#And yeah the insomnia is going well thanks for asking

[whoareyoueventhough]

ok so I've scrolled to the bottom of the tumblr tag, read all their fics on ao3, ff.net, quotev, and wattpad, and scrolled Pinterest for ages. Does anyone know where I can go next to feed this clawing void in my mind demanding MCRobot content

[pucksandpower]

In Every Quiet Moment

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything

The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.

You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.

You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.

You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.

And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.

There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.

A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.

He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.

You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.

It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”

He turns.

Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.

You frown. “Is it hurt?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”

You open the door wider. “Come in.”

He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.

But he steps forward.

The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.

You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.

“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.

You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.

“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.

A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”

You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.

“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”

You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”

“That’s a horrible name.”

“I like it.”

“She’ll get bullied at school.”

“She’s a cat.”

He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.

You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”

“Walking.”

“In this?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”

His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”

You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”

“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”

His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.

You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.

He leaves without giving you his name.

You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.

€2,000 tip.

You stare. Check the name.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You almost drop the broom.

***

The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.

You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.

“You came back,” you say, blinking.

He shrugs. “You were nice.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”

“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.

That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.

You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”

He nods.

This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.

You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”

“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”

“Sounds like love.”

He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”

“Like you?”

“Worse.”

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.

“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”

You glance up. “You did. With money.”

“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”

You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”

He pauses. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”

The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.

“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”

He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”

You blink. “That’s not an answer.”

He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.

You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”

He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”

Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.

“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”

He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re quiet.

You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.

You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”

“Then I won’t rush.”

“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”

“I’ll remind you.”

You blink. “You’re a stranger.”

“I’m Max.”

The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.

You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”

He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”

So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.

Neither of you move.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

***

Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.

He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.

Just sits. Watches. Listens.

You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.

He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.

“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”

He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”

“It’s a tiny café.”

“Still good.”

You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”

“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”

You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”

He just smirks into his coffee.

That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.

***

It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.

You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.

You glance up.

The man in the red scarf is watching you.

You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.

You look again.

He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”

Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”

He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”

You frown. “Other night?”

“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”

You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”

He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”

You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”

He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”

You pull back. “Not for sale.”

He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”

You don’t answer. Just walk away.

And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.

At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.

You turn.

Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.

His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”

You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.

The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”

Max doesn’t blink. “No.”

Your stomach twists.

“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”

The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”

Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”

It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.

He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.

You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.

Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”

Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.

You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”

“You scared the hell out of him.”

“That wasn’t hard.”

You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”

He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”

You blink.

His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.

You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”

***

The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.

You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”

You snort. “Story of my life.”

He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”

You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.

Then — voices.

A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.

One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”

He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”

“Can we get a photo?”

He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.

They thank him, then run off, giggling.

He turns back to you.

You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”

His voice is quiet. “Good.”

You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it?”

He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”

You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”

“Yeah. Guess I am.”

You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.

Max lingers.

You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”

He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”

You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”

He nods. “Of course.”

But he doesn’t leave right away.

You hover near the door. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”

“I don’t.”

You study him.

He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”

Silence.

Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”

Your throat tightens.

“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”

You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”

He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”

You blink. “You where there?”

He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”

A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”

He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”

You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.

***

It’s late when Max asks.

You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”

You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”

“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”

You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.

You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”

***

His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.

The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.

And cats.

There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.

Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”

A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.

“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”

A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”

“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”

You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.

Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”

“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.

He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”

You raise a brow. “You cook?”

He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”

You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.

You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.

***

You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.

“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.

The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.

Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.

You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”

He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”

“I am peaceful.”

He grins. “Good. That was the point.”

***

Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.

Max eats slowly. Savors things.

You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.

“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”

His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late. His smirk grows.

Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.

Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.

“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.

He nods. “When I want it to be.”

You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”

Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.

***

When you wake, the lights are lower.

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.

There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.

Then you hear it.

Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.

“No. I said no.”

You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.

“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”

Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.

“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”

You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.

“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”

Silence.

You don’t wait for him to hang up.

You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.

He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.

“Max.”

He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.

His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.

“You heard that,” he says flatly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Were they writing about me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.

“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”

You step closer. “And you called them?”

“I made a call, yeah.”

“To shut it down?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”

There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.

You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”

“I know that.”

“Then why-”

“Because I want to.”

You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.

“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”

A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.

Finally, you say, “You care about me.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not going to say it.”

“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.

His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.

But you don’t vanish.

You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.

***

It happens the next morning.

You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.

But it’s not enough.

The flash comes out of nowhere.

One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.

“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”

You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.

By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.

You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.

But the whispers start by lunch.

You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.

Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.

By evening, it’s everywhere.

***

Max calls. You don’t answer.

He texts: I’m handling it.

You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.

By the next day, the article disappears.

Completely. As if it never existed.

A notice appears in its place.

Retracted at source.

Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”

Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”

You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.

A screenshot.

An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.

Another message: Let me do this. Please.

You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.

***

The panic hits later.

Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.

The guilt first — sharp and sour.

He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.

You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.

And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.

So you do the only thing that feels safe.

You pull away.

***

You stop replying.

Not rudely. Just slowly.

A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.

You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.

Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.

Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.

***

He doesn’t chase.

He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.

Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.

It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.

A note, tucked between the teabags.

I’ll wait.

Nothing else.

Not even his name.

***

You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.

You feel stupid.

Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.

You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.

***

Three days pass.

Then four.

By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.

On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.

On the seventh, it rains.

Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.

You don’t bring an umbrella.

You don’t bring excuses either.

You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.

You knock once.

It opens almost instantly.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.

“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.

He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.

He just opens his arms.

And you fall into them like you never left.

His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.

He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.

You don’t speak. Don’t have to.

His chin rests on your hair.

You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

Your breath hitches.

“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”

“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”

Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”

You pull back, just a little.

Look up at him.

His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.

“I’m scared,” you say quietly.

He nods. “So am I.”

You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”

“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”

You blink. “Then why …”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”

You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is soft.

No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.

You exhale. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “So am I.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.

***

Max doesn’t say “I love you.”

Not with words.

He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.

He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.

But tonight, he speaks more than usual.

It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.

He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”

You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.

He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.

“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”

You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.

He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.

“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.

Your heart tightens.

“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”

You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”

Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”

You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”

That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.

“Tell me,” he says.

So you do.

You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.

He listens like he has nowhere else to be.

Not just hearing — holding.

Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.

When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.

“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

***

The next few weeks are full of small shifts.

Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.

His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.

Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.

He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.

He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.

You try not to need it.

You try not to expect it.

But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.

***

The comment comes three races into summer.

You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.

You look up when the door opens.

It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.

He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”

Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.

You don’t reply.

He doesn’t give you time to.

“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”

The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.

But Max is already there.

You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.

But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.

Just present.

Heavy.

Silent.

The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”

Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”

Silence.

Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”

The boy opens his mouth.

Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”

The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.

But dangerous.

The kind of promise you don’t test.

Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”

Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.

Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.

“Max-”

He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”

He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”

“I know,” you say again, quieter now.

“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”

You step into him. “I didn’t.”

His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”

Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”

He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”

The kiss is slower this time.

No heat. No anger.

Just need.

Just want.

***

It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.

You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:

“I want you.”

His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.

“Then I’m going to take my time.”

And he does.

***

It’s not rushed.

Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.

It’s reverent.

It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

He never stops looking.

Not once.

He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.

You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And you are.

You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.

He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.

Guiding. Worshipping.

“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”

And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.

The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.

***

Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.

The mask is gone now.

For both of you.

***

The letter comes on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.

You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.

Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.

And then you’re holding the future in your hand.

“Max?” Your voice wavers.

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You hold the letter up.

He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows.

The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.

You stare at the words like they might vanish.

They don’t.

You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.

“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.

“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Before.

Before him.

Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.

You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.

“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.

“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.

You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”

Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.

Only patience.

Only love.

“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”

You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”

He takes your hand in his.

“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”

You laugh, eyes damp.

He keeps going.

“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”

Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.

Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.

And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”

Max doesn’t speak.

He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.

***

You don’t waitress anymore.

One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.

You open it slowly.

It’s Max’s handwriting.

Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.

PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.

You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.

And you do go home.

But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.

***

At night, the café changes.

The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.

Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.

But word spreads.

You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.

He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.

“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.

You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”

Max smiles, slow and sure.

“I am.”

You meet his eyes.

He means it.

***

You play at the café again that Friday.

The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.

You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.

Before your last piece, you clear your throat.

“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”

You glance at Max.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.

When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.

Then, applause.

But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.

Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.

You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”

He leans in, kisses your temple.

“I like dramatic.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”

***

You find the recording equipment a week later.

Just … waiting.

Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.

There’s a post-it on the chair.

In case you change your mind.

You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.

And start writing again.

***

You don’t take the job in New York.

You don’t regret it.

Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.

But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.

What’s real.

Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.

Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.

Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.

And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.

But for now?

For now, you stay.

Because love like this?

You don’t walk away from it.

Not when he’s willing to give you the world.

And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.

[musingsofheaven]

DREAMSTATE TRAP.

summary: You don’t know what’s wrong with you and don’t even remember how it started. You just know you sleep better when he’s near. That your body wants him close, that you need him there, pressed up against you. You said you’d leave him. More than once. But you didn’t, not when he made sure you will always come back to his arms.

pairings: divorced dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

warnings: 2k words. mature themes. somnophilia. nonconsensual undertones. obsession. manipulation. covert drug use (nicotine patches / chemical dependency). emotional dependency. breeding kink. free use referenced. sleep sex. dubcon-adjacent tone. power imbalance. dumbification (sleep-drunk, emotionally conditioned, mentally pliant state). read & consume responsibly.

notes: actually scared to post this. :( but hi! this is post-divorce art donaldson and yeah… he’s rich. lonely. washed. pushing 40. still hot. still got those sad little eyes. i just know he’d lose his mind if a pretty lil thing started sleeping in his bed. so soft. so warm. he didn’t want to be left ever again. he’d do anything to keep you close. even if it’s twisted. even if it’s wrong. this is manipulative dilf art dick. he’s emotionally unavailable and physically unavoidable. yes it’s wrong. yes he’s crazy. ANYWAYYYYYYY enjoy and if u want more fics or have requests or want to throw something unhinged at me pls do. i’m taking requests. thanks love u 💗

You sleep like you trust him.

You do. That’s the case. You sleep like you will be comfortable in your dreams because he’s just beside you to hug you. Like your body’s never been hurt. He doesn’t hurt you. Never. He will kill himself first before he lands a hand on you. (Unless it’s for sex and you asked it, or not, maybe) Like no one’s ever lied to you or walked away. You know he’s not lying to you. At least in front of your face, no. Like you don’t know what he is. You don’t, honestly.

He likes staying up late than you. You never knew why. He just said he’s not tired. Or he can’t sleep. Insomnia, sometimes, is what he’s saying to you. But in reality? He likes watching you. Like tonight is the same as the others, he watches you wide-eyed in the dark.

