, no “Nice to meet you, fellow victim of our parents’ power trip.”
And then—he just turns and walks away.
Walks. Away.
You’re left standing there, blinking like a Wi-Fi signal trying to reconnect.
Married. To a man who treats introductions like optional software updates.
—•
“This is what Mom called charming?” you grumble, side-eyeing the empty hallway like it personally offended you.
You replay the interaction in your head—“I’m Zayne”—and resist the urge to punch a pillow just to feel something.
Naturally, you do what any responsible adult in a forced marriage would do.
You begin a full-scale reconnaissance mission.
Operation? Figure Out Who the Heck I Married.
You start with the basics—tracking his schedule, observing his comings and goings like an underpaid spy in a bad rom-com.
The man has the consistency of a German train schedule, the emotional availability of a stone wall, and the mystery level of a locked diary in a teenager’s room.
You have no idea what he does for work. He leaves in crisp suits and comes home even more pressed. He talks to no one. He reads thick books with no covers. You’ve yet to catch him watching a single cat video.
So, naturally, you conclude he must be a rich heir. Or a prince. Or some exiled monarch trying to lay low until his kingdom is restored.
It helps that he’s unfairly attractive—black hair that falls just right, piercing eyes that could probably see through walls, and a jawline that could cut glass.
Yep. Definitely a prince.
A very emotionally constipated, tragically handsome prince.
“I know you’re there,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered—of course he does, because apparently your espionage skills rank somewhere between amateur squirrel and nosy neighbor.
He doesn’t even look up from his book at first. Just turns a page calmly, as if catching his new wife spying on him is an everyday occurrence.
Then, slowly, he tilts his head and meets your eyes.
Oh no.
That look is lethal—cool, unreadable, and annoyingly attractive. He sets the book down with a soft thud and takes off his glasses like he’s about to lecture you, interrogate you, or casually ruin your life with a single sentence.
“Come in,” he says, and somehow it sounds less like an invitation and more like a challenge.
You briefly consider fleeing the country.
But your legs move anyway.
You let out an awkward laugh, the kind that sounds more like a hiccup caught mid-lie. “I was just… trying to see what you do.”
Zayne arches a brow, amused. “And lurking behind walls was the most effective method?”
You shrug, stepping inside, the door clicking softly shut behind you. “I considered asking. But you don’t exactly give off ‘share your feelings over coffee’ vibes.”
He leans back slightly in his chair, arms folding as he studies you—like you’re a puzzle he didn’t ask for but now can’t resist solving. “And what have you learned from your mission?”
“That you read a lot of intimidating books and might secretly be a prince,” you mutter, eyeing the hardcover he’d set down. “Or an assassin with excellent taste in eyewear.”
That earns you the ghost of a smile. Barely there—but it softens something in his expression.
“You’re not entirely wrong,” he says, and somehow, that doesn’t help.
You step closer, cautiously. “So… what do you do?”
Zayne tilts his head slightly. “Why? Interested now?”
“Trying to decide if I should be impressed… or mildly concerned for my safety.”
He chuckles under his breath—quiet and low, like he’s not used to laughing, but might want to try. “Maybe both.”
And for a moment, just a flicker, the air between you shifts. Less awkward, more curious. Like two strangers on the edge of something not quite comfortable, but not cold either.
“Well,” you say, fiddling with a stray thread on your sleeve, “I figured if I’m going to be married to a mystery man, I should at least get to know the mystery.”
Zayne watches you for a beat longer, then gestures to the seat across from him.
“Then stay,” he says. “Ask your questions properly this time.”
And you do.
You sit down across from him, suddenly hyper-aware of how your knees almost brush beneath the table.
His gaze is steady—too steady—and you gulp like you’ve just asked for his hand in courtship instead of mild information.
“So… what do you do?” you ask, trying to sound casual. It comes out more like a nervous frog asking a favor.
Zayne doesn’t answer right away. He leans back slightly, arms still folded, one brow lifting like he’s debating how much to reveal—or maybe just how much fun he’ll have watching you squirm.
“I’m a cardiac surgeon,” he finally says, voice low and even.
You blink.
“I—what?”
“I operate on hearts,” he says, like he’s talking about changing a lightbulb.
You stare at him. This whole time you thought he was brooding over world domination or writing dark poetry about rain. Heart surgeon was not on your bingo card.
“Wait, seriously? Like… actual hearts? With… scalpels?”
He tilts his head, clearly amused. “Is there another kind?”
Your jaw drops slightly. “Wow. I was prepared for ‘billionaire with a tragic past,’ not Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I assure you, there’s still a tragic past,” he deadpans, and for a second you’re not sure if he’s joking.
He doesn’t elaborate—but something in his eyes flickers. Quiet. Guarded.
You lean back, blinking slowly. “Okay… that’s kind of hot.”
That gets him. His lips twitch, just a little. “Are you flirting with your husband?”
You pretend to examine the ceiling. “I’m just saying, it makes the whole mysterious-silent-guy thing slightly more tolerable.”
He lets out a soft laugh—barely audible, but it’s real.
And suddenly, sitting across from him doesn’t feel so heavy.
He stands up suddenly, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape against the floor. You jolt slightly, halfway through processing his laugh, and blink up at him.
His expression has shifted—still calm, but there’s something else now. A hint of gravity in the way he looks at you.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, catching you off guard. “For the suddenness of all this.”
You sit up straighter, unsure what to say. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged the whole arranged-marriage-against-your-will situation out loud.
Before you can respond, he steps closer, extending a hand—not forceful, just open. “Let me show you why.”
Your heart skips. “Why what?”
“Why our parents thought this could work,” he says, and for the first time, there’s no teasing in his tone—just sincerity. Gentle, but certain.
You stare at his hand. His fingers are long, precise. A surgeon’s hands. Hands that fix hearts.
And here he was, offering them to you.
So, slowly, hesitantly, you place your hand in his.
And just like that, something shifts again. Less awkward. A little warmer. A little more real.
He guides you out to his car—a sleek, polished thing that looks like it probably knows more about taxes than you do. He opens the passenger door for you, which is either chivalrous or unsettling, you’re not sure yet.
You slide in, still trying to wrap your head around this whole situation, when he leans in unexpectedly close—and reaches across you.
Your breath catches.
Then—click—he fastens your seatbelt.
You blink at him, flustered. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. It was clinical. Efficient. Like buckling you in was a task on his daily checklist.
Still, your brain short-circuits a little.
“Thanks,” you mumble, confused by how something so unromantic could still make your stomach flutter.
He simply shuts the door and rounds the front of the car, settling into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a hundred times.
You glance over. “So… where are we going?”
He shifts the gear with practiced ease, eyes on the road. “To see my parents.”
You freeze. “Now?”
“Yes.”
“As in—meeting the in-laws now?”
Zayne glances at you, completely calm. “You’re my wife. It’s only natural.”
You groan quietly into your palms. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”
At your dramatic groan, Zayne gives the faintest hint of a smile—so subtle you almost miss it. Just the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like your misery is a quiet source of amusement to him.
You narrow your eyes. “Was that a smile?”
“I don’t recall,” he says, cool as ever.
You huff and turn your gaze out the window, resigned to what you assume will be an awkward, overly formal afternoon in a mansion filled with judgmental in-laws and porcelain teacups.
But twenty minutes later, when the car slows to a stop, your sarcasm dies in your throat.
Because this isn’t a mansion.
It’s a cemetery.
Your eyes flick to him, your voice suddenly small. “Zayne…?”
He cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, his expression unreadable again.
“You said you wanted to know why,” he says, gently. “So I’m showing you.”
And just like that, your earlier words—your groaning, your dramatics, your little internal jokes—feel like they belong to someone else entirely.
Zayne steps out of the car without another word, and you follow, suddenly quiet, your footsteps softer on the gravel. The wind tugs at your sleeves as he leads you up a small hill, the world around you hushed, respectful.
The trees part at the crest, revealing an open clearing.
Two gravestones stand side by side, worn but well-kept, the grass around them neatly trimmed. Fresh flowers rest at their bases—white lilies, carefully arranged.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Zayne slows as he approaches, his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn’t say anything right away, just looks at them for a long moment. When he does speak, his voice is low, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“These are my parents.”
Your chest tightens.
You glance at him—his posture still straight, still composed, but there’s something softer now. Something heavy that doesn’t show in his face, but in the silence he carries around it.
“They passed away when I was in my first year of med school,” he says, eyes fixed on the stones. “I visit them every week. I always bring lilies—my mother liked them.”
You stand there beside him, uncertain at first, then quietly fold your arms, the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders.
“I didn’t know,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says, and for once, there’s no edge in his voice. Just truth.
And suddenly, you understand what he meant earlier. Why he said he wanted to show you. Why he apologized.
Because this marriage wasn’t just sudden—it was the first thing in a long time he hadn’t had to face alone.
“My parents made an agreement with yours,” Zayne says, his voice steady as he turns to face you.
There’s no accusation in his tone, no bitterness. Just quiet honesty.
“So in a way,” he continues, meeting your eyes, “we’re both stuck in this predicament. Not just you.”
The word predicament almost makes you laugh—because that’s exactly what it is. A polite, miserable mess you’ve both been handed like a family heirloom no one wanted.
But the way he says it… it’s not cold. It’s not detached.
It’s shared.
For the first time, you see the man behind the silence. Not just the polished stranger with perfect posture and unreadable expressions—but someone who lost his family, who carried grief with clinical grace, who walked into this marriage just as unprepared as you.
You lower your gaze, toeing the earth gently beneath your shoe. “Guess that makes us reluctant allies.”
“Something like that,” he murmurs.
Then, after a pause, he adds, “But I don’t intend to stay strangers with you forever. Not if we’re in this together.”
You feel something small and strange crack open in your chest.
Hope. Maybe. Or just the beginning of something real.
After the quiet moments of prayer—hands clasped, heads bowed, the wind weaving through the stillness—you and Zayne make your way back down the hill in silence. It’s not uncomfortable this time. Just… thoughtful. Like something unspoken has shifted between you.
The ride home is calm, the late afternoon sun casting soft light through the windshield. You glance over at him, watching the way his fingers rest lightly on the steering wheel, the way his profile is bathed in gold.
You hesitate, then ask, voice gentle, “How do you feel about this marriage?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The road stretches ahead, lined with trees and fading light, and you think maybe he won’t answer at all.
But then, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips—small, but unmistakable.
“I don’t mind it,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road. “Now that I’ve met you.”
You blink.
It’s not grand or poetic. It’s not a love confession or sweeping gesture. But something about the way he says it—so simple, so sure—makes your heart trip a little in your chest.
You turn back to the window, trying to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.
And for the first time, the silence between you feels like something full, not empty.
—•
When you reach home, Zayne unlocks the door with quiet efficiency and steps inside like he’s been doing it for years—even though technically, it’s your first week as reluctant roommates.
He shrugs off his coat and heads straight for the kitchen.
You trail behind him, curious. “What are you doing?”
“Making tea,” he says, already reaching for the kettle.
You arch a brow. “Seriously… did you go to husband-training-school or something?”
He glances at you over his shoulder, eyes just a touch amused. “Is that a thing?”
“It should be,” you say, hopping up onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “You open doors, buckle seatbelts, visit your parents’ graves with fresh flowers, and now you make tea? Either you’re weirdly good at this or you’ve been raised by a very intense etiquette instructor.”
Zayne smirks—an actual smirk this time, not the half-ghost of one. “My mother believed in manners. My father believed in precision.”
You nod sagely. “Ah, so you were raised by royalty.”
He sets two mugs on the counter, then adds, “And I believe in not poisoning my wife with bad tea on day seven of our arranged marriage.”
You lift your hands. “Low bar, but I appreciate it.”
He chuckles quietly as he pours the water, and you watch him, a strange sort of warmth settling in your chest.
Turns out, “reluctant husband” looks a lot like “softly competent tea-making mystery man” when no one’s looking.
You watch him as he carefully stirs the tea, trying to look casual, though there’s an edge to your curiosity. “So, have you got a girlfriend? Before all this…?”
The question hangs in the air, a little awkward, but you can’t help yourself. You’re still trying to figure out who he is outside of this whole marriage thing. You need to know what kind of life he led before it all changed.
Zayne doesn’t answer immediately, his movements slowing for just a moment as if he’s considering the question carefully. His eyes flick to you, then back to the steaming mugs.
“No,” he says after a beat, the word simple but loaded. “I didn’t. Too busy, I suppose.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Too busy for dating? I find that hard to believe.”
He lets out a quiet breath, placing the spoon down with the kind of deliberation that makes you think there’s more behind it. “It’s not that I didn’t have time. I was just… focused on other things.”
“Like saving lives?” you tease, leaning on the counter.
He glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment before he gives a small nod. “Exactly. I never made time for anything else.”
You hum thoughtfully, but there’s something in his voice that makes you stop. Focused on other things. You wonder if that was his way of avoiding other things. Or maybe he just never let anyone close enough.
You catch his gaze again, and this time, there’s a flicker—an unspoken something in the way he holds it. You can’t quite place it, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, just slightly.
“Well, now you’ve got me,” you say, trying to keep the tone light. “I guess that makes two of us.”
Zayne’s lips curl into the faintest smile. “Indeed.”
That night, you change into something nice—half-expecting a stiff, high-end restaurant with white tablecloths, six forks, and judgmental lighting.
But when Zayne pulls the car up to a quiet little corner bistro tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, you blink in surprise.
It’s not fancy. No valet, no sparkling chandeliers, no menus written in French.
It’s… cozy.
Warm lights glow from inside, casting golden puddles on the sidewalk. Through the windows, you spot mismatched chairs, little potted plants on the tables, and the soft flicker of candlelight.
Someone’s playing gentle jazz on a guitar in the corner, and the air smells like garlic and fresh bread.
“This isn’t what I expected,” you murmur as he opens the car door for you.
He raises a brow. “Disappointed?”
You shake your head slowly. “No. Actually… I like it.”
He doesn’t smile, not really—but there’s a flicker in his eyes, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for.
Inside, you’re seated at a small table by the window. The waiter greets Zayne like he’s been here before, which surprises you even more. You hadn’t pegged him as the “quiet Italian bistro” type. More like “emotionally distant, espresso-fueled loner.”
But here he is. Ordering your meal with quiet confidence, asking if you want sparkling or still water like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And somehow, it feels normal.
As you sip your wine and let the warmth of the room settle around you, you realize this whole evening—isn’t part of some obligation or checklist.
He brought you here because he wanted to.
And that realization sits quietly between you, more intimate than candlelight.
“What did you study?” Zayne asks, his tone casual but deliberate.
You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your water glass—not because the question itself is startling, but because he asked it. He, who rarely volunteers anything beyond necessity, is choosing to ask you something personal. Choosing to know you.
And that… that makes your chest feel oddly warm.
“Uhm,” you say, blinking out of your surprise. “I majored in Economics.”
He nods, his gaze steady. “I assume it’s to help your parents, then?”
You smile faintly, setting your glass down. “Yeah. I mean, I was never really pushed into it, but it felt like the logical thing to do. Legacy and all that.”
He hums, clearly understanding. “Pressure has a way of wearing itself like a choice.”
You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “That was poetic.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true.”
And you find yourself smiling—not the awkward, forced kind you used to wear around him, but a quiet, genuine one.
“Did you always want to be a surgeon?” you ask in return.
He considers for a moment, then says, “No. I wanted to be an architect when I was younger.”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“I liked building things,” he says, eyes flicking to you with a faint glimmer of amusement. “But life had other plans.”
And just like that, you realize you’re not dining with a stranger anymore.
You’re slowly, carefully, getting to know your husband.
You narrow your eyes at him, lips twitching as you lean back in your chair. “You wouldn’t have made a good architect,” you say, your tone teasing.
Zayne glances up from his plate, one brow arching in mock offense. “Oh? And why’s that?”
You shrug, swirling your water like it’s a wine glass. “Too serious. You’d probably design buildings with no windows. Just perfectly symmetrical, intimidating concrete blocks where joy goes to die.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I happen to like symmetry.”
“Exactly,” you grin. “You’d build dystopian fortresses and call them modern masterpieces.”
He leans forward slightly, voice lower, a touch playful. “And what would you build? Something inefficient with fairy lights and personality?”
You gasp, hand to your chest. “Yes. And they’d be beloved.”
Zayne smiles, really smiles this time—and for a second, you forget the marriage was arranged. Because god damn, he looks good when he smiles.
—•
Zayne drives you home after dinner, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between you. The city lights blur softly past the windows, and you catch yourself smiling—again.
Not because of the food.
Not because of the warm, candlelit atmosphere.
But because he smiled at you.
Not a smirk, not a polite twitch of the lips—an actual, honest-to-goodness smile.
And it was for you.
You lean your head against the window, trying to play it cool, but your heart’s doing backflips like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.
Who knew one smile from a broody cardiac surgeon could make you feel like you were in a coming-of-age movie?
When he pulls up to the house and parks, he doesn’t rush out or unbuckle your seatbelt like earlier. He just sits for a moment, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, glancing at you through the corner of his eye.
“Thank you,” you say softly, turning to him. “For dinner. And… for today.”
His eyes meet yours, steady. “You’re welcome.”
You linger a second longer than necessary, then reach for the door handle.
But before you can step out, he adds quietly, “I’m glad you came.”
Your breath catches, but you manage a soft smile.
“Me too.”
And as you walk up to the front door together, side by side, you realize something strange and terrifying and kind of wonderful:
You might actually be starting to like your husband.
—•
You’re halfway through your bedtime routine—hair tied up, comfy shirt on, emotionally bracing yourself for your nightly existential crisis—when you hear his voice from the living room.
“Y/N. Come sit with me.”
You freeze in the hallway like a startled cat.
Your brain short-circuits.
Come sit with me.
On the couch.
In the living room.
You peek around the corner, and there he is—Zayne, in his neatly rolled-up sleeves, glasses off, looking painfully relaxed and devastatingly unfair with one arm resting along the back of the couch like this is some indie romance movie and not your actual, real-life arranged marriage.
You fight the very real urge to scream.
Because—hello?? Attractive, emotionally reserved doctor asking you to sit beside him in dim lighting?
No. Absolutely not. Husband or not, this is a threat to your mental health and emotional stability.
Still, your feet move traitorously toward him.
You sit at the very edge of the couch, posture stiff, like you’re preparing to be interviewed, not casually sitting with your husband.
He glances at you, amused. “You look tense.”
“I am tense,” you mutter, clutching a throw pillow like it’s a life raft. “This feels like a trap.”
Zayne chuckles under his breath, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “You’re overthinking.”
“You’re underthinking. Have you seen yourself right now?”
He doesn’t answer—just reaches for the remote and switches on a movie.
And you sit there, slowly melting into the couch, wildly aware of how close he is, and wondering how on earth you’re supposed to survive a husband who smiles at you one moment and invites you to sit with him the next like it’s nothing.
It is very much something.
You shoot up from the couch like you’ve just remembered you left the stove on. “I’m gonna go… look for snacks,” you say, your voice a touch too high-pitched to be innocent.
Zayne turns his head slightly, probably about to say something—maybe to offer help or point out where the cookies are—but you don’t wait. You flee the room with the grace and urgency of someone definitely not running from their feelings.
Out of the corner of your eye, just before you disappear down the hallway, you swear you see it.
A smirk.
That little—
Nope. You’re not thinking about that. You are not spiraling over one stupid, stupid smirk.
You fling open the pantry door with more drama than necessary and scan the shelves like a raccoon on a mission. And then… there it is.
A not-so-suspicious box of chocolate. Sitting there. Unlabeled. Untouched. Almost like it was waiting for you.
Naturally, the logical thing to do is take it.
You snatch it like a gremlin, muttering to yourself, “If this is his secret stash, he shouldn’t have left it where I could find it.”
Because if you’re going to emotionally unravel over a handsome surgeon who asks you to sit with him, you might as well do it with sugar.
You shuffle back into the living room, trying not to look suspicious even though you’re literally holding the loot in both hands.
Zayne glances at the box, one brow lifting ever so slightly.
Without a word, you plop down next to him again—this time slightly closer, because apparently you’re a danger to yourself—and open the lid. You pick one out, hesitate, then hold it out to him.
He looks at it, then at you.
And takes it.
Just like that—without hesitation, without question—like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to offer him something sweet and for him to accept it.
He pops it in his mouth, casual, like he didn’t just cause your heart to skip a full beat.
You stare at him. “You didn’t even ask what it was.”
He shrugs. “I trust your judgment.”
Great. Now you’re emotionally compromised and flustered.
You quickly shove a chocolate into your own mouth before you say something like “Why are you so attractive when you chew?”
This marriage is going to ruin you.
As the chocolate melts on your tongue, rich and smooth, you frown slightly. There’s something… extra about the flavor. A little too warm. A little too bold.
You squint at the box, lifting it closer to inspect the label. The fancy script mocks you as your eyes land on the fine print.
“Hey, these are infused with—”
You stop mid-sentence, turning to Zayne.
He’s flushed.
Not dramatically—but enough. His ears are a little pink, the tips of his cheeks tinged with color, and he suddenly seems very interested in the pattern on the coffee table.
Your eyes widen.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, holding up the box like a smoking gun. “They’re infused with wine.”
He clears his throat. “Just a little.”
“Zayne.”
“I forgot,” he mutters, and now he won’t meet your eyes.
You blink at him, then at the chocolate, then back at him.
And then you burst into laughter.
“Are you—are you buzzed from one piece of wine chocolate?”
He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real heat. “I’m not buzzed.”
“You’re flushed.”
“I run warm.”
You clutch your stomach, giggling. “Oh, this is so going in the mental scrapbook.”
He shakes his head, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.
And suddenly, the couch doesn’t feel so intimidating. The air between you is warm—not from the chocolate or the wine, but from the quiet, ridiculous comfort of two strangers slowly, awkwardly becoming something more.
But fate, in all its twisted sense of humor, decided to laugh directly in your face.
Because as it turns out, Zayne does not do well with alcohol.
At all.
One wine-infused chocolate later, and he’s leaning back into the couch, flushed like he’s been running laps, and visibly warmer—literally and metaphorically.
You glance over just in time to see him tug at the top button of his shirt.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Your brain short-circuits.
You grip the edge of the sofa like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Do not scream. Do not make a sound. You are strong. You are composed. You are—
He exhales, fingers working at the last button near his collarbone, exposing smooth skin and that maddeningly perfect line of his throat.
“I feel… warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You don’t respond. Because you can’t.
You’re too busy having an internal meltdown.
This is not a movie. This is real life.
Real life where your emotionally-reserved, wine-chocolate-flushed husband is currently undoing his shirt on your shared couch like he doesn’t know what it’s doing to your sanity.
You bite your tongue and stare straight ahead.
This marriage is a trap.
This couch is cursed.
And Zayne, evidently, is dangerous in more ways than one.
You try—truly try—to focus on the TV.
You fixate on the screen like it holds the meaning of life, repeating in your head. Not looking. Not thinking. Muscles aren’t real. Buttons are lies. Stay strong.
But then—
You feel it.
A hand around your wrist. Warm. Firm.
You barely have time to register it before you’re turned toward him—face-to-face with all of him.
Half-unbuttoned shirt. Lean muscles. Broad chest. Collarbone on full display like it paid rent to be there. His eyes, slightly glazed but locked onto yours with an intensity that could melt furniture.
Your breath hitches. “Z-Zayne!”
Your voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched. Like a cartoon character caught in a romantic ambush.
His hand doesn’t let go.
Neither does his gaze.
“You’re really red,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, as if you’re the one being strange in this situation.
“I’m red?!” you squeak, trying very hard not to look down. Or up. Or anywhere.
He leans just the tiniest bit closer, and his voice drops, slow and low. “Are you feeling warm too?”
You make a noise. Not a word. Just a sound. Because your brain has left the building and taken all coherent thought with it.
This couch is no longer a piece of furniture.
It’s a battlefield.
His grip on your wrist softens, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb brushes lightly—absently—against your skin as he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your entire existence.
And then, with absolutely no warning, he slurs softly, “You’re really… pretty… you know that?”
Your soul momentarily evacuates your body.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
“You are,” he says, a little slower, a little sleepier, his words curling lazily like they’re wrapped in velvet. “Your face is nice. Your eyes do this… sparkle thing. Like the stars. But not, cliché stars. Like… classy stars.”
You open your mouth to reply, but absolutely nothing intelligent comes out.
Because here is your emotionally closed-off husband—tipsy from a single chocolate, shirt halfway undone, staring at you like you hung the moon and casually comparing your eyes to classy stars.
This has officially become too much.
You grab the throw pillow beside you and bury your face in it with a muffled, “Zayne, you’re drunk.”