The sheets are already wrapped around you from the movements. You are not a mover, but don’t stay in the same place. Your cotton sleep shirt riding high over your ass, too big for you, too comfy, the collar pulled half off your shoulder like it always ends up that way. You didn’t even wear panties tonight. You never do when you fall asleep in his bed. It’s comfortable, you say. More air or your cunt can breathe, or whatever bullshit you say. Art doesn’t mind. It’s a raging go signal for him. Well, that’s what he thinks. He could lift your shirt, nightgown, or whatever loose or comfortable you are wearing, and he’ll cup you over it, sometimes rub his fingers if he’s aiming for tame, or slide in if he’s so horny. You don’t complain. Said that it helps him sleep by touching you or fucking you. And you like to help him.

That used to scare him. That sweetness. That trust. Especially when you’re just letting him take it. He even joked about you being his free use doll when he was inside of you. You whine and giggle. It scared and excited him. The idea that maybe you didn’t think he was capable of anything ugly.

Well, at first, he’s like that. But now? It doesn’t scare him anymore.

His fingers gently run into the back of your hair, and he watches you shift. He makes those little expressions when you sleep. You look soft. You look like you are at peace. Your skin’s so warm there. Your pulse flutters when he presses. It’s slow, steady, alive.

Sometimes, he’s praying to God because you’re so alive. So young than him. He prayed that others wouldn’t take you away from him. The thing is, he won’t even let them do that. You’ve got no idea what kind of things a man like him can do, do you?

He slips the drawer open quietly while his other hand is still touching you like he’s scared to slip his hand away from you.

Finds the little box. Peels one patch from the back.

Your thigh shifts when he touches it. He gently caresses the flesh. Feels hot beneath his palm, your skin soft and bare. He sticks the nicotine patch just under the curve of your ass, just below your cheek, where the hem of your shirt won’t hide it, but you won’t notice it.

You don’t even move.

Art smooths a hand down your leg. Feeling its smoothness under his palm. Just once. Then, back up again, where his thumb grazes the patch, which warms under your skin. His heart thuds in his chest like he’s done something filthy. Maybe he has.

Because fuck it. Every time he puts one on you, especially when it’s your thighs, or your ass, or the soft dip of your hip... he gets hard from it like clockwork. Like some part of his brain associates the feel of your unconscious body under his hands.

He shouldn’t want it this much. He shouldn’t. This is fucked up, even for him.

But he does. He’s willing to bend his morals just for you. You’re his girl, after all.

Your breath is soft and slow. Your chest rises and falls like you’re dreaming something sweet. Maybe you are. Perhaps it’s about him. Maybe you’re dreaming something filthy. Maybe your cunt is as warm as your mouth gets when you’re half-asleep and draped over him, murmuring his name like it’s instinct.

His cock throbs.

He palms himself through his boxers.

God, he thinks. He could slide right in like this. (It’s not like he didn’t try it already)

You wouldn’t wake up. Maybe you’d shift a little and let out one of those broken sighs, legs parting out of habit. And he’d be so gentle with you. He’s not even going to be full-on fucking you. He’ll just thrust slowly and deep. Just a little. Just enough. Feel you clench around him in your sleep like your body knows who you belong to.

He’d never forgive himself.

But he might still do it.

He strokes himself slowly, silently, teeth sinking into his lip.

It’s not just the patch. It’s the trust. It’s the faith you are giving him. You are devoted. The way your body gives without knowing. The way you turn into him when he touches you is like instinct. Like your body knows it’s bim. Like your whole system has rewired around him.

You always crawl to him. Literally. Or figuratively. Always coming back into his arms when you try to leave. Do you even dare to do that?

It makes him dizzy.

You’ve tried. Three times now. Bags packed, the door slammed, voice shaking. When he tries to text you, you’ll say that he should delete your number. He never really replied after that. He’s so comfortable with the idea of you coming back. Because you always do, every time, within days, you’re back. Pale and trembling. Clingy. Teary. Like you need him.

Like something inside you can’t bear the idea of being without him.

You don’t know why. But Art does.

You will bury and nuzzle your face into his chest. You will sob, your cries shake. Your shoulders are shaking, your fingers are holding tight to his clothes like you are apologizing for thinking about leaving, and you have it hard like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. His palm slides up and down your spine, slow and calming, while you try to speak through the hiccuping wreck of your voice.

“I don’t know why...” your breath hitches and breaks. “But I- I can’t-” you inhale sharply, nearly gagging. Stuttering as always. “I can’t sleep without you. It’s like my skin itches. I feel vomiting every time. My skin feels scrawling. I feel sick. My head hurts all the time. I-” You clutch into him tighter. “I need you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sound so scared when you say it. You’re ashamed. It’s as if she’s the only one who wants to return, and he will continue to accept you as he does in a charity case.

But he’s not. He’s not ashamed.

Art hushes you, presses a kiss to your hair, and murmurs something like “Shh, I’ve got you, baby,” while his thumb circles just under the swell of your ass, right over where the patch had been the night before the day you left. He continuously removes them before you realize it’s there.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

But Art does.

He watches your breathing slow again. Thumb trailing down the back of your thigh, the spot just beneath the patch. His other hand is palming your ass, just gently, not groping it. You murmur something in your sleep, lashes fluttering, body arching slightly toward the touch.

His heart squeezes.

God, he wants to ruin you.

Wants to keep you this soft forever. He wants to be able to watch you sleep for hours. Keep you warm and drugged and fucked out and barely thinking, brain all mushy and just needing him, wrapped up in him like a koala that doesn’t know better. He wants to get you pregnant by accident. Watch you cry about it. Then he’ll comfort you into accepting it. Watch you stay.

You shift again, thighs pressing together. He watches the ripple of muscle, the heat in your skin, the spot where the shirt rides high enough to show the curve of your hip.

You’re not even awake, but he knows you’d let him.

If he touched you now, eased a hand between your legs, thumb soft against your clit, you’d whine for him. Quietly. Just enough to let out a sound. Maybe spread without waking. Let him finger you through your dream and wake up sore, aching, and full. God. He knows how easily you get wet.

Jesus.

He strokes his cock harder now. But not sloppy. Not the one who will make a sound. It’s just slow, desperate pulls, his other hand pressed to your hip like he’s steadying himself.

He comes quietly. Barely breathing. Fingers tight. Come sticky on his stomach, hips twitching. Your body shifts, barely, like it knows. His name almost falls from your mouth in your sleep. He quickly cleans it up, always having tissue beside the bed.

He watches you for a while longer.

You don’t wake.

You never do.

And he’s already up by the time the sun rises, turning the curtains lighter. Already cleaned up. But you’re still curled on your side. One leg is hooked over the blankets, patch warm, and pulsing on the soft meat of your thigh.

He peels it off gently.

Always before you wake. Always with a breath caught low in his throat.

God, you never notice how deep you sleep. That’s what he likes about you. The way you sleep early but even wake up later than him. Like you are enjoying your sleep, he loves how much warmer your body has run lately, how you turn into his touch before you’re even conscious of it. He knows your body better than you do now, how it reacts, clings and practically melts into the mattress when he moves behind you in the mornings.

He likes the morning the most. Sometimes, you’re still half-asleep when he fucks you. Sometimes, you sleep right through the first few strokes and mewling softly, legs parting, clit twitching under his fingers without thought. He’s not even rubbing it aggressively. Just slow flicks to make you more wet. To make you more slippery around him.

And sometimes you wake up in the middle of it. You are hazy and dazed and clingy as hell. Fuck he loves it. Already have you whimpering “Don’t stop,” like you’re the one who begged for it. Like it’s your idea. Like he’s not fucking you while you’re sleeping before you’re a whimpering mess. Like your cunt isn’t already dripping around him, greedy and fluttering and open for more.

It makes him crazy. The way you arch into him instinctively. You whine when he tries to slow down, like you’ll break apart if he leaves you empty. The way you cry into his neck with your face buried and say things like...

“Mmph… dunno why…” you breathes into his chest, lips barely moving, voice sticky with sleep. “Sleep so good when you’re here…”

A soft “ah-” slips out when he shifts, cock still half-hard, still pressed against the mess between your thighs. “Feels good… don’t go yet… don’t-” you mumbles, clinging tighter, legs tangled with his while he’s thrusting his cock slowly, just how you like.

A choked little “mmph, fuck-” when he moves again, just enough to press deeper. To find your spot.

“Hurts when you’re not- when you’re not touching me…” you sniffles hiccups. “You make it go away… I don’t know how… I just need-”

You trail off in a breathy whine like your words are too much. Like you’re overwhelmed just being near him. Your face always buries in his neck, damp and hot, tears cooling your cheeks. Your hips shift without meaning to. It made you whine.

You don’t even know what you’re saying. Doesn’t realize how deep it’s sunk. How wrecked you already are. How utterly, unconsciously, you’re his.

You don’t know what’s keeping you here.

But Art does.

And every morning, he gives her body another reason to stay.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[moonstruckme]

Hi lovely! I have been having really bad insomnia lately. To the point where I’ve stayed up until 5 am some days. I think it could be due to my upcoming period, which happens sometimes. I was wondering if you could do a poly!marauders, or any one of them, where reader is clearly not getting enough sleep and they/he notice and know her so well that they know why it’s happening. So that night they/he comfort her and coddle her and make her sleepy and it’s suuuuper fluffy and sweet. Love love love your writing Mae!

I'm sorry about your sleep issues lovely! Thank you for the request <3

modern au

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 386 words

You’re half sure Sirius has slipped a benadryl into your nighttime tea. Smugness radiates off him as his thumb draws heavy circles into your hip and you grow lax against his side. Your hair is still damp from the hot shower he’d coaxed you into. 

Sirius’ lips press gently to your forehead, like he’s checking your temperature. “It’s getting late,” he murmurs. Some bitter, sardonic part of you thinks that it’s nowhere near as late as you’ve been going to sleep for the last few nights, but you’re too lazy to voice it. “Ready for bed, sweet girl?” 

You manage a hum, but don’t move. Your bones feel filled with lead. 

Your boyfriend exhales amusedly like he knows. “C’mere, baby. Come on.” 

He turns off the telly and gathers you up against his side, blankets and all. You begin the slow trudge from the sofa to your bed. Your half gone cup of tea is warm between your palms, and Sirius’ presence just as nice where his arm wraps around your waist and his hip presses to yours. 

Peeling back the covers of your bed feels like a herculean feat. You shed your blanket like a hermit crab trading shells, letting Sirius tuck you in. 

“It’s cold,” you mumble. 

“Give me a second.” 

A short time later, Sirius is crawling into bed beside you and the diffuser you could swear he’s never used before is misting a lavender aroma through the room. You can barely see his silhouette moving around in the dark, but you sigh when his leg crosses over yours. 

His lips are curved when they find yours. “Are you comfy?” he asks in a low voice. 

“Yeah.” You mirror his tone. “I feel like I could actually fall asleep.” 

“Good. Don’t overthink it.” 

You are thinking now, though. Slowly, like moving through sap, the pieces of your night come together in your mind. 

“Are you doing this on purpose?” 

Sirius makes a soft, confused sound. “Don’t know what you mean.” 

“You’ve never…you don’t even know how to use the diffuser.” 

“Sweetheart, you sound ridiculous.” His hand comes around your back, making broad, lulling circles. “I use it all the time. You’re just sleep deprived.” 

You hum, acquiescent. “Well, thanks.” 

“Go to sleep, baby.” 

“M’kay. Love you.” 

Sirius kisses between your brows. “Love you.” 

[dailydoseoffanfics]

⭐️ SELF AWARE FORSAKEN AU (GENERAL HEADCANONS PT. 2)

⭐️ a/n: DARLINGGGGG GUESS WHO'S BACK FROM JAILLLLLLLLL /silly ASDFGHJKL ANYWAYS THIS IS PART 2 TO MY PREVIOUS HEADCANONS ! FEATURING ELLIOT, SHEDLESTSKY, GUEST 1337, 007N7 AND BUILDERMAN !!! I'LL LATER DO THE KILLERS PART !!! (FEATURNING ALL 4 :3)

⭐️ warnings: possible ooc

reader is gender-neutral so they/them pronouns are used !

(1) (2) <- you're here!

You're a really normal fan about a Roblox game called "Forsaken".......yeah.....totally a really normal and sane fan about that game. But lately, you've noticed something weird about the characters you're playing.

The characters have varying reactions into finding out they're being controlled by something....or someone (you).

⭐️

ELLIOT (MY SHAYLAAA)

Elliot was going on his way to confront Noob about their sudden increased weariness when he noticed Two Time walking down the hallway as Elliot was approaching Noob's room.

Elliot noticed Two Time looked....deep in thought. They aren't smiling, and their eyes are narrowed, looking down in the ground. It feels like they didn't even noticed Elliot bumping into them.

....Elliot just decides it's best to not disrupt them, and shakes his head. C'mon, focus Elliot!

Back to his original mission, Elliot goes to Noob's room, and asks them what's going on, and cracks some jokes here and there to calm Noob down a little.

Something's controlling Noob, and they know by feeling a type of warmth?

That's......concerning.

Elliot's concern grew when he noticed Two Time being....more unusual. Elliot would catch a glimpse of Two Time looking at nothing in particular, their face looking like they're deep in thought. Two Time isn't the only one deep in thought though, Chance seems to look like he's in the clouds as well.

Elliot frowns about his observations of his acquaintances. What is going on? Why are Noob, Two Time and Chance suddenly acting...off? Did it had something to do with this warm, controlling thing going on????

........Speaking of this controlling thing.

When a new round started after observing his acquaintances' weird behavior, which is just, y'know, the usual trying to restrain himself when any of his teammates ignored the pizza he threw at them, he immediately felt something.

The warmth. His arms losing control and a muffled voice.....are those white strings around his arms???

Elliot felt his soul left his body for a second before immediately snapping back. My man is trying SO hard to stay focused and calm, but right now, his mind is having a mantra of "WHAT THE FUCK".

Annnnd when the round ends, Elliot is still having his mantra of questioning what the hell just happened and who was that person as he lays on his bed. Holy shit, he just wants to reunite with his family and make customers happy again. WHAT MORE CAN HE ASK FOR?????

The more Elliot thinks about who was controlling him, the more sleep he loses.....well not like Elliot has a sleeping schedule, he usually just stays up at night, so I think you just made his insomnia worse 💀(Random head canon I have for Elliot is that he's insomniac. He just wants to see his father and his sister again. He's fr trying his best 💔💔💔)

Elliot is SPOOKED about that incident. And then he quickly realizes that "oh shit am i going to be controlled by some kind of person EVERY. SINGLE. FREAKING. ROUND?????"

Yeahhhh, Elliot's kinda scared of you, but that's only because he doesn't know if you're good or not. And if your behavior seems alright so far, Elliot still got some doubt inside of his mind, but his heart is telling him to trust you.

He could even throw a smile at you for your helpfulness! He noticed that he's getting less hits and stabs from the killers so far, and he shows his appreciation by looking at the screen, and giving you a warm smile. He even thanks you for your help.

.......The response was Elliot immediately losing the warmth. Elliot is caught off guard by this, but is immediately sad about it. Awh man, did he scare you? He hopes you'll come back soon.

Overall, the most STRESSED about this situation (for a while). When he first felt some type of force controlling him, Elliot is sweating BULLETS. But later, he appreciates your hard work and also wants to know you more. Even if he's still a little scared of you....

⭐️

SHEDLETSKY

Being a former admin, he noticed that something is off about his teammates.

Noob was usually scared, so Shedletsky didn't mind. But now? Noob is acting like the boogeyman actually got them or something!

Two Time? Creepier than usual. One time, when Shedletsky went into Two Time's room to ask them if they want to eat dinner tonight, he saw piles, and I mean, PILES of papers being everywhere. It looked like a tornado struck Two Time's room, and one of them has .....a person in it? With the other half of papers being filled with.... undecipherable handwriting. (But that's only because Shedletsky immediately shut the door the moment Two Time's eyes locked with his. So uh, he didn't had enough time to read about what Two Time's writing about.)

Elliot? Normally, Elliot was happy-go-lucky and always smiling. And now? Elliot seems to always have his mind somewhere, with a blank face on his face. For Robloxia's sake, he even forgot to make dinner one time!! (..Ehhhh, it's not like he was actually starving, he totally didn't eat some fried chickens earlier.)

Chance also seems to have their mind occupied with something. Yea, he's still smiling and having a big ego, but Shedletsky also noticed Chance looking at a window, thinking about....something.

Shedletsky's confused, and frustrated about the sudden weirdness of his teammates' behaviors. Seriously, what's going on with these people?

Shedletsky talks to Builderman about what's going on lately. Turns out, Builderman also noticed as well, but he also doesn't seem to know WHY his four teammates are acting like this.

Shedletsky's stumped about this. But depsite this, whatever's going on, Shedletsky WILL find out about it sooner or later, and Shedletsky WILL find a solution to whatever this problem is.

.....That's what he thinks at first. Because during a new round, while Shedletsky is brainstorming a plan about stunning the killer, he feels....warm. And his arms go limp before being picked up by....white strings?? And Shedletsky thought that somebody laced his fried chickens with some kind of drug, because he heard a voice, despite the voice being....far away.

At first, Shedletsky tried to ignore it by saying some few jokes. Something like, "oh hahaha can't be that bad...." until his legs jerk forward, a movement that was NOT something he was in control of. Shedletsky got GOOSEBUMPS after that. Bro went "OH HELL NAH I'M NOT DEALING WITH THIS 😭😭"

Would try to cut off the strings with his sword LMAO. Meanwhile in your POV, you're just wondering why Shedletsky is trying to cut air.

When the round ends, Shedletsky wastes no time into checking his admin logs, yes he still has the commands. He's searching the logs PRECISELY, wondering who was controlling him, thinking you're some kind of hacker or exploiter.

Despite his bestest efforts, Shedletsky found nothing. Shedletsky lets out a groan of frustration, and immediately reports this encounter to Builderman.

Yeah, no. Whoever you are, Shedletsky is gonna FIGHT BACK. He thinks you're up to no good, and doesn't trust you AT ALL....at first.

For some reason, Shedletsky decided to do some kind of test of just letting you do whatever you want with him, and yea, he knows this idea has high risks, and pretty dumb, but he's going to only do this ONCE.

And YOU'RE actually......somewhat nice? Your voice is still muffled, but he could've sworn he heard a "sorry" when he got hit. You found a medkit, and even healed him.

.....Yeah he still doesn't trust you. What if you're just doing to make him trust you? So that you can betray him and torture him forever?

But eventually, if you still continue to be nice to him, his doubts will slowly melt, and he'll trust you eventually. He'll say some dialogue about thanking you for your hard work if you stun a killer (which you question if that dialogue was official or there is something wrong with your device) and when he's feeling goofy, he'll look at the screen with his epic face, while having finger guns pointing at you (or so what it looks like since he technically doesn't have fingers).

BRUH, WHY ARE YOU STILL PLAYING THIS GAME DESPITE THESE CHARACTERS SAYING THOSE THINGS THAT YOU SURE AREN'T IMPLEMENTED??? You thought to yourself as you saw what Shedletsky did, instantly leaving the game.

....Well damn. But Shedletsky knows you'll come back eventually, so he waits for you. And when you come back and play as him, he's going to ask some questions here and there.

........You meekly replied to some of his questions. Honestly, you're already mentally unstable in a way, so I guess there's no harm into answering these questions???

Even if your voice is muffled, Shedletsky turns his head away from your view, as he quietly cheers. "Score!" He says in his mind.

Overall, I think Shedletsky's mind will be between "Hahahha what will this person do i ain't scared (he is..kinda) 🤣🤣🤣🤣" and "oh shit what if this person is actually bad....", so erm, yea, he will be ON EDGE with you at first. But over time, he wants to know more about you, so he starts making jokes and casually talking to you like you've been his best friend for 10 years. He's definitely gonna yap about you to Builderman, and tells Builderman to trust you since he's CERTAIN you're a good person!!! (Builderman ain't buying it 💀)

⭐️

BUILDERMAN

Shedletsky's been talking about you for a while. Builderman wouldn't really mind if he knew you actually had, y'know, GOOD INTENTIONS.

Builderman reminds Shedletsky to not trust too easily, you never know. Shedletsky would agree....and then the next day talk about you again. Builderman would sigh at that.

Yeah, Builderman had been noticing something was going on with his teammates. It seems that Shedletsky seems to be under your influence as well.

Even if Shedletsky reassures him that you're a good person, Builderman is the boss of ROBLOX after all, so he'll be stubborn and won't trust you. He ain't budging.

....That's what Builderman thought at first. He knows the drill by now. He knows that the player is controlling someone by the strings (I'll make a separate post about the white strings cuz y not) and feeling a strong warmth, so he prepares for you to control him.

No matter how mentally and physically prepared he is, he still feels his skin crawling when his limps are wrapped around the white strings and hearing your voice that sounds mumbled. All of it just feels.....alien to him. So foreign. So.....unusual. So he doesn't try to resist you.

He wants to trust you, and I guess he is, kinda? I mean, he still would be on edge around you, but over time, he'll be more.... neutral about your presence. He guesses that Shedletsky was right after all. You don't seem too bad.

As long as you're nice and you showed that you have no harmful intentions, Builderman will be chill about you, and throws you a quick smile at your screen if he survives a round.