He hums, leaning back slightly, satisfied like he’s just confessed something profound.
“I’m married to a pretty girl,” he mumbles, like it’s the best realization he’s had all day.
And you? You are one slurred compliment away from combusting.
You reach out without thinking, hand aiming straight for his cheek—half to ground yourself, half because you want to see if he’s real and not just a hallucination brought on by wine chocolate and emotional confusion.
But before your fingers make contact, he catches your wrist again.
Gently. Firmly.
And then—he tugs.
You let out a surprised gasp as you stumble forward, barely catching yourself with your free hand against his chest. He’s solid. Warm. Way too warm.
Your heart skips, then trips, then sprints like it’s running late for something.
You barely have time to react before he looks up at you—eyes soft, dazed, and entirely sincere—and asks:
“Can I kiss you?”
It’s not breathy or desperate. Not bold or teasing.
He says it like a gentleman asking for a dance. Like he’s asking your permission to step into something delicate. Something real.
Your breath catches. The world stills. The TV hums in the background, forgotten.
You’re close enough to see the way his lashes rest against flushed skin, close enough to feel his breath brush against your lips.
And now, you have a choice to make.
Because despite the chaos, the circumstance, the wine-infused madness of it all—Zayne just asked you so politely to kiss you.
And god help you…
You kind of want him to.
You open your mouth to reply—maybe to say yes, maybe to question your sanity—but the words never make it out.
Because his lips are already on yours.
Gentle. Soft. Careful, like he’s still half-expecting you to pull away. Like he knows he’s toeing a fragile line and doesn’t want to break it.
Your eyes flutter shut as instinct takes over, and the world tilts slightly.
You can barely taste the chocolate on his lips, a hint of sweetness tangled with something warmer, something that makes your heart thrum unevenly in your chest.
Your mind goes fuzzy. Not from the kiss itself, but from the feeling that comes with it—the quiet kind. The kind that settles in your chest like a secret you hadn’t realized you were keeping.
He doesn’t rush it.
His hand stays on your wrist, thumb brushing softly along your skin, as if even now he’s asking—Is this okay? Are you sure?
And you are.
Somewhere between wine-infused chocolates, teasing banter, and the way he said Can I kiss you? like it meant everything—you became sure.
And so you kiss him back.
Somehow—somehow—you’re still suspended there, caught in that precarious space between balance and disaster, one hand on his chest, the other still held by his.
And then his hands slide to your waist.
Slow. Sure. Steady.
He holds you like he’s anchoring you—like if he let go, you might float away.
And that’s when the kiss deepens.
No more polite hesitation, no more softness at the edges. It’s still gentle, yes—but there’s more now. More pressure. More heat. More intention.
Your fingers curl against his shirt, and it takes every last ounce of self-control not to start undoing the buttons he didn’t already conquer earlier. Because God, you can feel the strength in him—lean muscle under your palm, warmth radiating like it was meant for you, and he’s kissing you like he’s waited a long time to do it.
You gasp softly against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like a secret.
Your mind is a whirlwind. Logic? Gone. Restraint? Dangling by a thread.
You are this close to losing all common sense and just undressing him right here on the couch like your sanity isn’t hanging on by a single, wine-infused thread.
But then he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.
And he whispers, barely audible, “You taste sweet.”
You’re going to combust.
This man is going to ruin you.
The world blurs at the edges, warm and hazy like honeyed sunlight through half-closed curtains. His breath still ghosts against your lips, his hands still resting on your waist like they belong there, like you belong there.
You feel weightless. Drunk, not on wine or chocolate, but on him—the warmth of his skin, the way he kissed you like it was something sacred, the way he looked at you like you were something more than a stranger handed to him by fate.
Everything is soft. Glowing. Surreal.
Too perfect.
And then—
Blink.
The warmth fades. The light shifts.
You’re no longer on the couch.
You’re standing, stiff, in a room full of flowers and polished silence, your fingers cold at your sides.
Zayne stands across from you, buttoned-up, composed, unreadable. No wine in his system. No flushed cheeks. No trace of that kiss.
Just a man you’ve never met.
And the moment of your arranged introduction.
Your breath catches, and for a second, you don’t know what’s real.
But you do know one thing.
Whatever just happened—dream, vision, or cruel trick of the mind—it’s already begun.
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The Naga’s Teasing
Pairing: Naga x f!human reader
Summary: you struggle to stay composed during a professional videomeeting while your naga boyfriend secretly fingers and licks you under the table.
Warnings: minors don't interact, 18+!!!!, naga smut, fingering and oral (fem receiving), silent teasing. Don’t like, don’t read please.
The camera was on, displaying many little boxes with your colleagues live on the laptop screen. You were in the middle of a remote meeting, sitting in your home office, hands gripping the desk tightly. You were supposed to be paying attention to the presentations yet you could hardly contribute to the discussions.
You weren’t supposed to be so flushed, your skin tingling with arousal.
You weren’t supposed to be struggling to stifle your moans and keep everyone from hearing.
You had such a hard time keeping your composure because your naga boyfriend had decided to tease you. He had slithered under the table, opened your legs wide, dragging up your dress and tugging your panties to the side. You were helpless to stop him; you couldn’t react in the process of the business meeting.
Hidden from view, your naga tortured you in the sweetest and most shameless way. He spread the lips of your pussy and laved your inner folds. The sensations made you shiver. The hum of your colleagues in the background faded as you were licked and sucked to the breaking point. Biting back one gasp after the other, you fisted your pen, clutching it tightly.
You tried to focus on anything but the wicked slide of his tongue but it was impossible.
Especially when he thrust a thick finger in your depths, you pussy squelching softly in your ears.
You inhaled sharply.
“What are your thoughts on this proposal, chief manager? Is that good way to promote our new product?”
That was you! The CEO was talking to you!
You swallowed down a moan. Blinked. Refocused.
“I… I think the pro-posal is magnificent. It aligns with the goals of the co-company.”
The strokes intensified, a second finger surging deep inside your depths.
“We…hm… should pro-proceed with that idea,” you stuttered. It was increasingly difficult to keep talking and keep your breathing under control.
Several other colleagues chimed in their agreement but your focus wavered when your naga boyfriend slid up his tail slipping under your dress, his warm scales brushing against your sensitive skin. The appendage found its way under your bra, circling your nipple while his mouth suckled your pussy, his fingers thrusting steadily inside your pussy.
You clenched your teeth.
Oh, when this meeting was over you were going to have his ass for this.
Shifting restlessly on your seat, you clenched your fists on the table, digging your nails into the hard surface. His tongue licked your clit with precise strokes, the pleasure increasing. You were drenched and so close. Damn…. You were about to climax right there in the middle of the video meeting.
Breath hitching, you bit your lip hard and rode the waves of pleasure, hands gripping the edge of the desk. Your toes curled inside your slippers, and you pressed your thighs together in a vain attempt to stop him. Your mate responded silently by curling his fingers just right and fucking you through your climax, making stars dance in your vision. His tail had also sneakily slithered to your other nipple, circling the bud and pulling.
“Any other questions?” the CEO’s voice came from the laptop.
Gulping, you shook your head, all too eager to end the video call. A little hazy, you answered, praying that no one noticed the faint tremor in your voice, “N-no, none from me.”
Finally, the videocall ended with unanimous agreement.
With a soft nudge, you rolled your chair away from your naga boyfriend and stood up on shaky legs, you heart still hammering form the intense release. He slithered out from beneath the desk, his face super smug. You shot him a glare and were about to speak when he pulled you to him, clutching you against his broad chest. His long tail curled around your body, trapping you against him.
“You are a fucking tease,” you said, lightly slappping his shoulder.
“You did so well, darling,” he whispered, his voice a silky purr. “Behaved so well while I fingered your slick pussy and rubbed your swollen clit.”
“Let go,” you muttered weakly.
“Oh, I’m not done with you yet,” he said, his breath warm against your ear.
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—That’s where these stories get wrong.
Warning: Harsh existential themes, deconstruction of reader-insert tropes. Angst! Read at your own risk.
I wrote this with Sylus in mind, though i guess it applies with all characters.
Just a short little drabble, do not take this to heart or think too much of it! After all, everything’s fiction
word count: 296 words
We’ve all probably read countless stories, including the ‘reader-insert’ ones. Maybe they’re ones about you being a part of his world. Maybe you’re someone from his past, maybe you’re a new addition to his story. Among those, a specific trope is well-loved: him becoming aware—him entering our world.
In these, maybe he’d scavenge the earth for you. Or maybe one day, he’d just appear in your room, sleeping beside you.
But in all of them, one thing remains constant.
He’d fall in love with you.
That’s where these stories get wrong.
He exists in a world of power, a world that bends to him, shapes itself around his presence. Even in fiction, he is wanted—not by one, not by a few, but by millions. Beautiful women. Powerful women. Women who don’t just dream of standing beside him but deserve to.
And what are you?
A face in the crowd. One of countless, no different, no brighter, no reason to be seen when there are so many others.
These stories pretend the universe will break its laws, twist the fabric of fate, just so he will look your way.
But why?
What force, what logic, what truth would make that happen?
Because you’re the reader? You’re a fan? You love him?
So does everyone else.
You could pass by him on the street and he wouldn’t turn his head. You could sit across from him in a crowded room, and his gaze would slide over you like you were never there at all. Because there’d be no invisible hand bending the story for you.
He doesn’t need to be trapped in a game to be in a different world than you.
Even if he’s here, physically, in this reality—he’d still be in a different world than you.
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even when there was rain, sunshine came
pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)
synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.
genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l
warnings. slight ooc caleb (i have not read homecoming or wtv that chapter is called BC BLUESTACKS DOES NOT WANT ME TO FINISH LONG AWAITED REVELRY OR WTV THAT CHAPTER IS CALLED IM STUCK ON CH12...), NOT canon compliant oops (no higher being placing a curse on zayne, no experimentation done on mc and caleb bc josephine is a good person this time BYEEEE), reader has neglectful parent(s) in the beginning kind of, mentions/descriptions of crying, mc is female (she doesn't have a name in here either). if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!
rating. sfw but make it lowk very angsty but fluffy ish at the same time.
wc. 8.2 k
a/n. live love laugh angst (but with a happy ending) and live love laugh not proof reading and SORRY FOR NOT UPLOADING THIS EARLIERRR uni sucks booty fr !! also, i've come to the decision that i will just make this into a mini series, having about 5-10 chapters maximum !! the ideas keep coming, and i'd like to take a different approach to this prompt/world i've build for this nonmc! reader in an actual caleb series much like my rafayel one! also decided to make it into a mini series bc i cant keep writing and expanding on this and leave yall hanging for longer IOEOIFJAWEOI
YOU’RE EIGHT YEARS OLD WHEN YOU MEET CALEB. it was in the last days of summer, right before the leaves began turning red and yellow and orange. you remember your dad telling you that an older lady moved into the house across from yours, that there two kids living with her: a girl younger than you and a boy your age though a couple months older. he said something about the girl having a special condition but the words went through your ear and out the other because you didn’t care about them; you knew you wouldn’t talk to them anyways.
then, your dad left to go to work and you were all alone.
you were always alone, and you felt that loneliness every second, acutely aware at how it bleeds into your soul and makes you so, so sad. it’s what makes you head to the park two houses down the street and sit at the big, oak tree there. your favorite thing to do is climb it and sit on one of the bigger branches around its middle, feeling as if you could reach the sky and escape these heavy feelings. you blame your dad for making you like this: for making you think that the heavens can help you escape your heavy feelings. he told you once, on a night where he was in charge of tucking you in while your mom worked late at the hospital, that he loves the sky and how it makes him feel like all of his worries are nothing but a speck of dust. he made you think that one day, you could reach the sky and feel what he felt. if you reached out enough, you would be free.
but today you had no energy to do that.
as soon as you reached the oak tree, you sat down and rested your back against the trunk. your eyes watered instantaneously, cold tears dripping down your cheek and to the tip of your chin as you tucked your knees into your chest, your arms holding them in place so they could keep your weeping heart warm. you were so lost in your overflowing sorrow that you didn’t notice a boy running to the tree, not even when he stood three steps away from you.