....You don't close your game this time. You've just....kinda accepted it at this point. (Builderman is secretly giddy about that, but he won't let you show his joyful face.)

Overall? Builderman WILL be more skeptical of you than Shedletsky, but don't worry, he'll be comfortable in your presence eventually. (Man, I think Builderman has like the least amount of headcanons... 😭)

⭐️

GUEST 1337 (i'll just call him by Guest in this post) (also fun fact: i actually had to watch the movie for the first time to try to make him more in character.....yeah i know, i missed out 😭)

Guest will eventually found out about this "controlling force" going on. He gets along with all of the survivors, so he's bound to know about it.

Initially? Guest is immediately on guard. What do you mean there's someone out there that is controlling them? How are we even certain that they're even good?

NGL, I feel like he would disapprove of Shedletsky and Builderman seemingly being positive towards you. C'mon, both of them are like, the higher beings of ROBLOX. But he keeps it to himself and doesn't say anything.

But what do you expect from a man who witnessed his parents get killed by one of the members of the Bacon Terrorist Organization, was in military, and had to sacrifice himself to defeat the Bacons? He doesn't even know if he'll ever see his family and his friend again. He's canonically stated to be the "no-nonsense type of person". He WILL not trust you in the beginning.

That's just because that's how he is. Adding on from what I said earlier, he learned that naivety will get him nowhere, so he'll always be on guard whenever he meets someone new.

He also already knows the drill by now. He overheard Shedletsky talking about feeling a strong type of warmth when you're being controlled, so he's READY.

And when he DOES feel the strong warmth and his limbs being wrapped around by the white strings, he.....surprisingly doesn't try any attempts to resist. He's just staring at the ground, and later looks at your screen.

...Well, Shedletsky did mention you didn't seem to be a bad person, so he'll let his guard down...for now.

So Guest just lets out a sigh and tells you to do whatever you want with him. And you obliged.

And...oh wow. Not even one teammate died. Even if one of them got injured, he could sense that you're genuinely trying your best, with the evidence being your voice letting out quiet squeaks of "sorry" and bodyblocking Elliot.

Guest feels......relieved in a way, and also feels a bit of happiness....but those emotions immediately dissolve when his paranoia logical side reminds him that you could be tricking the survivors, including him.

....And he's immediately on guard again. When the round ends, he's standing near a wall, with his arms crossed and his eyes gazing at the floor. You were truly an enigma. How would he exactly sure that you're a good person? And what even exactly are you?

Ehhhh, he's just generally protective. He'll learn to not hold grudges against you and will warm up to you. That's what you expected after all. But you were kinda expecting Guest to continue not trusting you, so this was a pleasant surprise for you.

Overall? Yeah he would definitely be the LEAST trustful about you in the beginning, so also give him some time to trust you. But like the other survivors, he'll warm up to you eventually. Might even defend you if anybody's talking shit about you.

⭐️

007N7

He already knew everything. He watched everything from the sidelines. He saw how his teammates were talking about this "person". About how they're controlling them.

However, 007n7 seems to be a special case. His first thought of you wasn't fear or distrust, it was....interest.

As in like, he was at first curious about you. I feel like he would be the person to ask the most questions. He's definitely going to yap to you A LOT.

However, he noticed that you didn't even try him once. So naturally, 007n7 just feels.....insecure. He thinks that his skills are "useless", which is why you don't play him. Or you might even hate him. Yeah, it's probably.

He's trying to think positively, reassuring himself that you don't seem to be the type of person to say like that. He's heard of the survivors talking positively about you!

But considering that he's an outcast of the group.....yeah, I don't he'll hold up these positive thoughts for long. The negativity will get to him 💔

BUT ONE FAITHFUL DAY, where a new round started, and during that round, he expected you to not play as him, so he just walks around, searching for a generator.

But his walking suddenly halts. And he feels....warm. And---oH SHIT, HE'S GOT STRINGS ON HIM.

007n7 was alarmed at first, but it quickly turns into disbelief.

But not in a way "OMG PLZ DON'T HURT ME 😰😰😰😰" it's more in a "....you actually wanna play as me??? fr"

(GIVE THIS MAN MORE LOVE HE'S BEEN THROUGH A LOT 💔💔💔💔💔)

His mind is running around circles about you actually playing as him, while you wanted to try something new, so you decided to play as 007n7 for a bit.

When the round ends, he runs off to the ocean where the fisherman resides, as his brain keeps replaying that interaction he had with you.

He knows that he's being too hopeful, too..... delusional. But despite these thoughts, you actually made him happy in a way, so yey :D

Overall? 007n7 the second chillest about this situation. He also wants to interact with you more, but sometimes, his insecurity will get the best of him 💔

[donvampiro]

hii ! this is my first time making a request>< I've been super fascinated by law recently ( just finished dressrosa arc !) and I thought of a scenario that might be cute ? or super weird depending on how you see it . what if reader/yn has insomnia and listens to asmr to help them sleep, however it's specifically medical/doctor personal attention rps. how would law react to finding out this little detail and realizing that is why reader is always so excited to come to the monthly examination checkups on the ship?

hi Anon! hope you're doing good and congrats for your first request :D i like this idea! listening to asmr to help you sleep is so relatable lmao thanks for your request Anon. hope this lil scenario will meet your expectations! Love <3

MASTERLIST - Welcome

Read it on AO3! -> here

***

'Sweet dreams'

Trafalgar D. Water Law x (insomniac) gn!reader

“Open your mouth.”

– “Sure!! Aah~”

Law slightly tilted his head, his brows furrowed in confusion as he still held the small lamp between his fingers.

“Why do you sound so excited about this.”, he deadpanned. “I’m literally looking at your tonsils.”

Keeping your mouth open, you didn’t answer, but your squinting eyes betrayed a widening smile. Law didn’t ask for more, just sighed and shook his head, silently continuing the routine checkup. After a few seconds of observation, he turned off the lamp and threw the small wooden stick he had used to press your tongue into the trash.

“Do they look hot?”, you asked teasingly, drawing another confused sigh from him.

– “Do you even know what tonsils look like?”

– “Well, if they’re mine, they must look hot anyway.”

– “If they’re hot, that means they’re inflamed”, he simply corrected, unfolding the armband to take your blood pressure. “Which is everything but a good sign.” he gave you a small nod. “Now give me your arm.”

You extended your arm to him without flinching, still with that mischievous smile of yours. For some reason, you were always so enthusiastic about getting examined. Not that Law was complaining — it was always better than terrified or whiny patients — but it was just odd.

You never asked any real questions that might have shown any particular interest in medicine, so he didn’t really understand what you could possibly find amusing. Routine exams like these are important, but boring because they’re repetitive. Law knew that perfectly well. Yeah, really, your attitude was… enigmatic. And it made the consultations surprisingly more personal.

He unclasped the armband from your arm and, when he noticed that you were about to speak again, he immediately raised his index finger to your mouth.

“Don’t”, he commanded. “No more cringey remarks.”

He then began to put away his various things, and you pursed your lips so as to stifle a giggle as you slid off the auscultation table.

“Okay Doc”, you eventually replied.

– “I said— … ugh, whatever.”, he mumbled, without looking at you. “You can go now. Guess you have a month to learn more about tonsils.”

You only hummed in response before leaving the room. The medical examination always went by too quickly for your liking. Yes, how nice it was to have someone give us their full attention, examine us gently, focus on our good health and well-being. These were quiet, restful moments — just what you needed, as rest was often difficult for you due to your insomnia.

So, you seemed to enjoy this kind of situation, but you'd been careful not to mention it to Law until now. It wasn't that you didn't like him, or that you didn't trust him, it was just that... well, you already had an idea of ​​how he'd react. And you could tell it would be an awkward moment, to say the least. The medical check-up was always a pleasant moment for you, as paradoxical as that might seem. So you didn’t want to make it too awkward or come across as weird.

So you kept all of this to yourself as you headed towards the kitchen to grab your plate, before noticing Penguin gesturing wildly for you to come sit next to him. He patted your shoulder energetically as you plopped down on your seat.

“Hey (y/n)”, he greeted as he continued to devour his own food. “Back from the medical checkup already?”

– “Yup”, you simply nodded before starting to eat. “Went good.”

Penguin kept eating greedily for a while before abruptly placing his plate back on the table, making you jump a little.

“Figures”, he grinned. “You’re always smiling from ear to ear when you leave the consulting room. Makes me wonder if it’s really medicine that’s being practiced there.”

– “What— Penguin!”, you instantly replied, turning towards him and punching  him in the arm, but he didn’t budge and just chuckled, proud of his remark.

Not coming across as weird. Not coming across as weird. Not coming across as…

… but, if other crew members besides Penguin already had these kinds of ideas in mind, it wasn’t going to make things easy. What was so bad about not being afraid of the medical examination? About enjoying this moment of attention, this moment when you could finally let go, rest while someone checked that you were okay? You’d like to see them all there if they were in your shoes. Sigh. You looked away, pouting as you absentmindedly twirled your fork in your plate.

“C’mon, (y/n), m’just messing with you”, he smirked. “s’good if you’re not afraid of examinations.” He went back to eating while you also tried to finish your plate without worrying too much about what the crew might or might not think. Once Penguin had swallowed all the food in his mouth, he turned to you again, and his tone was different. “By the way— you look less tired than usual. Have you found anything to help with your insomnia?”

– “Kind of”, you conceded thoughtfully.

Your insomnia was no secret to anyone on the ship. The “cure” you found, though…

Without thinking about it anymore, you continued to twirl your fork around your plate, taking a bite every now and then while Penguin kept staring at you, waiting for you to finish your answer. You didn’t; he therefore allowed himself to ask.

“That’s good to know! ‘Cause it’s often quite hard to get rid of insomnia… So, what’s your magic recipe?” he questioned, his tone progressively becoming more bawdy. “... is it the time spent with the captain?”

– “You’re so annoying,” you sighed heavily. “I just listen to some ASMR. It’s relaxing. Helps me sleep.”

Penguin simply nodded, his lips pursed in a small, approving yet intrigued pout.

“And how does that thing work?”, he asked before a deeper voice answered him.

– “ASMR means ‘autonomous sensory meridian response’. It is a technique based on different sensory stimuli to help you relax naturally.” 

You and your crewmate suddenly shuddered, then abruptly turned to face… Law.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked doubtfully. Faced with you and Penguin’s silence, he shifted his gaze to yours. “I didn’t know you listened to ASMR. It must be for your insomnia, right?” You nodded, and he nodded back. “Mmh. It helps me too.”

With a brief gesture of his hand, Law indicated that he wanted to sit next to you, so you shifted slightly as he took a seat.

“What type of ASMR do you listen to?”, he questioned lazily, his sharp eyes not missing the confusion that ran through your body, your face, your gaze.