“why are you crying?”
you snapped your head upwards.
the boy looked surprised, his purple eyes as large as the moon as he stared at you. his back was to the sun, covering him in a golden glow. he didn't say anything as he knelt down, his brows furrowed.
you hiccuped and looked away, angrily staring at your house from where you sat. “go away, stranger.” you see the older boy that lives next door when you avert your gaze from your home. it’s zayne—you recall your mom telling you that you used to have playdates together when you were younger. obviously, you don’t anymore. you don't even speak to one another—perhaps, he thinks being friends with a girl two years younger than him is not worth his time.
you don’t blame him for thinking that; after all, your own parents probably think the same.
before your mind spirals into the inky void that tells you bad things, the boy speaks up. “my name is caleb! now i’m not a stranger, right?” you glance at him from the corner of your eye. caleb grins at you, his smile as bright as the sun. it’s too blinding, you decide, and drop your gaze to the ground. “i guess not…” you mumble.
“so that means we’re friends!” caleb laughs when you quickly look at him again, surprise evident in your features. “now you can tell me why you’re sad!”
you wrack through your brain to come up with an excuse and end up stuttering out, “b-but you don’t know my name!”
“you’re y/n, right?” he laughs again when your jaw drops in comical way, gasping for air in between his next words. “ha! g-gran… talked t-to your… parents!” caleb wheezes, tears in his eyes. “y-your parents told us about you!” once he calms down, caleb lets out a sigh as he sits next to you, nudging your shoulder. “c’mon, you can tell me why you’re so sad now.”
you look back at your house, frowning at how lonely it looked. “i… i don’t think my parents love me.”
“what?”
“i mean,” you rest your head on your knees, your voice now muffled. “they’re never home and they never spend time with me.”
your dad is often away, being the colonel and all, which means he’s gone for months at a time. it wasn’t always like that, but things changed when that forsaken tunnel appeared above the city. your dad was one of the first to answer the call, to fly in the sky to protect the world from wanderers. so it isn’t his fault and neither is it your mom’s that they’re never there. she’s a doctor, a colleague of your next door neighbor's parents.
it is not your fault they are both needed by more people and by more important matters.
caleb’s about to say something when a girl calls out his name, running until she stands in front of you two. you don’t pay attention to her, and instead keep your eyes focused on your house. you wish your parents were home more, that they’d spend more time with you. the girl ends up leaving after she speaks to caleb, who watches her go with a careful eye.
“sorry about that,” he says, scratching his cheek. “gran sent her to tell me it’s time for lunch, but don’t worry! i’ll stay here with you until your parents are back!”
you blink at him, feeling your eyes start to burn. “you’ll stay?”
“mhm!” he smiles, and this time you actually don’t turn away. caleb laughs softly, leaning forwards to wipe away at the tears that fall from your wide eyes. “why are you crying again?”
you didn’t even notice that you had stopped in the first place. “i-i don’t know.” you do know.
it's the first time someone ever stayed with you in a long time.
caleb, surprisingly, calmed you down in a matter of seconds. he stayed with you until the sun began to set, when the blue sky became tinted by orange and pink. he made time go by fast, making you smile and laugh until your cheeks and stomach hurt. and he was surprisingly attentive, noticing immediately the way you perked up when you saw your mom’s car drive down the road and stop in front of your home.
“you ready to go now?” caleb stood up and stuck his hand out, waiting for you to grab it.
“your hand is warm,” you mumble, gripping tightly onto his hand as you lead the way back to your house.
he giggles and nudges your shoulder. “my hand is warm?”
“mhm.” it’s very warm, akin to the blankets you wrap yourself with during the cold days of winter.
and just like that you were at your front door, shyly waving goodbye before going inside. the doorbell rang shortly afterwards, yet before you could open the door, your mom had already done so. you left and headed up the stairs and into your room, telling yourself you’ll eat something after your mom retires for the night.
but that never happens.
because the strangest thing happened afterwards: your mom came up to your room and talked to you, apologizing for making you feel lonely and abandoned.
you know it was caleb’s doing: why else would your mom be like this?
without meaning to, caleb planted a seed in your heart that day.
when you’re ten, you realize that you’ve changed the slightest bit. you’re a little more outspoken, a little more confident in yourself; and your world that was once monochrome is now full of color, full of warmth and life.
you have memories where you’re laughing until your stomach hurts, where you’re learning to love apple and bake apple pies to perfection, where you’re learning to do cartwheels with the little girl while his laughter echoes in the air. it’s all thanks to caleb—he reached out to you, deciding to integrate you into his world. you’re forever thankful that he decided to talk to you two years ago, thankful that he spoke to your parents about your feelings because otherwise you would be stuck in the dark.
caleb has brought light and warmth into your life, and now you are never cold and lonely. he even sticks to you like glue at school, never leaving you alone for a second in the classroom because somehow you always manage to be in the same class as him. sometimes you grow tired of having to keep up with the energetic boy, sometimes the fatigue wearing your bones down and rendering you useless. caleb seems to know when that happens, or maybe he doesn’t. what matters is that he seems to time his golden smile; it is a smile so radiant that it melts away what weighs you down.
and always being with him has made you adopt some of his habits, his attentiveness being the one that shines through the most. it’s what makes you notice your next door neighbor. days of careful glances makes you learn that he’s always reading on the porch of his house or he’ll do the same inside by the window, that he’s never with any other kids his age and that he’s never at the park.
maybe you should talk to him and—
“y/n~” caleb nudges your shoulder. you jerk in surprise and wobble on the tree branch you both sit on, gripping tightly onto the wood while you lean forwards from your lack of balance. the boy yelps and takes a firm hold of your arm, stabilizing you. “you scared me!”
you huff, glaring at him. “you scared me! i could've fallen just now, dimwit.”
he pouts, “but that's your fault! you weren't listening to me.”
“yes i was!”
“oh yeah?” caleb raises an eyebrow. “then what was i saying?” he snickers when you don't reply, gently nudging your shoulders this time because he learns from his mistakes, you know! “see? i was right. you keep staring over there.” he gestures in the general direction of where you keep staring. his finger touches the green leaves of the tree, the tips fading into a yellow color.
autumn is coming. not yet, but it will be there in due time.
you decide to tease him a little. “pft, you’re pointing at the leaves.”
his lips curl into a frown. “you know what i—”
“caleb!”
the eight year old girl comes running up to the tree, huffing as she points up at your best friend. “i-it’s time for dinner!” she tilts her head over at you, beaming. “gran said you can come, sis!”
caleb looks at you, “you coming?”
you smile at the girl before shaking your head, moving towards the tree trunk. “i need to do something,” you grunt, shimmying down whereas he just jumps off the branch and lands with a thud. the girls gasps and you gape at him with wide eyes once your feet hit the ground, “are you okay?”
“a-okay!” he grins, standing up proudly as if he didn’t just scare the living daylight out of you. caleb flexes a boney arm, “i’m strong, after all!”
“yeah, okay hercules.” you chortle, rolling your eyes. “i’ll see you around.”
you watch as he and she wave goodbye at you, caleb hooking their arms together as they disappear into their house afterwards. you notice that there's a tightness in your chest when you see them hold hands or hook their arms together—it happens sometimes, not always. like right now: your chest tightens a little, feeling heavy. you chalk it up to wanting to do that with caleb one day and go your merry way.
your mom is startled when she opens the front door just as you reach out for the doorknob. she holds a container with cake inside. “goodness,” she chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek. “you scared me.”
“are you going next door again?” you move to the side so your mom can walk out.
she hums, “i am! i left some—”
“can i come this time?” you usually don't go to the dinners your mom has with zayne’s family every friday, always heading to hers and caleb’s house instead despite your mom’s best efforts in convincing you to join her. you always had an inkling that she wanted you to spend time with the older boy next door.
your mom beams at you so wide that you’re taken aback as she drags you to the li’s front door. did it really mean that much to her that you want to join this time? well, you’re on a mission to get close to zayne so that he can have friends too.
speaking of the devil, the door opens immediately after your mom presses the doorbell, revealing the older boy. his eyes widen the slightest bit when he sees you, though he quickly regains composure, his features relaxing. with a small smile, he greets your mom. “hello, mrs l/n.” he directs his gaze at you next, “hi y/n.”
you blink in surprise. “…hi zayne.” you didn’t expect him to remember you because you don't particularly remember much about him.
he steps aside just as his mom appears from behind, momentary shock melting into a warm smile. “y/n! i’m so happy to see you! will she be joining us?” her eyes flit up to your mom, who nods excitedly.
you’re ushered inside and into a seat not even a second after being welcomed in. “we always have a plate and cutlery out in case you stop by,” mrs li says. a lump forms in your throat and it’s hard to swallow. you feel awful, knowing that every time you chose to stay with caleb, the li family had hope that you’d stop by and eat with them.
still, you somehow manage to smile at the older lady. “i’ll make sure to come with my mom from now on.”
“really?”
you nod. “of course,” holding out your pinkie, mrs li laughs and hooks her own with yours. “i promise.”
mrs li heads into the kitchen with your mom, leaving you and zayne alone at the dining table. he sits in the chair next to you and you fidget in your seat, not sure how to break the stifling silence. what would caleb do in this moment? he’d probably say something stupid or just go ahead and ask to be friends… that’s something only he could do easily, but for you? that’s a challenge.
“you look worried.” zayne says, looking at you from the corner of his eye.
you frown and play with your fingers, “was it that noticeable?”
zayne hums as the two moms come back with pots of food while chatting about your dad. “you aren't doing a good job at being subtle.”
his comment makes you huff through your nose, the corners of your lips curling upwards. caleb says that to you all the time, claiming that you make it is easy for him to read you.
“smiling suits you.”
you stop breathing and stare at the boy with raven hair, slowly blinking while the moms plate the food and continue talking. zayne glances at you again and then looks at his plate, eyebrows furrowed as he picks up a fork and pokes at the carrots, nudging them into a corner. “did i say something wrong?” he mumbles.
he didn't say anything wrong… it’s just that no one has said that to you. not even after your change, even if it was a small one.
not even caleb.
you shake your head, “no.” coughing, your eyes shift to his hands, seeing how he stabs the last carrot on his plate and places it in the corner along with the rest. “you… you still don’t like carrots?” you vaguely recall a memory from when you were about five: you and zayne were eating a plate of oranges when he suddenly spat it out and a chewed piece of carrot was then laying on the table. his mom had cut small pieces of carrot inside his bowl alone with the oranges, trying to trick him into eating them.
zayne’s hazel eyes widen. “you remember?”
with a snort, you answer, “you spit out the carrots every time your mom tried tricking you into eating them. that’s pretty hard to forget, if you’re asking me.”
his ears flush the lightest shade of pink, making you giggle as your fingers wrap around his plate, rotating it. with your other hand, you grab your fork and take his carrots.
“…thank you.”
“i should be thanking you,” you hum, “i love carrots.”
whereas you and caleb are polar opposites and only have a thing in common, you and zayne are not. you’re so alike: reserved and quiet, both sticking to what you deem is the vicinity of your personal bubble. it was easy to befriend him again; by the end of what remained of summer, you had introduced him to caleb and her. it did take a month and a half of convincing, of relentless pleading that convinced zayne to follow you to the park where she and caleb were playing as usual.
caleb and zayne didn't get along well right off the bat, and they always argued. it took you aback in the beginning, not used to seeing caleb argue so… pettishly with someone. much less with zayne. zayne baffles you every time he mutters under his breath about how caleb is ‘so annoying’ because all he does is talk about dinosaurs or is ‘a child’ during friday dinners at his house. well, he is a child, so he’s not wrong there. but with that logic, he should also be calling you a child and yet he doesn’t.
zayne does, however, get along well with her.
you see it in zayne’s attentiveness to the young girl, you see it in the way his voice softens when he speaks to her, and you see it in the way he hangs onto her every word as if it were something sacred.
you also see it in the way his ears sometimes turn the lightest shade of pink when he speaks to her.
when you think about it, they’re both alike in that way.
the sun is in the sky, bright and warm like the boy next to you.
“he’s trying to steal her from me,” grumbles caleb. he swings his legs back and forth while the two of you sit on a tree branch, zayne and the girl sitting underneath on the other side of the tree. she’s teaching him how to braid a crown of flowers, and you can see the small curl of his lips. he’s smiling a shy sort of smile only reserved for her.
“he can’t steal her from you because she isn’t an object.” you tear your eyes away from them and focus on the brooding boy beside you, taking note of how he pinches his brows together and pouts, mumbling something under his breath. while the branches and its leaves provide good shade from the sweltering heat, there is still sunlight that peeks through gaps, and golden specks manage to coat caleb’s figure. “that means you can’t have her either, cal.”
your words have him turning to you quickly, his eyes wide. “i can’t have her?”