– “Nothing special”, you blurted out. “Regular ASMR I guess, you see?”

– “No, I don’t.”, he cut short. “For example, I regularly listen to rain ASMR. What about you?” 

You raised your eyebrows. What was this sudden interest? Law wasn’t one to open up about what he did in his free time, what he might enjoy, or whatever, as far as you were aware. What was he looking for? Had he seen right through you? How? Or was he actually genuinely curious about it? You stared at him for a moment, and he arched an eyebrow at your stunned reaction.

“Oh, and why does it interest you so much? ~” you retaliated in a smirk, your tone playful to mask your inner panic. You didn’t know what kind of reaction Law might have if he found out what type of ASMR you preferred. And it was… disturbing.

– “I’m just curious”, he replied flatly. “What’s so bad about having shared interests?”

This guy…

“Well, I have no reason to indulge your curiosity. It’s my private life.”

— “I see”, he nodded with a smirk that made you frown in frustration. Penguin remained flabbergasted. “Guess you must be listening to strange things.” Your captain shrugged. “I understand why you want to keep this heavy secret to yourself…”

— “Stop it!” you roared, banging your fist on the table and rattling the dishes as you felt your cheeks heat up. His smug smile was unbearable, so you decided to make things happen yourself. It didn’t matter what he thought in the end, as long as he stopped making fun of you. “Alright, I’ll show you, since you’re being so whiny about it. But promise me this will stay between us, okay?”

Law had only been trying to tease you; he hadn’t thought it would bother you so much. But now it had somehow fueled his curiosity about it. He simply nodded, silently.

You shoved your hand into one of your pockets in a scowl, finally pulling out your phone and opening the app. You could feel your cheeks burning as you tentatively passed your phone to your captain.

“If you say anything, you’ll have me to deal with.”, you warned.

He didn’t reply. Law stared at your phone screen for a moment, his expression impassive. He scrolled through the playlists, each with… interesting… names, but always with similar concepts. His silence was deafening, and you just wanted to disappear. A smirk eventually crept across his face, and it was too much for you.

“So, are you done?”, you spat, flustered, before snatching your phone out of his hands.

– “Yes, and I get it now,” he agreed, closing his eyes as he stood up. “Thank you”

Penguin cocked an eyebrow.

“Uh? What are you talking about?” he asked in confusion.

– “Nothing special”, his captain replied playfully, paraphrasing your earlier remarks with sarcasm, before walking away to grab a plate and go back to his consulting room.

You were stunned by Law’s nonchalance facing all this, and it made you boil with frustration. You didn’t know what he would think of you now— so you needed to sort this out. Without further thought, you stood up abruptly and went after your captain, calling out to him determinedly until your eyes met.

Law didn’t seem particularly affected by what he’d just learned. His expression remained the same as he looked at you, and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. You bit your lower lip.

“What is it, (y/n)?”

“About the type of ASMR I listen to… uhm, you… didn’t you find it too w—”

— “Am I supposed to think anything of this?” he mumbled, cutting you off. His tone was the same as always, somewhat flat and disinterested, but you could tell he was focused on what you were saying by the way he stared at you. “If it helps with your insomnia, that’s all that matters. You can listen to whatever you want.”

Oh.

A wave of relief washed over you, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips as Law resumed his walk to his consulting room.

“Don’t forget to brush up on tonsils for next month,” he said without turning around.

It was quite flattering that you appreciated this kind of attention. And Law wasn’t entirely against giving it to you next time.

[roseyodditea]

Insomnia - Lighter x gn!Reader

Summary -> 888 words on the DOT. Lighter helps you fall asleep Warnings -> None. Self indulgent tho. I am so tired and in desperate need for some warm cuddles right now

You shift underneath the scratchy knitted blanket, roll on the mattress pad that was too thin, move the pillow that was somehow too warm even when you flipped it over, trying so hard to fall asleep, but nothing was working. This wasn’t your cushy New Eridu apartment, this was a guest… shack… in Blazewood. You were thankful you were able to spend the night after losing track of time taste testing Nitro Fuel with Burnice. The problem? You taste tested Nitro Fuel with Burnice. It was 3 in the morning, the sun long set, and the chill across the desert settled in comfortably, and your chest hurt. 

You can’t take it anymore, rolling out of the bed and stepping out into cold air. A nice little walk to calm your racing heart and jittery body. You didn’t realize you were just pacing in circles until you felt a hand on your shoulder. 

“You alright?” The low voice asked from behind you, barely above the breeze in the night. 

You practically jumped out of your skin, whipping around to see the large man who had somehow snuck up on you. “Oh! Lighter, don’t scare me like that.” You punched his shoulder playfully and he dramatically rubbed it, acting like you hurt him.

“I am wearing a leather jacket that creaks when I walk. If I snuck up on you, that’s your fault.” He flicks your forehead, his eyes hidden behind the thick sunglasses even if it was the middle of the night.

You roll your eyes and look up to the sky for a brief moment before looking back. “I was distracted. And before you give me the whole ‘you can’t let your guard down in the outer ring’ bullshit, I know. I’m just…”

“Antsy.” He responds, arms holding your shoulders as he watches how your body jitters and shakes. “Burnice get you?” “Yea- Hey wait! Is that why you ran off today!?”

“No comment.” He smirks wider as you huff and pout. “Thanks for taking the fall.” He holds out his hand for a fist bump, which you begrudgingly return. 

“You owe me. Because my chest hurts and I can’t sleep.” You grumble, missing the look of empathy that washed over his face. 

“Back when I was a merc, I learned how to fall asleep anywhere fast. I can give you some advice?”

You try not to smile at the offer. Honestly with how he looks, you often forget how sweet of a man he really was. “That would be really nice, yeah.”

He places his hand on your back between your shoulders and guides you back into the guest house you were staying in. “Get in bed. That’s always the first step.” 

“You’re so funny, ya know?” You scoff and lay down, getting under the blanket, the fibers scratching your skin. 

“I know. Now take a few deep breaths, but don’t move any other part of your body.” He got up and started turning off the lights around you as you breathe. “Just try not to move too much, you want your body to relax, and tossing and turning will make you even more awake.” His voice drops, like he was trying to soothe you to sleep. 

“My heart feels like it’s going to explode. This isn’t helping, Lighter.” You sigh, defeated.

“What normally helps you sleep?”

You think for a moment, only coming up with an embarrassing answer. “Well… With my last partner, whenever they’d cuddle me it always helped me fall asleep faster.”

The silence was deafening, your heart now racing from the awkwardness of the situation, you didn’t even hear the sound of a zipper, buckles, and of leather moving. 

“I know that’s weird but I-” Your words cut off when you felt the mattress dip, a wall of warmth cupping against your back, a strong arm keeping the scratchy blanket off of your skin. “Lighter?”

“I’ve had Burnice, Lucy, and Ceaser hanging off of me for fun for too damn long now. This is nothing.” He said almost proudly. “I’ve got you. You can sleep now.” His voice was softer than you had ever heard it as he moved to place his sunglasses on the nightstand. 

“You’re a lot more soft than I expected.” You roll over in his grip to face him, seeing him in that black, torn up t shirt he wore under his leather jacket, his eyes unblocked for once. “Like… in the emotional sense, not in the… muscles way.” You cough awkwardly and he chuckles.

“Call me overprotective.” He responded and pulled your head to his chest, holding you close. 

“I’m not even part of the Sons of Calydon.”

“Eh. Honorary member.”

“...Can I borrow Red Moccus-”

“No.”

It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep with his hand tracing your spine through your sleep shirt. He was warm, sturdy, and a wonderful rock in the sea of insomnia. Your sleep was the most restful you had gotten in a long time, your dreams peaceful, your sleep uninterrupted. All thanks to Lighter…

**********

…Well… Until the next morning. You were woken up by what you thought must have been an earthquake, or a train somehow passing by with the way the walls practically shook, only to realize it was a loud snoring coming from the chest beneath your head. 

Requests are open btw!

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Late Night Bake Sesh

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x GN!Reader

Summary: Insomnia has been plaguing you lately and, as a result, you end up doing some late night baking. Turns out, you’re not the only one suffering with insomnia lately.

Marvel Masterlist

You didn't know why sleep evaded you. For the past few days, you just couldn't fall asleep. So much was on your mind, it seemed, because it wouldn't shut off. You'd lay in bed for hours, tossing and turning. You tried listening to white noise, put on ASMR videos, sprayed lavender and eucalyptus on your pillows, and nothing!

After the third day of having trouble falling asleep, you decided you'd just make yourself tired.

So baking is what you resorted to.

You had saved several different baking recipes on TikTok and Instagram, always telling yourself that you'll get to them some day.

Well that day is today.

You're currently making zucchini bread. You thank the personal chef that Val has hired for you guys for always keeping the fridge stocked with everything and anything you could need.

You have all the ingredients laid out on the counter. You're in the process of grating the zucchini when you see movement in your peripherals. You look up to see Bob standing there.

"Oh, uh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

You softly smile at him, "You're fine, Bob," you gesture for him to come closer and he does.

"Can't sleep either?" he asks as he sits on the stool on the other side of the island counter from you.

You shake your head, "Nope. The insomnia demon has made me her bitch. I've tried everything but," you gesture to your head, "can't turn it off, it seems."

Bob hums, "Yeah. I get what you mean," he looks down and stares at the counter top, "I've always had issues falling asleep. It's been getting a little better now that I'm seeing that sleep therapist, but, you know, I had bad nights sometimes."

"I'm guessing tonight is one of those nights."

He gives an exhausted sigh, "Unfortunately."

"You wanna help me?"

"Oh, uh, I'm not much of a baker or anything."

You shrug, "It's fine. I'm not either, but I'm following a recipe I found on TikTok and it's pretty easy." You set the zucchini and grater you had and grab another set, plus a bowl, "Here," you slide them to Bob across the counter, "Grate all of that into the bowl, just be careful not to cut yourself."

"Easy enough," he mumbles and gets to it. You watch as his brows scrunch up, he picks up the zucchini and then looks at the grater. It's clear he's not sure what to do.

You chuckle, "Watch me," you pick up your own zucchini and grater, "You hold the zucchini right up against the grate, and run it up and down the grate. Put enough pressure to really press it up against it." You watch him do it and you smile, "Exactly! Now just do that until it gets down to the nub."

You two work in silence, grating the zucchinis. You're the first to finish so you get to working on the dry ingredients. You combine the flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt, baking powder, and baking soda in a bowl.

"Think that's as much as I could get now," he shows you the bowl and the nub of the zucchini.

"Yup! Here," you slide over three eggs, "crack these into the bowl," you also slide the bowl of the dry ingredients. While Bob does that, you measure out the oil and then also dump it in the bowl. Then you pour in some vanilla extract as well.