“of course not!” your silent admiration of seconds ago dissipates as you scoff, flicking his forehead. he yelps as you continue, “she’s a person! you can’t have people; that’s weird.”
“but that monster is stealing my best friend!”
you frown, blinking once. “zayne isn’t a monster.” but caleb sure seems like one at the moment, you think. a monster of green envy.
“yes he is!”
“zayne is not a monster.” you repeat, irritation beginning to bubble in your chest because caleb wouldn't be saying such things if he didn't have this weird rivalry going on with zayne. “don’t say that about him.”
“why are you defending him anyways?” caleb narrows his eyes at you. “you’re supposed to be my friend—”
friend. best friend. you realize he hasn't ever really called you his best friend because she’s his best friend while you think he's yours. if he doesn't think that of you, then you can’t think that of him… right?
you both whip your heads to the ground, clambering down the tree as zayne calls out both yours and caleb’s name. if his voice hadn’t betrayed the frantic feeling swirling in it, maybe you wouldn’t have this overwhelming sense of dread. when you both round the tree trunk, you see that his face is pale, and he’s holding onto her. she’s trembling, her face paler than zayne’s as if all the color had been drained from her features, and she’s heaving and trembling uncontrollably. the sight makes your stomach drop to the ground as caleb dashes forwards, dropping to his knees while yelling about getting granny josephine to them. you honestly don't remember running to their house, asking josephine to help the little girl—it’s all a blur. all you can remember is how the two boys finally had something in common other than their care for the younger girl: their expression.
they were both horrified.
and you wonder if you looked like them.
your eleventh autumn was just like any other, but this time it was different because of him.
you decided to stay the night after having dinner at zayne’s so he could help you study for your science test on monday. caleb would have been the one helping you, being in the same classes and all, but he was helping her study. while you do love and care about her, you care more about your grades because surely the tests in middle school are harder than the ones in elementary, right?
you’ve been inside zayne’s room before. more often than not, after dinner, you’d end up in there with him while talking about everything and nothing. sometimes you’d both be quiet, content with just being next to each other while reading a book on his bed, and sometimes you both would talk about current hobbies and interests.
“where will you sleep?” zayne’s voice comes from near his bed while you head towards his desk.
“in your bed, duh.” your eyes skim over the surface, chuckling at how tidy it is… until your eyes fall on a haphazardly hidden pieces of paper underneath zayne’s stack of notebooks. weird, you think. zayne likes keeping notebooks, books, and papers separate from each other.
“why would you sleep in bed with me?” he asks.
“we used to sleep in the same bed when we were children.” which is true: your moms have a photo book with evidence in it from your younger days together. “i don’t see why we can’t if we’re still children.”
you hear him huff through his nose. he’s probably pinching it right now. “you’re eleven and i’m thirteen. you’re a child and i’m a teenager.”
“didn’t you say that teenagers are fourteen-year-olds and up the other day?” your fingers wrap around one of the notebook’s spine, carefully lifting it and whatver notebooks are on top and pull the pieces of papers out.
your eyes scan the contents of one of the pages, highlighted words aiding in your understanding of what it is that you’re reading. medical school… majors… he’s looking at colleges.
“well, yes.”
you turn around and hide the papers behind you. “so that means we can share the same bed, right?”
zayne sighs, shaking his head while his lips curl upwards just the slightest bit. “you win this round, miss know-it-all.”
you grin at him and bring the papers out. “you sure i’m a know-it-all?”
the older boy stares at the papers you wave in the air, staying silent as if trying to find the words to explain something to you. you raise your eyebrows. “staying silent makes you look like you were hiding something from me.”
“well… i am. was, i was.” zayne corrects himself and sits down at the edge of his bed, patting the space next to him. you take a seat and eye him. “i’ve been trying to tell you this past summer that… well…” he sighs. “i skipped grades.”
“oh—” you gasp, eyes widening to the size of saucers. “so this means…”
majors.
medical school.
he’s grad—
he exhales slowly. “i’m graduating from high school this year.”
you feel the world go still. you hear your breathing. you feel cold. suddenly, you feel deep and heavy dread wash over you.
after this year, zayne will leave.
your best friend is leaving you.
“why are you crying?” zayne panics, clumsily wiping the tears you didn’t know were falling down your cheeks. the pad of his thumb is a little rough against your skin, but his touch is soft. he’s trying to be gentle, and it makes you feel more gloomy.
“i don’t know,” you mumble, hiccupping as you look down at your hands, watching the tears he doesn’t manage to wipe away fall onto them. “it’s just…” do you tell him? that you don’t want him to leave you alone? sure, caleb is a great friend but you’ve come to realize, since the incident last summer, that she will always be his top priority and—
majors. medical school… her.
“you’re doing this for her, aren’t you?” your voice is quiet.
you love her, you do. she’s like a little sister, and you obviously care for her like they do. but they care more, they love her more. you don’t quite understand the intensity of their love for her. and despite their burning ardor in wanting to be there for her and how it always ends up making you invisible, you can’t bring yourself to ever hate her. she’s innocent, just living her life while the two boys flock to her. she didn’t ask for their attention or love, it’s just that she’s so easy to love.
“…don’t tell her.” zayne’s hands fall from your cheeks and grab onto your hands. his touch is cold, unlike caleb, but it doesn’t make you flinch away from him. you let him take your hands into his, holding them carefully. “please.”
you huff through your nose. “if that’s what you want,” you answer. “it isn’t my place to tell them, anyways.”
it’s quiet, peaceful almost if you weren’t so caught up in the sinking feeling your chest. your heart just sinks and continues to sink in black ink, growing heavy. zayne’s voice timidly calls out your name. “you’re still crying. there’s more to it, isn’t there?”
“i don’t want you to leave.” because if he leaves, you’re afraid that you’ll have to admit the ugly truth you know, deep down, about caleb. it’s a truth that is so clear to everyone, a truth that you see every single time they’re in their own world. a world that pushes you and zayne out like the waves when they leave shore and retreat back into the ocean.
the older buy chuckles, and you look at him through your wet lashes, noting how his hazel eyes flicker with quiet care in them. “i’m not leaving yet.”
“keyword being yet,” you mumble, gripping onto his hands now. “…i’m being dramatic, aren’t i?”
zayne opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “i should be happy that you’re doing something so cool. i mean, skipping basically all of high school and graduating super early? that’s so cool… and i’m here crying like a baby over it.”
“but your reaction is reasonable,” zayne says. “i’d be upset, too, if my best friend told me all of sudden they’d be leaving at the end of the school year.”
best friend. not just friend.
“i’m your best friend?”
“naturally.” zayne responds quickly. “you know me better than anyone, just as i know you better than anyone.”
just like that, your tears stop falling and the sun peeks out from the cloudy sky inside you.
the rest of the night goes smoothly: zayne helped you study for your science test, which you both found boring after an hour because all of the questions were easy, and you spent the rest of your time talking with him. you wanted to know of his plans, what he’s thinking, about what he wants to do after graduating. you both fell asleep in the midst of your conversation, though you wake up at three in the morning because you felt weird. your own body was telling you that you forgot to do your night routine. so when you wake up, all blurry-eyed and dazed, the first thing you can see is your sleeping best friend. after a couple of blinks, your vision clears up and you’re aware that you’re close to him. in fact, you’re close enough to see and count his dark eyelashes. you pout, no way he has prettier eyelashes than i do. the thought goes away as quickly as it had formed in your mind, replaced by the icky realization that you fell asleep without brushing your teeth. so you sit up, gently waking zayne so he could do the same. when he stirs awake and stares at you with squinting eyes, he knows what you mean when all you do is wordlessly point at your mouth despite the sleepy haze of his mind. and just like that, you both silently head to the bathroom and brush your teeth next to each other, quickly going back to his bed and falling asleep once more.
when morning came, you both find yourselves staring at his mom with confusion as she giggles and repeatedly asks how you both slept during breakfast. you think she must have seen something while you both slept, though you decide to let your suspicions go when you bid the li family goodbye and head next door to your house.
mom will probably tell me about it later tonight, you think just as you shove your house keys into the lock. you push the door open and kick your shoes off your feet, sliding them to the side and slipping into your slippers when you step inside. you hear someone running down the street, and right when you’re about to close the door, you hear your name being called out.
“i didn’t see you at all yesterday!” caleb runs up to you, a bright grin plastered on his lips. with his back to the sun, he looks as if he's bathed in gold. “pips missed you, you know? what were you up to that—what’s that?”
you blink once and suddenly he’s in your bubble, burning fingers gingerly touching your eye. you close it on instinct, and he runs his thumb over your eyelid. you can see yourself reflected in his eyes from this close. his warmth seeps into your skin, and you have the urge to lean into his touch. your heart lurches and skips a beat, feeling excited and calm at the same time.
“what’s what?” you cough, taking a step back.
he frowns, his thumb now under your bottom lashes. “your eyes are red and puffy. are you sick or something? you feel oddly hot.”
oh, that’s right. you cried yesterday, and you feel as if your heart is ready to jump out of your chest and into his arms where it wishes it could be.
“i’m fine. it’s just that i watched a sad movie after dinner with zayne,” you sigh, gently pushing his fingers away from your eyes. zayne’s words echo in your head, a quiet reminder that you can't tell caleb because he’d tell her right afterwards.
caleb huffs through his nose, his lips curling into an amused smile. he shakes his head once, his purple irises reflecting the warmth he radiates. “you do cry a lot while watching movies, don’t you?” he leans back and tilts his head at you. “alright.”
you furrow your eyebrows. “alright… what?”
“even though you’re clearly hiding something from me, i believe you.” caleb pinches your cheek, the amusement in his lips softening. “i’ll see you later?”
“yeah…” you say, dazed, but shake your head quickly. “wait, what are we doing?”
caleb laughs, the hand pinching your cheek now covering his mouth, “don’t tell me you forgot that we’re supposed to study for the science test on monday?”
“about that…” you look away from him. “zayne helped me study for it last night.”
his silence has you taking a quick glance at him. caleb seems shocked and his eyebrow twitches, though it disappears and is replaced by something you can’t quite describe. a forced smile of sorts? “he helped you study?” he asks. “then what’s your verdict? will the test be easy or hard?”
you scratch your cheek, thinking. “well… even though he helped me study for a bit, i say the test is going to be very easy.”
“guess that means i won’t study.” caleb shrugs and ruffles your hair, a real smile on his lips now. “talk to you later, short stuff.”
“i am not that short, cal!” ever since he’s grown an exact inch taller than you, he acts like you're a midget now.
you watch as he waves goodbye, walking backwards for a couple steps with a laugh before twisting around and heading down the street. he’s probably heading to the small dessert shop nearby to pick up some of her favorite doughnuts—it’s what he does every saturday morning.
your twelfth autumn marks your first one without zayne.
he left at the end of summer, right as the tips of the green-yellow leaves on your favorite tree began turning a slight orange, barely noticeable. his disappearance had gone unnoticed until yesterday, half way into the fall quarter and midway into october. you’re in the middle of reading a book, one of your dad’s that he let you borrow, on his bed laying on your stomach while caleb helps her do her homework at his desk. he has a singular picture on it that he puts down whenever you're over, but you never ask why he does that.
“where is zayne?” she wondered aloud, tapping her pencil against her chin. “i haven’t seen him around lately.”
“huh,” caleb clicks his tongue in thought. “now that you mention it, neither have i.”
both their eyes land on you, though you don’t bother looking up. with practiced ease, you reply. “i haven’t seen him around.”
“but you go to his house every friday? and he’s your best friend? surely you know something.” she leans forwards in her chair, trying to get a better look at you.
“i go every friday because i made a promise to his mom,” you retort, finally looking up. with a shrug, you continue, “his mom hasn’t said anything about his whereabouts, so i’m just as clueless as you bunch.”
the girl drops it, a smile now on her lips. “your dad is coming home soon, right?”
you blink in surprise. “you remember?” you mentioned it in passing, it was when she and you were watching caleb during basketball tryouts. you told her that your dad would be coming back soon from the fleet, how you were excited to finally see him after so long.
caleb huffs a laugh through his nose, “of course she remembers, short stuff.”
you grimace, rolling onto your side and reach out to grab something in your vicinity, which happens to be a pen on his bedside, and fling it towards him. “you are literally just a couple inches taller than me, cal.” he’s actually a whole head taller than you now, and caleb's growing into his features. his cheeks have started losing their softness, his eyes a little sharper now. he has a natural, boyish charm, something that makes everyone notice him at school.
he loudly laughs, the pen stopping right in front of him before he swats it away. it lands with a clatter against the floor, somewhere in his room. with a huff, you lay on your back. “better work on that aim, short stuff~” he sings, getting up from his desk and heading over to his bed. you look up at him, your lips pursed as he pinches your cheek, purple eyes warm with mirth. his hair falls over his eyes, making its color look deeper. “how else are you going to get into the aerospace academy with me?”
you raise your brows, “you're acting as if you're already in.”
“well—”
the girl hums. “so you both want to leave me.”
just like that, caleb is back at her side and you’re all alone. “i would never leave you, pips.”
“pinkie promise?”
you watch from the corner of your eye how he wears a soft smile as they wrap their pinkies, his touch lingering.
you aren't stupid; in fact, you pride yourself in being so smart and attentive. so, you know that the tightness in your chest is because of caleb, because of the feelings you harbor for him. you aren't stupid, so you already know that caleb can never be yours, that he can never feel that way for you.
because he is hers.
with a sigh, you close your eyes and will yourself to calm your aching heart. you should be used to the ache that settles in your chest when this happens, but here you are.
later that day, right as the sun begins to set, you bid her and granny josephine goodbye. the taste of her apple pie from dinner lingers in your mouth.
“you don’t have to walk me home, cal.” you say, chuckling as you bump shoulders with him. instead of walking across the street, you walk down the sidewalk.
he hums, following you, “just let me be a good friend, short stuff.”
“you just love rubbing it in, don’t you?” you grumble, stepping into the park. your feet take you to the tree until you’re in front of it. you look behind you, raising an eyebrow at caleb. “i’ll stay here for a few minutes, so you can leave if you want.”
“i’ll stay.” at his confirmation, he moves past you, a faint scent of apples lingering in the air along with the sweet, woody smell from the oak tree as he scales up the trunk with ease. “your turn!”
“yeah, yeah.” you huff, rolling your eyes as you climb the tree and make it to the branch caleb chose to sit at. you breathe in and out slowly.
“the tunnel makes the sky look ugly.”
you snort, slightly baffled at the sudden proclamation from the boy. “where did that come from?”
“what?” caleb shrugs with a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “it does make it look ugly. like, really ugly.”
your quiet giggles get louder, and you throw your head back. “that is the first time i have ever heard anyone say that.” you wheeze, your laughter so strong you wobble on the branch. caleb wraps an arm around you to keep you from falling, his touch making you still instantly.
“you need to be careful,” he says. “one of these days you’re going to end up falling and i’ll fall with you.”
“if i ever fall, it’ll be because of you.” you cough and attempt to shimmy away from him, though his grip slightly tightens, preventing you from getting away.
the brunette absentmindedly taps on your arm with a finger. “i’d never let you fall… you know that.”
he’s saying that because you're his friend, and he is fiercely protective of those he cares about: the people in his inner circle. you are a part of it, you know that, and yet your heart cannot help but to stupidly flutter at the illusion of a hidden meaning behind his words.
“…it’s getting late.” which is true—the oranges and pinks of the sunset are now bleeding into a purple hue. “i should get going now.” you don't wait for him to say anything; you just climb down the trees as quickly and possible and book it to your home.
caleb is not far behind you.
stepping on the first step of your house’s porch, you stop and turn around. you’re eye to eye with caleb.
caleb wears a boyish grin on his lips, something that makes your stomach flip. “i have something for you.”
“oh? and what would that be?” the corners of your lips turn upwards.
“how about you close your eyes?” you shut your eyes, hearing intently to the boy shuffling. you feel a warmth brush against your cheek, trailing over to the back your neck. “give me a second.”
you hold your breath. caleb’s fingers work nimbly, and something cold hangs around your neck. there’s silence for a beat; he’s still close enough for you to hear his breathing until he leans away. “open your eyes.”
they flutter open at his command, and flitter down to see a necklace. there is a cloud with a wispy appearance right at the bottom, and small translucent beads hang from it in white and blue. the chain around your neck is decorated with solid white and blue beads.
“do you like it?” caleb scratches his neck, eyes carefully watching your reaction.
your voice comes out quiet, shy. “i do.”
you hear the smile in his voice. “i’ve been trying to give it to you since your birthday.”
“what?” looking up from the necklace, you blink at him repeatedly. “but my birthday—”
“i know.” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “i’ve had it since last year, and… i just didn’t know how to give it to you. i thought now would be a good time.”
i thought now would be a good time.
his words echo in your mind, and you take a deep breath. you also have something you want to give him: it’s sitting in the drawer of your desk, in a small box. “do you… do you want to come inside?”
you’ve never invited anyone inside your house, inside the walls that is your safe space. zayne is the only one who has stepped foot inside, who has made it up the stairs and into your room on more than one occasion. caleb used to bug you about that when you two first met, into the early months of your friendship. he thought it was weird that you were always over at his home while he had never gone inside yours. his complaints stopped when you introduced zayne to them—probably because he didn’t want to be around him despite the desire he had to discover what lays hidden in your home. you like to think that he finally decided to wait until you were ready to show him what’s inside.
caleb’s eyes are wide with surprise. “you want me to go inside?”
“i also have something for you.”
despite the poor lighting of the porch lamp, caleb is still akin to gold. he smiles and you turn around to unlock the front door, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. when you open the door and hold it open for him, caleb is all too quick to walk inside, following you up the stairs into your room after you shut the door. his eyes scan the inside of your room as soon as you turn on the lights, shuffling over to your desk as he stands by the doorframe. the color of your walls are a light blue, strings attached to the ceiling with paper clouds hanging at the end. he realizes there’s glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling after squinting. there’s a book shelf in the corner of your room, right besides your desk. the top shelf has a few trinkets: a small airplane, a blimp, a cap.
he assumes it's your dad’s cap, the one that goes with his uniform.
the second shelf has a couple of books, a stuffed animal in the form of a snowman, and a picture: the last one you took with your parents. last summer, you and your family took a trip to verona. in the picture, your dad has you hoisted onto his shoulders, an arm on your legs to keep you steady while the other is wrapped around your mom. everyone wears a smile, yet yours is the brightest one out of the three. caleb’s chest swells with pride, knowing he did the right thing all those years ago when he found you crying at the big oak tree.
the third shelf has a picture, one where it’s you and him. he remembers when, where and who took the picture. it was on your last day of school, your fifth grade promotion ceremony, and your mom took it. again, your smile is the brightest one. though, upon further inspection, he realizes your picture is different from the one he has on his desk. you’ve decorated it with small stickers, ones of golden and purple swirls that sit on the frame.
then there’s more books. another picture frame—is that zayne? you and zayne as children… oh, well you look at that? another picture frame of you and zayne. a recent picture, it seems, decorated in the same manner as his. he’s not sure when or where or who took this picture—
“think fast!”
caleb blinks and the flying box stills in front of him, floating in the air before it can hit his chest. “uh… why?”
“gotta be on your toes if you want to be in the aerospace academy with me.”
he laughs. “look at you, already acting as if you’re in.”
you shrug. “you do the same.”
“touché.” his eyes look down at the box. with a hum, he grabs and opens it, blinking once. inside sits a necklace, one with a small, silver sun on it with a purple gem in the middle. “…a sun?”
“you remind me of the sun.” you mumble. “you’re warm like it, too.”
caleb beams so wide his cheeks start to hurt, and there's faint blush on his cheeks that spreads to the tips of his ears. “i’m like the sun?”
“mhm.”
“funny… because i got you a cloud because sometimes you’re calm and happy, sometimes you’re gray and gloomy, and there are times when you’re like a storm.”
you stare at him, wide-eyed, and he continues. “tell me when you feel like there’s a storm in you.” he gets closer to you so that he can tap on the necklace that hangs around your neck. “so i can shine the sun on you... i will never hurt you with my warmth.”
it’s a silent promise that he’ll be there for you.
“and if you do?”
“then you can hit me!”
his fingers twitch, his foot taking a step forwards. but there’s a knock on your door before it’s pushed open. both you and caleb watch, confused.
your mom has a night shift and wouldn’t be back until morning.
caleb doesn't see a thing before you’re already leaping forwards into the arms of a man in a black uniform, his cap falling onto the ground. he recognizes the man as the one that holds you on his shoulders in the picture on your bookshelf.
your dad, the colonel of the farspace fleet.
caleb smiles to himself, his hold on the tiny box in his hands slightly tightening. he will be there for you, whenever you're sad or happy or mad.
he will be there.
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taglist. @ellieevu @ryusjwks @llamabois @kazbrkker @1ncpst @babythotbox @angelwhizpers @miffysoo
Formatting time! New fic incoming!
jason todd x reader
[jason had one rule, and you couldn’t listen ]
MDNI !!! (·•᷄ࡇ•᷅ ) .ᐟ ⊹₊ ⋆ 18+ [5k word count ]
lowercase intended!!
JASON’s RULE — you've talked about it before, you've both agreed. no toys. a few here and there to make it interesting and to test eachothers limits, and to have fun, but the main agreement was no dilldo.
you’d tease the idea just to get a reaction out of him of course. laying down on his chest and casually bringing it up. “so id been thinking of a new toy to try.” you slowly and quietly say to him. his blue - toned irises gave you an unsure look, but proceeded to let you ask with a simple response “shoot!”
“what if we tried a dil—“ “no.” “I didn’t even fini—“ “exactly because I already know what you’re going to say. and the answer is fucckkk no, but please doll i dare you to get one. i would love for you to face the consequences,” and u went silent, he took that as a sign you understood him, not to push him or test him, but deep down he dared you, and it was tempting.
jason did not appreciate the idea of anything other than his cock shape ingrained inside you. he believes your pussy was made for him. the first time he pushed inside you, he almost came. you were so tight, your delicate vaginal walls squeezing him and sucking him in all the right ways. he was melting at the feeling of everything all at once and couldn't help but whimper at the sight of you. “fu..fuck mmnn..(y/n)”
his eyes trained on you're smooth plump thighs wrapped around his waist pushing him in deeper, locking him in. while your latest nail set sacredly rooting into his bulky biceps while his wide hands slowly trace your curves. the way you didn't have to say anything, it was the way your eyes said everything. how desperate, yet secure you felt with him. he couldn’t help but worship you in a corrupted way. he needed to bruise you. having you laid out in front of him like a blank canvas. he had creative freedom to color your neck and chest shades of reds and purples, leaving these beautiful marks all around you to show his art off to the world.
he loved sucking on your sizable tits too, the way he would gingerly bite on your nipple just hard enough to make you slightly gasp. his hand would be carelessly tugging and twisting your other nipple making sure it wasn’t neglected. squeezing as much of the fat of your chest as he could even when they’d start bouncing at the content movement of him thrusting into you. when twisting your nipple with his teeth, he looked up and saw you covering your mouth. and this irritated him. ‘thwack’ smacking your already sensitive breast making you gasp. “don’t piss me off doll, cover your mouth again and i’ll stop everything” nodding your head in agreement “verbal response sweetheart,” he said moving his hand towards your forearm and pinning the part of your arm to the bed.
“mnnhn y..yes.. fuck.. i.. nuhhg just dont want to be to loud..” you said running your other hand through his scalp making him shiver in delight, slowly pushing harder into you. “i need you loud baby, need gotham to hear you, i want a goddamn noise complaints tomorrow morning, i.. jesus.. nhhg.. dont care how loud you are..” he sighed into your neck, bucking upwards deeper to a distant warm spongy corner inside you. “nnnmghfuck.. jason.. mnm” tightening and releasing around him. “so.. fuckkin..warm.. god..damnit”he groaned, moderately twitching inside you.
jason couldnt get enough of you’re praise, hiccuping how quintessential his cock was to you, he appreciated how well you listened and babbled on about his efforts to please you. “j-jason..jay baby.. please.. please.. so good, your so gorgeous.. god..fuck, solucky.. i- auhggh-,” you’d whine. “shit.. a dildo wouldn’t compare to you.. a pathetic peice of silicone w..wouldn’t compare to your cock b..baby, such a..a pretty cock”
“i know, doll” he chuckled lowly watching you writhe against his lower abdomen while he roughy played and massaged your clit, feeling the slick and creamy texture of both of your pre cum making a ivory ring around your pussy. “jay… baby.. f..faster please.. pleaseplease i need it.. I’ve been good!!” you begged, pushing your hip harder against him feeling him slow down, sensing him watch your every single move while he just played in pre cum. “.. jason..fuck…mnuggh mnm”
“would a didlo make you this sticky, so disgustingly wet i can feel u dripping down to my balls right now, huh sweetheart?” he said showing you his thick goopy fingers, then sucking them dry. it was starting to become a struggle to talk, trying to form a sentence would ultimately end up with you moaning and mumbling. and when he notices how limp you were starting to come, he decided to finally make you fully cum on his cock. he has been edging himself for a while, only slowing down certain times because of how quickly he was about to cum. you were his weakness, everything about you make him want to cum.
speeding up, pounding into you relentlessly you’d felt a  familiar yet unusual sensation in your lower abdomen. a warm feeling that you felt your raw clit puff to even more. “cum for me. fuck, please.. p..please.. doll cum on me… mmn cum on my cock, you need to… i need you to.” jason whimpered next to your ear. the squelching sound driving jason crazy he needed more of it. he lifted both of your legs and threw them over his shoulder, never slipping out of you. you were forever grateful for this position. because the new angle it let jason kiss your cervix wall. beautifully designed for jason, his cock missed it. but as much as he loved it, he enjoyed pushing deeper and mistreating, boundaries just to go through you’re cervix even more.