You hand Bob a whisk, "Mix it all together, please, while I grease the bread pan."

Bob silently takes the whisk and begins mixing everything together. You watch him in your peripherals. Due to his aggressive mixing, wavy strand falls into his face. He tries blowing it out of the way, but it continues to fall back into his face.

You snort, "Hold on," you go to a draw where you and the rest of the Thunderbolts team likes to toss junk inside, "Ha!" you exclaim, pulling out a bobby pin. You round the counter to Bob, getting up close and pinning the stubborn strand into place, "There," you smile brightly at him.

He clears his throat, cheeks reddening, "Oh, uh, thanks."

"You're welcome," you respond, going back to the pan and continuing to grease it.

Bob speaks up as he slows his mixing, "So you like to bake?"

"I suppose," you give a little shrug, "I've always been fascinated by it. My grandma loved to bake. I loved watching her bake all these muffins, cakes, pastries. I especially love eating them. I wish I took notes of her recipes. She passed when I was twelve, then it was just me and my grandpa."

"I'm sorry," Bob says, looking genuinely empathetic.

"I miss her, but I'm glad she passed when she did or else seeing all the shit I did definitely would have did her in."

"I never knew my grandparents. Any of them. It was just me and my parents and...that wasn't a great childhood." He slides the fully mixed batter to you.

"I'm sorry." You learned some of Bob's history from the other's but he's never explicitly told you anything until now.

He gives a nonchalant shrug, "It's okay. It's in the past and, yeah, it messed me up for a long time, but...I'm doing better."

You nod, "Good." You proceed to pour the batter into the pan and then place the pan into the oven, "So this will bake for an hour and then cool off for like thirty minutes."

"What should we do in the meantime?"

You snort, "Didn't think that far to be honest. We can chat more if you'd like. Or play cards, or just put a movie on."

"I'd like to talk more, if that's okay? I-I like talking to you."

You stare at Bob with a smile, "I like talking to you too, Bob."

After that night, this becomes a whole thing. Whenever you can't sleep, you'd bake and more often than not, Bob would find himself in the kitchen with you.

The team were starting to get used to waking up and finding random baked goods laid out on the counter for them, you and Bob cuddled up asleep on the couch. Everyone began to wonder if something was brewing between you two.

___________________

Bob is mixing the cake batter and he looks adorable. You laugh, taking a picture of him. You got him some cute hair clips for him to wear when you two bake. His hair is pinned down by cute bunny clips and they're ridiculously adorable on him.

You show him the picture and he chuckles, "God, I look stupid."

"You don't look stupid! You look cute!" you kiss his cheek and then realize what you did, "Fuck. Sorry. I don't-I shouldn't have done that."

You create a distance between you two. It was Bob's birthday tomorrow and you thought it'd be fun if you and he baked his birthday cake.

It was all good fun until you decided to kiss his cheek. Jeez, you really need to get a hold of yourself.

It'd been months since you and he started doing the late night baking sessions. Each session you two grew closer and closer. You eventually started having feelings for Bob, and how could you not? He was truly a sweet, kind, and funny guy once you get to know him and he opens up to you. You felt like it was inevitable. But you two are friends, colleagues. You can't mess something like that up with your feelings.

Bob clears his throat, "It's fine, but, uh, thanks. For the clips. Pretty cool birthday gift."

You scoff, "Oh no. That wasn't your birthday gift."

You run to the couch and grab the tote bag you carried from your room. You pull out a wrapped box, "This is."

"Can I open it?"

"Duh. Go for it, birthday boy."

"My birthday isn't until-"

"Oh my god, open it!" you command with a laugh.

Bob smirks and he tears the wrapping paper off. His eyes widen when his sees what you've give him.

He fully unwraps the box, staring at it in awe. It's the exact Transformer toy he wanted when he was a kid.

"How-"

"When you mentioned it, I searched it up online. Brand new, never opened."

He looks up at you, eyes tearing up, "Thank you. This," he pauses to sniffle, "this is the best gift anyone's ever gotten me."

"You deserve the best, Robby."

He goes over and hugs you, his arm tight around your body, "You don't know how much this means to me," he mumbles in your ear and you hug him back.

When he pulls away, he wipes at his eyes, "God, haven't cried on my birthday in a long time."

"But it's a good cry this time."

He chuckles, "Yeah. Definitely a good one," he breathes out a deep exhale, "Okay. Get it together, Robert."

You snort, "It's fine. I can take over."

You take up the spot he occupied previously, mixing the batter a little more so that it's more smooth. You then pour the batter into two cake pans, then placing them in the oven.

"Do you wanna finish the movie from the other night or start something else?"

"We can finish the movie," he says, taking your hand and guiding you to the couch where you both settle down. Pulling a blanket over you two.

You watch the movie in silence, but you feel the tension in the air. You try not to let it get to you. It's going to be Bob's birthday soon.

You survive the next forty-five minutes it takes for the cakes to bake. As soon as the oven beeps, you jump off the couch immediately, pulling the cakes out.

You and Bob each take a pan and flip it upside down over the cooling rack. You then put it in the freezer to quicken the process.

As you move to go wash the pans, Bob stops you, "Hey, Y/N?"

You look at him, "Yeah?"

He immediately takes your face in his hands and he presses his lips to yours. You're frozen in shock for a second before wrapping your arms around Bob.

You happily kiss him back, smiling into his lips. You feel him smiling back.

You pull away, a smile still on your face and a haze in your eyes, "Okay, that happened."

Bob chuckles and clears his throat, "Yeah," his voice is a little raspy and it's very attractive to you, "Yeah, that happened. I just-I just really, really like you. You've done a lot for me these past few months. You've been such a great friend and you're so kind and cute. I don't want to pretend that I see you as just a friend anymore."

"I don't either."

"And that gift. That was the icing on the cake about how I feel about you."

You chuckle, "Good pun."

"Thanks. Came up with it myself," he murmurs back, his hands go to your hips, "I guess I got my birthday wish a little earlier than expected."

"Lucky you," you mumble, pecking his lips, "Happy birthday, Robby. I'm kinda glad we both had insomnia that night."

"Yeah. Me too."

[gyllenhaalstuff]

I will actually do ANYTHING for another adam bell orr maybe anthony claire…. fanfic since when u wrote him it was SOOO GOOD and there is not enough fanfics for him!!!!! I just rewatched Enemy and hes saur fine and im just craving to write another fanfic of him / them and especially by you

Adam Bell is one of his hottest characters idc. Also… I was ovulating when writing this. This is filthy.

After class

- Adam Bell x student!reader

Summary: Your professor asks you to stay behind after class. Wink.

Warnings: Dom!Adam, age gap!!, size kink if you squint, “sir”, he’s basically using you but you’re too in love to see it, mutual masturbation, fingering, piv sex, unprotected sex.

Word count: 1909

Notes: I am going insane (ovulating) sorry about the pervy pet names xx.

· · ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── · ·

Everyone struggles in university. The stakes are high, and the classes are too long to pay attention. But in Bell’s class, you couldn’t pay any attention at all. Not to the subject, at least. Your eyes would fall to your professor's hands, the bulge in his slacks, and his tongue when he licked his lips in between sentences.

With time he managed to make himself at home in your thoughts. Every waking hour you would fantasize about being bent over his desk or kneeling under it. You couldn’t catch a break, even in your sleep. This took a toll on you, as well as your studies.

“That’s all for today. Make sure to get to page 250 in the Iliad,” Adam reminded as the students packed up their things. “Oh, and y/n, could I have a word with you?” You froze in your tracks. You hadn’t done anything wrong or failed an exam; sure, your mind was elsewhere, but that was your own problem, not his. You trotted up to his desk, laptop under your arm. “Is everything alright?”

He gave you a reassuring nod, “No need to worry, sweetheart. Sit down for a second, will you?” You grabbed the closest chair and placed it in front of his desk. You twirled nervously with the hem of your skirt. You had never been this close to him, never been able to see the gray in his beard or pick up on his cologne. It was intoxicating.

“You seem a bit tired. Your studies are fine; I just want to make sure everything is alright,” Adam explained. Maybe it was just your imagination running wild, but he seemed nervous too. “Oh yeah, I haven’t been sleeping very well, that’s all,” you stuttered, feeling your cheeks heat as he studied you. He rubbed his tired eyes, making you notice the veins on his hand. “I understand. Insomnia?” Either he was actually oblivious to your attraction (spoiler alert, he wasn’t) or he tried his best to ignore it. “Weird dreams,” you corrected. You were stuck between wanting to jump his bones and running as far away as possible. Adam suddenly looked intrigued. “What kind of dreams?” He pushed, curious about his pretty young student. You stayed quiet at his question, unable to be truthful and unable to lie.

He chuckled at your nervous expression, “Now I see.” You blushed and squirmed in his chair. Could there be anything more embarrassing? “About who?” He asked and fiddled with his pen. He knew he crossed a line; he shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t even want to know. But he did. And when he was met with silence again, he smiled to himself. “It’s me,” he sighed, a statement and not a question. You nodded. This was torture.

“Poor thing. You know that’s not possible.” You felt like crying. Not only was your secret out, but you were being rejected. You looked down at your clammy hands; you wanted out. Especially since your body went against your judgment, making you clench your thighs and your underwear damp. “I’m sorry, sir,” you mumbled.

Adam thanked God for being behind the desk; you seeing his erection would make his whole game collapse. “Look, if I were in charge, you wouldn’t have to suffer like this. But it’s not up to me now, is it?” His eyes were kind and nonjudgmental. You sniffled and forced a smile, “Yeah, I get it.” He leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling as if solving a problem. “However, if it never gets out…” He hummed, keeping you on your toes. Your heart lightened a bit, daring to get hopeful.

“Come here, honey,” Adam then said and scooted out his chair, making room for you to come stand in front of him. You put the laptop on his desk and walked towards him. He looked you up and down, slouched in his chair with his legs spread. Two strong hands grabbed your thighs from behind and pulled you closer. “I won’t bite.” He smiled and stroked you with his thumbs.

You were sure you had gone insane and were hallucinating the whole scenario. But his stern grip on you felt much too realistic. “You’re my favorite student, you know,” he began, with his eyes stuck to his hands on you, “You’re ambitious, smart, and pretty.” If your shame had died with your integrity, you would’ve moaned at his praise. Instead, you swallowed it down.

“You wouldn’t mind stripping for your professor now, would you?” His voice was so sweet, contrasting with his lust. You finally dared to look at him. Your doubts melted when you saw the tent in his pants. He wanted you too. Your hands began pulling up the hem of your shirt, all while your eyes were set on his crotch. Adam hummed at your lace bra. “Do you always wear pretty things like this to my classes?” One of his hands grazed your breast through the fabric, making your nipple peak. A pathetic “mhm” escaped your throat as you nodded at his question. “Should’ve found out sooner.”