“jay.. im gonna.. fuckfuckfuckplease…mmmghh” with the movement of his dick, fingers and his desperate mouth whimpering that he needed you, you squirted on his chest and lower abdomen, dripping down his balls to the completely ruined bed sheets, not stopping and causing you to jolt from the overwhelming sensation, tighten around him harder almost pushing him out. “holy.. holy f..fuck..mnnh shiit (y/n).. good girl..fuuck,” jason panted. while he gripped your hips leaving indents of his finger nails into you, keeping you in place. Inhaling the warm scent of your juice while your pussy made a heavenly squelching noise. watching your eyes roll into the back of your head and his previously steady pace, now turned into a sloppy rhythm ‘plap, plap, plap, plap’ with the feeling of you still slightly squirting on him. jason finally came. hard. he couldn’t stop rutting Into you, overstimulating you, causing you to forcible convulse and tremble your whole body. each demanding thrust he unforgivably pushed Into your tried body, he couldn’t stop cumming . pumping into you large ropes of thick cum until he collapsed, losing vision. stuck inside of you trapping you inbetween his huge biceps, panting heavily.
*.ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
but unfortunately, that kind of passion was a couple months ago.
as confident as jason was about you never needing a dildo, he forgot how difficult and tight his schedule was. of course you’d see him maybe two times a week, but it wasnt like it use to be. the passion creeped into small excuses of ‘im to tired’ or ‘maybe tomorrow?’ which you’d overthought about plenty of times. was he uninterested with you now? what changed? you were started to feel neglected. always picking the vigilante life instead of his girl. you knew what was to come with his lifestyle, it was hard enough to spend time together, let alone any intimate time together.
"im sorry doll, patrol is probably going to take longer tonight! ill talk to u soon <3" he texts. texts. he didnt even have the nerve to call. plus it's been tough communicating. when it's spotty conversations and repetitive "how was ur day" then him taking hours to respond, you started getting frustrated. needy. so you decide to spoil yourself . because you have needs, and they must be fulfilled. even if it’s not the same, you were getting impatient with your own fingers not being able to reach far enough or cramping up.
so a few days later you see a couple notifications on your phone.
[3 messages] jay🫀
jay🫀: hey doll
jay🫀: i can call tonight, it’s been slow
jay🫀: just call whenever you got time
[ mail notifications]
[ your order has been delivered 💌 ]
one notification you were more interested in than the others. you hopped off the couch, put your phone in a back pocket and made your way to your apartment lobby towards the mailboxes. reasonable size mail boxes for living in gotham, usually they are confined and only fit paper mail, but your apartment was a little bit nicer. the only thing was the front building doors were broke, letting in anyone which was concerning. while grabbing your key, you feel your phone buzz some more, but you knew you’d get to it later.
and there you saw it, a cute, big pink box. you smiled and closed the mailbox, locking it and racing upstairs. the rush of excitement and anxiety washed over you. of course you, felt like you deserved this, but the thought of jason finding out scared you a little, but slightly turned you on too.
you opened the box with a switchblade jason had purchased you a while ago. and inside there it was, a realistic natural light skinned toned silicone dildo, you tried to get one to match jason’s size, but.. you couldnt find anything as girthy..
you place the box rear the trash and grabbed the dildo and are impressed with how realistic it looked. it had veins and this mushroom tip was pinker than jason’s. “wow, this.. is crazy,” you say to yourself. it’s not like you havent see a dildo, it was just the fact of how much time probably went into this.
walking into your room you start undressing, taking youre phone out of your pocket you see jason tried to call you five minutes ago. youre stomach dropped a bit and just tried to psychic yourself out and forget about it, you’d call him in a couple minutes. you laid down on the plush bed with your phone next to you that you lazily threw close to your thighs and then slowly started opening your legs, your nervous hands making their way to your clit. circling sweet motions to the damp bundles of nerves. slowly breathing and closing your eyes imagining it was jason’s thick fingers.
“hmm jay..mhmh” you sighed, feeling the clit slightly puff. picking up the pace, you rub and tug on the sensitive nerve until you feel your pussy start to drip ever so slightly. making you trail your dampened fingers towards your vaginal opening. “mnhphm..jason..” sliding your middle finger inside yourself, feeling the tight gummy wall suck on your finger. “fuck..hnm” your middle finger casually building a pace you found yourself enjoying. adding your ring finger to help break up the tight walls, scooping and pushing yourself further in causing pretty groans from you. “mmnholy..shit.. fu..fuck ja.jason”
imagining jason was what helped you the most. the way he touched you and loved finger fucking you. watching you cry while he barely moved his fingers. replaying memories of what he’d praise to you before “one more finger baby.. you can take it, youre doing so good for me… youre still so tight fuck baby…be a good girl and hold your legs open for me.. just like that uh huh… gotta put my index finger in okay doll, fuck,” — and that’s what you’d done. moved positions and fully on your back with your legs in the air, penetrating yourself with three fingers quickly rushing in and out of you. moaning jason’s name. becoming clingy for his cock, begging into the space of your room about how much you needed him.
with a ‘pop‘ you withdrew your finger and grabbed the dildo, with a feeling of liquid dripping down to the bed. lining the thick toy with your now moistened hole. you knew to carefully push it in, slowly inch by inch so you wouldn’t hurt yourself, which was funny considering jason’s cock was bigger.
fully inside, you paused while you caught your breath. having to be in control for the first time in a while with a dildo you were unsure and forgot how much work you had to do. you were starting to sweat a little, having it deep enough to the point the fake balls laid stiffly by your anus.
lazily pulling it out and back in with the somewhat familiar sting making you sigh. pushing it deep enough to make you sing. “uaaghh fuck! jason..hmph..” repeatedly fucking yourself with a toy you were never supposed to have. that jason dared you would be consequences. thinking about what jason would do, made you squeeze the dildo, how much trouble you’d be in.
and it was like you manifested him. as so on as you were thinking about all the trouble you’d be in. he was calling you. that ‘ill call him in a couple minutes’ turned into fifteen extra minutes. you panicked hitting the red ‘decline’ button with blurry eyes. and started to speed up the thrusting and ramming so you’d cum quickly and call him back like nothing happened.
or so thought you. turns out you accidentally answered him. your teary eyes deceived you when you frantically tried to end the call. and the first thing jason had the displeasure of hearing was the familiar ‘plah, plah, plah” and you whining “hurry..fuck.. fucking piece of rubber dick…” crying out, slowly regretting the purchase. you couldn’t seem to cum. as roughly and impatient you were with yourself including the sound of sex in the air, it just wasn’t the same.
but! how sweet of you, you know jason’s favorite color was red, so that’s what you made him see.. red. he had tried calling you letting you know it was so slow, tim and dick didn’t mind he left early to be with you. because he missed you.
but that feeling was immediately exchanged with enrage.his face dropping at the mention of a dildo. he kept you on the line and muted himself so you wouldn’t hear him hang up. sprinting to his motorcycle, not giving a fuck about his helmet. he shot off into the night. racing through streets and weaving through cars going 90 miles per hour. all while he knew you were on the other line, still sliding that amateur peice of silicone inside yourself. it genuinely pissed him off. — luckily for jason you didn’t live far. and with the mix of rage and his dangerous driving, he’d gotten to your apartment rapidly fast. what would’ve taken fifteen-ish minutes to get to you, only took him about five minutes.
jason climbed off his ride, stomping on the pavement with his phone to his ear with the most irritated and frustrated look. he knew your apartment front doors were broke, meaning he had easy access to enter. which he wouldn’t just broke them himself in all honesty. “nnuggh…jay..damnit..fuckfuck,” was the sad annoyed sigh you’d unintentionally been whining into jason’s ear. “ja..jasson..nhhunghg..please..”
his heavy footsteps echoing through the stairs of your apartment, which everyone could hear — it was weird he’d actually come in like a normal person for once instead of climbing through your window.
Intentionally, of course, so he’d be able to catch you in the act.
he’d finally made it to your apartment door. grabbing the key from the top of the door frame. and quietly entering, which was hard considering how badly he wanted to slam the door. slowly walking in and closing the door behind him, he locked it then processed to walk towards the kitchen— spotting an empty large pink box by the trash can.
“jesus christ,” jason said to himself, then perking up at the sound of your moans. when he said wanted a noise complaint a while ago— he’d meant he’d be the only one to make you scream like that to your neighbors. and it aggravated him even more that he could feel his bulge start to grow in his pants. cussing to himself, but your beautiful voice always made his dick twitch. just a simple ‘i love you’ would make him stretch his underwear, filling up the little amount room he already had left.
walking closer to your room, the faint sound of you fucking yourself could be heard. “so close..fuck..nggh..socloseplease” which jason’s dick twitched at, slowly fatten his pants enough to make him semi uncomfortable, but the moment he heard you were close he opened the bedroom door slightly to see you holding one of your thighs up while this mediocre looking dick was plunging into you. your eyes sealed shut, trying to focus on cumming. you’d usually been creaming on jason’s cock by now, and you were just now getting close to your first orgasm. and jason knew that too.
he opened the door and quietly walked to you, previously loud and aggressive steps, now quiet and calculated. “jason..jay..fuck..jay baby…” and pant his name three times, he shall appear…and under any other circumstances he wouldn’t be standing over you pissed off as he was. showing you his phone with it still on call. and that’s when it hits you, gasping because he scared you plus you could perfectly see how livid yet turned on he was, but also because at the same moment you hit the perfect spot so many times.. you came.
“nuhhhgghaa…jasonbaby.. s..sosorry.. plea—“ you lost your breath the moment jason unexpectedly and carelessly tore the toy out of you. hearing the suction of the dildo pop out of you mid orgasm, now jason holding onto the saturated silicone. watching your vagina breath open and close while liquid spilled out of you. “jason im s—“ “don’t. don’t say another goddamn word (y/n). i mean it.” his deep voice hissed at you. “this? this half-pint fucking fake dick made you cum? huh doll? you’re joking.. no you can’t be because i just witnessed it. fucking christ (y/n).. one rule, you couldn’t even listen to that…let’s compare huh” he rambled starting to unbuckle his belt one handed, combo shoving his pants and underwear down kicking them to random side of your room. all still while he was gripping the toy.
his dick hung heavily, beautifully. you’d missed the sight of just looking at it making your mouth tingle and water in delight. sitting up more you couldn’t keep your eyes off his cock. making jason twitch enough to make it move on its own. you started reaching out to touch him ‘whack’ “don’t test me right now doll.. now look” he trailed off, grabbing his dick slowly stroking it in front of your face. he lined the light colored dildo next to his own real and thick cock “and to think you were moaning my name with this wimpy piece of shit, now you’re pushing limits. fucking disgusting,” and he wasn’t even wrong. the sizes were very different. and it was completely noticeable, jason throwing it against a wall while it made a ‘thud’ sound. “one rule (y/n) that was it.”