Adam guided you to his desk, lifting you up on it, and stood between your legs. He cradled your warm face, adorned with glassy eyes. And when he kissed you, you thought you’d die. He was so gentle with it, maybe because of his ulterior motives, but it still made your heart melt. His lips moved slowly against yours, teasing you with his tongue, which finally entered when he wrapped an arm around your back. A shaky breath left you, and you involuntarily bucked your hips against his. He let out a laugh, muffled by your mouth.

He broke the kiss and commanded against your lips, “Take your skirt off.”You wiggled out of it, leaving you in your panties. Your nicest ones that you always wore to his lessons, not that you thought he’d ever know. Adam cupped his hand against your damp underwear, grinning to himself. “My poor girl.” He loosened his tie and began unbuckling his pants.

Your breath hitched at the sound of metal clanging. The amount of times that sound had echoed in your imagination was more than you could count. You sat perched on your arms, lending you a view of him undressing. When he untucked his shirt, his happy trail made your stomach swirl. You followed it down to the hem of his exposed underwear. His cock was straining against the fabric, eager to use you.

He pulled it out of its restraints. His hand wrapped around it, stroking himself. Sadly, your eyes were too focused on the movements of his hands that you didn’t notice how his eyes flickered between your needy expression and the damp spot on your panties. He had thought of this too, more times than he’d admit to himself. Dreamed about having his student squirming for him, needing him to take care of her.

“Show me what you do when you’re thinking about me,” he panted, “show me how you touch yourself.” In any normal situation, you would be way too embarrassed to do it. But for him, you would do whatever he asked. You pulled off your panties, exposing your soaked cunt before snaking one of your hands down to your clit. Your legs spasmed at the first touch; you had never been this turned on in your life. Adam watched intently as you massaged your clit, watching as your body tensed with each circling motion. You fought to keep your eyes open, to keep looking at his cock, finally revealed to you. You never thought you’d see it, let alone see him with his hand wrapped around it.

You paused for a second, not wanting to cum now and embarrass yourself. The pause was cut short by two callused fingertips taking your place. The surprise finally had you moan; Adam reveled in the sound. He let go of his cock, focusing solely on making you feel good.

He dipped his fingers down, running them over your slit. You had given up on sitting and were now lying down, sprawled across the dark wood. You clenched when his fingers entered you. If you didn’t know, you’d think it was his cock, based on the stretch compared to your own fingers. A tinge of jealousy hit you when he hit your spot with ease; he must’ve been with many women before you.

Adam’s mouth watered at your walls clenching around his digits. He pulled them out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness. “Shh, don’t get all whiny now,” he shushed and grabbed his cock again. This time, he placed it against your clit, letting his tip press against it. “Next time, I’m gonna bury my face in you.”

Your hips jerked against him. His words went in one ear and out the other. You just needed him inside you. “Please, sir,” you whined. Adam huffed in response, “Hm? What?” He wasn’t gonna let you win this easily. “You want to be fucked?” The condescension in his voice was enough to make your thighs flex. “Yes, sir,” you nodded eagerly, “I want you inside me; it’s all I’ve been thinking about.” He scoffed at your rambling, pleased with your desperation.

He entered you slowly, making you stop your pathetic cries. He groaned at you enveloping him, squeezing his cock. “I could’ve told your age just from how tight you are,” he huffed, “my pretty little girl.” His strong hands hugged your waist, pulling you onto his cock. You swore internally to never be with a guy your age again. The stretch made your mind go quiet and your mouth loud. You moaned with each thrust, painfully slow but deliciously stretching and hard.

Adam watched his cock disappear into your, in his opinion, perfectly young cunt. He upped his pace once your body stopped fighting his length, stuffing you fully when he swiftly entered you. You cried out at the sudden change and kept at it as he continued with his relentless pace. You wrapped your legs around his hips; somehow you couldn’t get enough despite the painful intrusion.

Adam lowered his torso down over you, capturing your lips in a messy kiss. His beard scratched your chin as his tongue clashed with yours. His cock kept hitting your G-spot over and over, pushing you closer to the edge. “I’m close,” you whined against his beard, furrowing your brows in pleasure. “Go on, baby, make a mess on my cock.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair as the pressure rose, scratching his scalp. He was nearing his climax too; his jaw hung open as he panted against your skin. His strained noises pushed you over the edge, making your legs tremble around his tall frame. Your cries echoed through the lecture room. And soon his grunts did too. If you could, you’d play the sound on repeat forever.

He slumped over you, breathing heavily once his cum had filled you up. “I can’t believe you want me,” he mumbled, making your heart skip a beat. You couldn’t believe you finally slept with him, let alone having him even talk to you. “You’re gonna have to stay behind a lot from now on.”

You didn’t sleep any better that night. You were busy replaying the afternoon behind closed eyes, adding a third finger to resemble his two, staining your pristine sheets with need and the remainder of your professor's cum.

[thatlittlered]

would've, could've, should've | aaron hotchner

warning(s): one whole curse word, smoking, stunning amount of fluff and a little bit of action

GIF by @littlecarmine

part one

part two

author's note: Sorry for the delay, hope it was worth it! I also want to thank the sweet anon for the ask with the Robert Siken poem, which I included here. Next part will be straight-up filthy smut, so stay tuned, fellow sluts.

Follow me @MadeofLilies on Ao3 and let me know if you want to be tagged here.

-.-.-

You don’t see much of each other for the next couple of days. Aaron is on autopilot, avoiding any chance to be alone with you. The rest of the team unknowingly act as a buffer and all he has to do is not look at you during work hours, keep the door to his office shut to not hear your laughter.

It’s a relief when you and Morgan are called to testify in court for a case. You’re somewhere far away for the day, where he knows you’re safe and he can go back to pretending nothing has changed.

The problems start when he’s not being kept busy.

 How much paperwork can one person do?

The stars align oddly in his favor and he’s into calls or meetings until long after everyone else has gone home. When ten pm rolls around, he finally calls it quits but sees no point in leaving in a hurry. It’s past Jack’s bed time, it’d be cruel to wake him up now and carry him back home when tomorrow’s Sunday. If all goes well, he can pick him in the morning and they’ll get to spend the day together.

His finger is hovering over Jessica’s number when he spots your name in his call logs. It’s silly and childish, but he hasn’t thought of you in a couple of hours and God.

Deep down, he knows he’s been incredibly unfair to you. He had to. Had to tell himself it was something outside of him causing him torment. An obstacle to overcome, a distraction to ignore. He had to act as if you were forcing your way into his life in order to be able to put up walls, but what have you really done except exist near him? He is the one to blame for allowing it to grow beneath his skin; succumbing to his need for some sort of intimacy when he could have -should have- nipped this at the bud a very long time ago. He recognized it within himself the other day, when he realized he could have -should have- kissed you.

But nothing is healed with a kiss. Only new grievances arise.

It’s where you go from there that matters and he finds himself unable to guide or be guided.

Where do you go from here?

When he decides to feed his insomnia with a cup of late-night coffee, he is yet again reminded of you. So, he calls, but you don’t answer and he pours another, completely indifferent to the idea of sleep.

It’s getting too late to be here, even by his standards. He tries calling again, but, no answer. He gathers his stuff to leave and there is a horrible feeling at the pit of his stomach when he settles inside the car. It’s only eleven and you always say you never sleep this early.

Another call, this time to Emily, who miraculously, picks up.

“Hello? Hotch?”

There is a deafening buzz in the background; loud voices and music blasting.

Aaron apologizes for the late hour and tries to be discreet when he asks about you. Says he needs to go over something about a case file but you won’t answer his calls and he got worried.

“Yeah, she’s fine, she’s right here with me, but it’s a little hard to get her right now. Is it urgent?”

“Uh, no, don’t bother her. Is everyone else there too?”

“Not everyone, just the two of us, Garcia and Morgan. Do you need them as well?”

You didn’t invite him, why would you? He would have never said yes.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t make out much with all this noise. We’re at the ‘Matter’ if you need us. I’ll tell the guys to call you as soon as they can, okay? Have a good night.”

So, he drives two miles a little before midnight to come sit outside ‘Matter’, which is apparently a very busy nightclub downtown, half a mile away from the nearest parking spot he could find.

He doesn’t really know why he came.

He can’t come in and join you. Can’t ask for you.

They probably wouldn’t even let him in while dressed like this.

It’s very unclear what the next step is.

He knows it’s pointless to call you again when you’re probably too busy dancing and drinking with a great many people who are not him. Morgan has some trouble keeping his hands to himself when he drinks.

He sits on the curb of the street, cracks open the pack of cigarettes he snack out of the car’s glove compartment, always hidden below the insurance papers. Astoundingly loud music plays every time the doors to the club open and people come out stumbling, kissing sloppily and dragging each other away.

He just wants to see you and put this horrible feeling inside him to rest.

“No fucking way.”

He jolts at the sound of your voice and throws away the cigarette, putting it out with his shoe before he turns to see you standing outside the club. You approach timidly until you can be sure it’s him and when you step closer to the streetlight, he can really see you. The clothes you could never wear to work, the shoes you apparently spend all your money on. You’re beautiful.

He can’t possibly move until you’re sat beside him. For the first time in what seems like forever, now that he’s grown so used to it, you keep a very respectable distance between your bodies.

“You didn’t have to throw it away; I already saw you and,” you pick up the abandoned carton from the sidewalk and almost laugh at how immaculate it looks just having been opened, “I have so many questions. Since when do you smoke?”

His voice is quiet, unamused.

“Almost never.”

You look at him curiously and he thinks you would make a great interrogator simply by the way you make everyone around you spill their souls out if it will satisfy you.

“Sometimes when I’m very stressed.”

You hum, “I never would have guessed that.”

He laughs to himself and looks at his hands.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of things that are not typical of me lately.”

You help yourself to a cigarette and he cups his hand over yours when the breeze makes it too hard to light up.

“Is that because of me? Am I a bad influence?”

“No. It’s me, I’m the common denominator.”

You hum again and smile at him teasingly in an attempt to lighten the mood, “Breakthrough.”

“So, this is what therapy is like?”

He wants to thank you, for always trying to make things as easy as possible for him. You open the door and difficult as it may seem, all he really has to do is walk through it.

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t smoke in session.”

“Oh good.”

You’re sitting closer again and Aaron doesn’t know how. He doesn’t think either of you moved. He keeps his eyes on the road in front of him, glances at you only from the corner of his eye. Your perfume mingles with the smoke of the cigarette and it’s all a haze to him.

“Why are you not inside?”

“I needed a breath; it was very loud and packed in there… and I finally saw your calls.”

He hums, unable to find anything else to say.

“Why are you here?

“I don’t know.”

He knows that is not a good enough of an answer.

“I always have this terrible feeling that something is going to happen to you.”