. “jay can i say someth-“ “no” “you need to stop cutting me off jason.—let me talk, please baby.” and he went quiet. his anger slightly fading. and you took his silence as he was listening, willingly able to understand everything. all while he was watching from above you. “i know i shouldn’t have gotten it—“
“damn straight” “but! you have been extremely busy and distant these past couple weeks, you made it seem like you didn’t care about me anymore. your dry texts, not calling anymore, basically dick riding gothams idiots criminals then actually letting me dick ride you… i just miss you jay and im sorry i didn’t say something sooner,”
that’s when he grabbed your face and gently kissed your lips, humming soft ‘im sorry’s’ to you. and laying you down delicately on the bed. “im sorry too doll, i had been neglecting you.. fuck..i love you so fucking much it’s insane, i just blow at showing it and communicating properly doll, because honestly, you’re the only person i will work on things for, because you’re all i will ever need or want.” he said caressing your face then kissing your forehead. “but i still needed to punish you.” “what ?— jason!!..fuck!!”
without warning he slammed his cock into you, — making you groan loudly “you won’t be cumming anymore tonight, doll. im going to make sure of it, as much as i love you.. umnnh..shit.. im a man of my word..and actions have consequences” not hesitating at all to basically use you as he pleases. not caring if he hits your ‘g’ spot. he wants to cum inside you selfishly as much as he can all while denying you that pleasure of your own release.
jason was stretching you out even more than that toy ever could, his cock perfectly ingraining back into you. “you..can’t be serious..” you groaned
“dead serious, doll.” he chuckled “tonight, no clit playing, no pampering, and no holding back—enjoy it or don’t, you won’t be the one cumming” and like that he dives to your lips like a hungry animal, while you make delicious little sounds and respond with the same hunger, sparking a fire in his belly. making his face flush. while your hard nails were placed on his shoulder you leisurely started digging into him. dragging them down his back attempting to leave any indication how great he was fucking you. making jason whimper into your mouth causing you to squeeze around him at the hypnotic sound.
loving the feel of your plush skin pudge through his fingers. tightening his grip as the soft sound of you mumbling sweet nothings into his ear making him speed up his pace. recklessly grinding into you at a harsh pace enough to make you beg jason “jay.. please..please can i-”
“fuck off” his voice deep and laced with a warning tone, smacking your upper thigh with his palm, making you clench around him. “don’t think about it doll..i swear to god..”
his pace unbearable, making your eyes roll to the back of your head as you cling to him. praying he cums soon, before you do accidentally. his nails kneading into ur hips while grinding, finding the perfect spot that makes him tingle. his hands start to slowly gravitate towards your tits, he starts sucking on one side, harshly biting down on the nipple causing you to moan out in pain. “i know your close.. so goddamn tight.. jesus.. don’t fucking cum (y/n).” he said smacking your tit, casually going back to biting down on the sensitive nerve. while his unsympathetic grip on your other tit squeezing down and gripping at the nipple pulling at it and releasing it a couple times, making you even more sensitive. just to hear your voice call out into the night about how great he was making you feel. “fucking love your tits” mumbling into them while his heavy hips wouldn’t let up on slamming into your pelvis.
jason was actually never a selfish partner, he actually cared about always making you cum first, and it was like muscle memory to make you cum, but for the first time he was in ecstasy just fucking you stupid- beautifully abusing your vagina, and trying to punish you in the best way he knew. all while he got to painfully play with your podgy breast. smacking, sucking and squeezing them until he couldn’t get enough. “fuck..doll..nghh.. (y/n) fuck...”
his face covered messily in his own saliva from making out with your tit, cupping it with his bulky hand. sucking and releasing, while watching you groan that you want to cum, how nice it would be if you both came together. but jason’s eyes were dark and unamused. he let you rambling on for a minute or two, until he started to get annoyed. this was your punishment, and he would forgive you after it. and right now, jason didn’t want to hear it.
his free hand roamed up towards your throat, and he started to choke you. roughly squeezing and releasing his grip causing all your nonsense remarks into blissful whimpers. making you so tightly trap jason’s dick, making it difficult to thrust so deeply “squeeze me some more doll, mhm..mn im close..” jason said panting, a warm sensation in his stomach turning into a knot like feeling. “harder doll.. c’mon please.. fuckfuck..mhm..i know you can” he said his face now near your ear, and his hand still squeezing your throat. listening to you gasp and whimper to him, while squeezing his dick the best you could, wanting to cum so painfully. “mhm just like that..nnugg..mnm fuck..gonna cum inside..”
and after a few harsh thrust he moaned while warm ropes of cum were filling you to the brim, with each sensitive thrust he was cumming inside of you, never wanting to stop. his hand releasing from your neck, slowly moving towards your clit, ever so slightly circling the bundle of nerves making you so close to the edge. while his head was inbetween your neck biting down and sucking at the soft skin whimpering and softly rutting into you.
and after a few long seconds jason pulled out, watching as the base of his cock slip out you, painted a silky white and still semi hard. out of breath, he watched as your pussy was leaking cum and your clit still puffy and neglected. “so beautiful..”
putting his fingers up to your pussy, he started to fuck his cum back inside of you. watching as you look so defeated. “jay..” “mmn yes doll” he said making eye contact softly scooping his cum back inside you as much as he could. fingering it back in deeply, pressing down on ur puffy clit with his thumb. memorizing the layout of your pussy so carefully.
“can i please cum” you asked, giving your best pleading eyes, reaching out to hold his cheek and caress him. knowing how difficult it was for him to say no to you, know how badly he always wants you to feel satisfied, jason took his hand away from your pussy and showed you his three slick fingers.
“nope, but you can taste mine if you want” he said licking his index “not bad actually” he said with the most shit eating grin you’d ever seen.
and he finally his vision wasn’t red anymore, but he definitely would always live up to a man of that always kept his word.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
my first writing something like this! (ᴗ_ ᴗ。)
was a little long! my apologies, but i hope you enjoyed!! :3
have a great day/night!! xx
Hii can i request lad boys fake being drunk to get a reaction/pampered by reader who is difficult at showing emotions, but got soft after seeing them drunk?
uhhhh honestly i only wanted to write rafayel for this LMAO hes the only one i can see faking being drunk to do this so im only writing him for this sorry :(( not the others bc i just. my brain wont process it :((
Rafayel's eyes stared you at, a little unfocused in a way you were attributing to the alcohol. He knows he's just pretending but he also knows he's damn good at acting, He rests his head on his forearm and stares up at you with a look that's equal parts affectionate and bleary. Perfect.
You don't really say anything but he knows you've fallen for it when you sit up and start replacing his alcohol with water and trying to get him to eat something more than the snacks he was lightly picking at. He didn't even really drink that much but when you pull a blanket off his couch to wrap around his shoulders he can't stop the way his heart races at the soft show of affection.
He'll never tell you that whenever he does this he's fully aware of the fact that you think he's too drunk to remember anything. He doesn't want to abuse the trust you have for him so this will be his dirty little secret. He adores being able to just lean up against you and say nonsense that you actually respond to this time instead of ignoring, not wanting to make him sob dramatically as he did once before when he was wasted.
He only wishes you felt more comfortable showing him this side of yourself when he was sober, but he also is more than happy to let you show him the parts of you slowly over time. He'll wait patiently for that day to come but for now he'll enjoy how you're letting him put his head in your lap as you awkwardly try to show him more physical affection than you're used to.
Can u do smth where dally's gf gets jumped super bad? THANK YOUUUIUU.(it's perfectly fine if not☺)
AAAAHH THIS ASK IS DELICIOUS!
~~~~~~~~ 🖤-> ~~~~~~~~~~~🌿~~~~~~~~~~~ 💚! ~~~~~~~~~
Pathetic, you mustered up in your head despite the pained alarms buzzing.
You hadn't expected to be jumped, you were just trying to get home. Clearly that was an issue to the guys who had chosen to pick on you and punch you until your knees scraped painfully against the cement of the sidewalk.
What had you done? You weren't wearing skimpy clothes, you hadn't done anything to provoke them, so what was the deal?
You hurried off to Buck's place, trying hard to run and not just give up. You were so dazed that you honestly couldn't even feel the pain in your face and stomach anymore, you were just set on running to escape.
The cold breeze made the open wounds burn in an uncomfortable manner, causing your already shaky body to shiver as you hurried like you were hiding from the drizzling rain.
Soon enough you had found yourself at the boisterous building of Buck's, and you made zero hesitation to run up to the door and knock vigorously. God, even your knuckles hurt from trying to defend yourself.
The door had swung open, making the music just a bit too loud for you but regardless you tolerated it.
"Dally?" Buck assumed, letting you in without much more than a glance.
You nodded, stepping in and finally letting yourself mellow down. Oh, you must've looked so pathetic. Drenched in rain and blood, even sweat from running so much. Only now the adrenaline started to dissipate, but it lingered as you climbed the stairs.
His apartment door was unlocked, you could tell by the way it didn't look fully closed. So in a flurry, you swung open the door and hustled inside. Maybe Dallas wasn't here and just forgot to lock his door? It was a possibility knowing Dally.
But when the door had opened, Dally poked his head out from around his belongings cautiously before seeing what looked to be you in pain and cold. Everything was a blur past that.
Quite instantly, you were sat on his ratty bed, wounds being cleaned and kisses being peppered all over your tear stained face. Makeup smeared, face discoloured and expression terrified. You could only tremble as he dabbed away the blood from your cheek.
"Dal- Dally, they were gonna beat me up... Dal, I was so scared." You sniffled, grasping his knee purely out of emotional distress.
Dally only nodded curtly, focused on the subject at hand and making sure to bandage you up nice and proper. He even managed to get his hands on some ice packs to reduce the swelling of some of the blows, but you still found it to be painful.
Even the towel he purposely put on his heater for a minute or two to warm up before he covered your shoulders and dabbed off the wetness clinging to your hair. Maybe this wasn't so horrific.
Regardless of the situation, everything seemed to become more tranquil as he bundled you up in his arms and finished drying off exposed parts of you like your knees, shins, calves and feet. All of which were done so gently that you were convinced this wasn't the Dallas you were used to. What a gentleman!
"'S alright now, you're safe. Brave, huh? Tuff to be runnin' through the dark an' in the rain just to escape some nasty fuckers." He praised you, the corners of his mouth curling just a bit to make it seem like he was smiling.
You felt warm inside from his fulfilling words, a bubble of hope forming and pushing away all the other thoughts bombarding you.
Yeah... maybe this wasn't so bad.
Ow, what the hell?
Source
What if reader accidentally got pregnant with Harvick? Of course she was on time with taking the birth control, but this one time seems like it didnt work. And maybe he sniffs it out before she even starts to have the symptoms
Let's say this happens a few years after the pregnant reader fic.
When your period is a few days late, you don't think much of it. After all, you're busy taking care of your squirrelly three-year-old who grows more and more like his stepfather each day. Harvick is the best dad you could have hoped for and treats your child like his very own, taking him out to explore nature, reading him bedtime stories and playing with him to give you time to yourself.
One morning when they are at the store buying groceries, you fix yourself a sandwich and have to run to the bathroom to throw up because of the scent of fried eggs. The possibility that you're pregnant occurs to you then. Oh god. Did you forget to take your birth control? It's safe to say your day is ruined after that. You're going to have to tell Harvick sooner than later, but you decide to wait a little, just to make sure it's not a fluke.
You're definitely pregnant, and it hits you fast. You find yourself wondering if Harvick already knows. Is he acting more cuddly and touching your belly often? Is he being more gentle than usual when you make love because he knows?
One night you're out on a date (with your son staying with your mother for the night) when you drop your fork on the floor and it makes you burst into hormone-induced tears. Harvick takes you back to the car and you blurt out the truth. He starts to laugh, something he does when he's nervous, and you quickly go from tears to annoyed confusion. He soothes you with a gentle kiss.
"I've known for a few weeks, my love, but I didn't know how to tell you. It was driving me crazy."
"You knew before me? But it's so early, I just found out myself," you reply, and then you remember that he's a shifter. He can probably smell the change in your scent.
"I didn't want to scare you," he says softly, his gaze dropping to your belly.
"What do we do?" You ask, because even though he's never voiced it, you know he's unsure of you carrying his cub.
"Whatever you want, my love." He cups your cheek.
"Do you want this baby?"
"More than anything in the world," he says, reaching out to place his warm palm against your belly.
It's too early to feel anything yet, but his eyes glow with warmth. You're out of your seat before you know it, clambering into his lap. Uncomfortable car sex be damned, you need him now.
As it turns out, carrying a shifter baby is like a normal pregnancy on steriods. Harvick has always been the one with a lot of stamina in bed, but you're the one seeking him out multiple times a day now, sneaking in little fuck sessions whenever you can manage. Harvick spends the rest of his free time redecorating the nursery for the little one on the way, and you watch movies and cuddle as a family and talk to your baby bump as it swells.
Harvick is vigilant about seeing the doctor frequently to make sure everything is going well and a few months in, you find out you're having a girl.
@idle-monsters
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