Your shoulder touches his and he can admire the smoothness of it, focus on each mark there to avoid the dreaded eye contact.

“Do you think that fear is reasonable, or is it rooted in something else?’

His eyes shut tightly, “Don’t do that, please. Don’t talk to me like I’m a subject.”

“You use your ‘agent tone’ all the time outside of work.”

His voice deepens, “I am aware.”

Heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry I did all that and then backed out at the last minute.”

“It’s alright. I think I knew you would.”

“See, that’s even worse.”

You look at his suit, the wrinkles that have formed in the shirt underneath from the hours of wear.

“Did you come here straight from the office?”

A sigh, “Yeah.”

You nod your head in understanding and move to put out what’s left of the cigarette.

“I’m alright. I’ve got the others too; they’ll take me home. You can relax now.”

“I don’t think I ever can.”

You don’t know what to say really. If what he needs is time, you can give it, but he seems undecided as well when he picks up your hand.

“I think I’m scared of what will happen once the line is crossed.”

A confession.

That, you did not expect.

“Aside from the complications at work, I just,” his hand rubs gently on the spot your watch has left its mark, “I have proved time and time again that I can’t handle any relationship beyond professionalism and once we stop being just colleagues, I will lose you completely from my life.”

“Do you think that line has not been crossed already?”

He laughs quietly.

You can both feel the bouncer looking at you and Aaron is suddenly aware of how vulnerable he is right now.

“I guess it has.”

You’re both quiet for a little while.

“I have to go back inside now, or they’ll start getting worried.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but no words leave his mouth.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell them you were here.”

That hurt. You know it, but what else was there to say?

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll know.”

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze before you leave and he’s left staring while you go back inside.

-.-.-

A little past two, the girls drop you off in a shared cub before going their separate ways and you rush to your apartment building, only to find Aaron waiting there.

“Well, you certainly have a thing for sitting on curbs.”

He looks tired, so tired, and alone in the empty street. It’s very hard to maintain your position when he always looks this beaten down in his most tender moments. You wish to care for him, love him back into happiness but that wouldn’t be fair.

Still, you can’t help but go to him and he is relieved that you sit closer this time.

“Have you been waiting here this whole time?”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

You softly take his right hand to look at his watch. His body relaxes at the touch.

“Huh.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, but I’m a little more drunk than the last time you saw me.”

Your skin glows under the soft moonlight and he notices.

It is technically tomorrow now.

“How drunk?”

His face moves closer and you can’t help but shiver at the sudden change. His breath is warm on your face. The words come out in a whisper.

“Not that much.”

That’s all it takes.

His lips press against yours once… then twice and then… he doesn’t stop.

You always thought he’d be one to kiss carefully and with absolute purpose, just like he does everything else, but he kisses like a man on fire. He seeks to quench something deep inside of him and you provide happily. The remnants of your lip gloss tingle on his mouth, as if kissing you alone is not enough of an awakening.

It’s becoming increasingly hard to keep up with breathing when he envelops you so, and cages you in the pleasant whirl of his scent. When you break away for breath, he’s quick to capture you once more. His hands come to your face to keep you there until he’s had enough, but how he can he ever have enough of you?

He only lets you go because he has to. You’re both practically panting and he can’t decide what to do. He wants to kiss you, look at you, touch you, but it cannot all be done at once. When your own hand comes to his face just below his jawline, he melts under the touch. His eyes are sunken, his body is begging for rest, but it would not come without you.

“Do you want to stay with me tonight?”

His voice is low and breathy when he nods.

“Yeah…”

-.-.-

You walk upstairs, hand in hand, and Aaron can see your own exhaustion is taking over. Something started with that first touch. Your bodies wish only to find comfort near each other.

His breath is warm on your neck while you open the door, his hands softly placed on your waist with the excuse of keeping you steady. When you move to take off your shoes, he is behind you again, as if tied to you with invisible thread, and holds you gently by the elbow when he sees you struggling.

You’re suddenly very aware he is in your house again. Touching you.

“Can I get you anything?”

He shakes his head no, but you’re too focused on the way his hand moves languidly up your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, before tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

He is so caring. So soft below the austere guise.

“I just need to take a shower,” you almost stumble backward and he thinks it’s the alcohol, but it might just be the feeling of his hands on your face, “I must have fifty different people’s sweat on me right now.”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

His voice is soft – tired.

You turn on the lights for him in the living room and he gives a half-smile when you check on him again.

“I won’t be long.”

Once left alone, he gets to look around your house. He sees your carefully assorted nick-knacks and smiles at the framed pictures all over your bookshelves. He can’t help but notice you’ve chosen one, if not the only, photo of the team that he’s also part of.

He is important to you too.

He can see you in every corner of the room, in the books you buy and the realistic-looking-but-admittedly-fake plants sprinkled here and there for a lack of time to take care of any real ones. He can even see you in the soft material of the couch when he sits and lets his cheek touch the fabric. He has been here before in a dream, with your head in his lap.

The room is awfully quiet save for the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall and the sound of running water in the background. For a man that’s usually so good at sitting alone with his thoughts, he suddenly can’t stand it.

He knocks gently on the bathroom door and opens it slowly, only to be hit with the dizzying cloud of warm steam. Your head peeks behind the shower curtain and he can tell you got tired of standing and sat in the tub instead.

“Is it okay if I sit in here with you?”

You thought he’d sit on the toilet seat, but he crawls to the edge of the tub and sits on the bathmat with his back to you.

How close is close enough?

Now that he’s ventured, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be satisfied.

So, he closes his eyes and rests his head back on the, now warm, porcelain.

“Aaron.”

He doesn’t know if he actually fell asleep, but the water is now turned off and you’re looking at him. He realizes now, for the first time, that you’re naked behind him. Your hair and eyelashes are angelically wet, the sheen of water on your flushed skin is divine. He knows that you’d be warm if he touched you now.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

You smile at him -siren- and your hand grabs a handful of his shirt, staining it with water that reaches his body underneath and makes him shiver. You kiss him with plump wet lips and he reaches for you. His hand entangles in your hair until you’re both practically pulling at each other.

A less enamored man would have broken away just to sneak a peek at your bare skin, but he won’t. He is respectful even now, even like this.

“I should have kissed you the other day. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

It’s a whisper when his mouth leaves yours, but you catch it.

You hum, eyes glossy, “Would've, could've, should’ve.”

What matters is now.

He kisses you again – just one more time. You both feel like giddy, lovesick children.

“Can you hand me my bathrobe?”

The bathrobe is also impossibly soft to the touch and when you emerge clad in it, he thinks he’d like to hold you. The spell of the warm steam is broken outside, however, and being so close to your naked body suddenly becomes very serious.

You let him sit in your bed, still fully clothed, save for his suit jacket, and he closes his eyes again. The comforter underneath is lovely.

Is everything in this house soft?

Is this what it feels like to be loved by you?

You disappear inside the walk-in closet and reappear, now properly dressed in your pajamas. The bed dips when you sit next to him and he turns to you completely.

“I have a T-shirt you can sleep in, don’t know about pants though.”

Please. Just be here, with him.

He watches you leave, but it’s not long before you return with the aforementioned shirt. You laugh when he finally realizes he’ll have to sleep in his boxers.

“Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage of you.”

He throws a teasing look, but can’t possibly come up with a clever answer right now.

“I’ll go dry my hair and you can get dressed, alright?”

You are so gentle with your guidance that it makes him feel like a helpless child, but there’s a hidden relief at that. It’s nice; being cared for like this and there is something to be said about parallels, with you going now to do as you had done a week and a half ago in a Florida hotel and him waiting for you – on your bed.

It’s the same, but it’s different.

He hangs his work clothes carefully on the chair in the corner of your room and goes to sit on the bed, but feels too uncomfortable to climb under the covers. He knows you’d find his duality funny; how he goes from hungrily kissing you to being too embarrassed to join you in bed, even if it’s only for sleep.

You notice his stiffness when you come back in the room, but don’t say anything. It’s not exactly easy for you either, you’re just better at hiding it than he is. You choose to lead by example instead and turn off the lights before reaching for the one on your nightstand and climbing inside your bedding.

He only speaks to deflect attention from him again, “You have a TV in your room.”

“Jealous?”

He turns to look at you and you’re perched up on the plump pillows, smiling at him. Your hand reaches for his own over the comforter and you gently pull him to you.

He comes, of course.

“I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

“Of course you don’t.”

He joins you with his back on the pillows and his shoulder touching yours, but he’s still too stiff.

“What do you watch?”

“Mostly reruns of sitcoms-,” he laughs at that, “-Seinfeld.”

“Isn’t that show a thousand years old?

“You would know.”

He laughs again and you can almost make out a wounded pout on his face, but a kiss is enough of a cure. His shoulders relax and he gives in to the warmth and softness; be it the bed or you next to him. You can tell he’s barely managing to stay awake, but he still can’t let go completely. His head slumps backward again.

“Can we turn it on?”

You find the courage to caress his hair, admiring the softness of it and the discreet sprinkle of grey that you can only see up close.

“If you want.”

The quiet humming of the television and your breath in his ear, putting his mind to ease, are enough for him to finally sleep and you’re not long behind. His head is turned to the side where you are, hand tightly holding yours.

Later in the night, when you stir in your sleep, he pulls you further into him – wraps his arm around you completely and doesn’t let go.

next part

[porkcutletbowl44]

The Man You Need

Simon Ghost Riley x F!Reader

Tags!: 🔞NSFW. MDNI. unprotected p in v sex(wrap it in foil before you check her oil), dirty talk, creampie, PWP, Insomnia!reader, brief mention of misogyny, semi-public sex, shower sex, reader is also kinda bratty

(Ik y'all are only here for the porn that's why the plot dies quick lmao)

A big thank you to the 200 followers and counting 🫶🏻🩷

• · ────── ·🔞🖤🔞· ────── · •

"Y'look knackered, 'aven't been sleepin' enough?"

Simon's voice forces you to stop staring at the stale scones under the heat lamp, yanking you out of that day dream of falling face first into the breakfast line to get real sleep.

"Just the usual insomnia," you reminded. "What plans do you have today?" You asked, gatherthering the last of your breakfast.

His long strides effortlessly keeping up with your shorter ones. He towers over you as you both approach the table where you both sat normally.

"Just the usual, trainin' new recruits." He answers in the same manner as you, he sits down opposite you. He stretches his long legs out under the table, his calves brushing yours.

His eyes fixed on you like little bugs on your skin, taking in every detail of your face.

"'ow long has it been since y'last slept through a night?" He asks gruffly.

"Saturday." You answered.

His jaw clenches momentarily behind the thin fabric of his balaclava, and his shoulders stiffen.

"Y'mean to tell me its been three days an' you're still functioning?" He retorts, skepticism written on his face. He knows you, and he knows how bad your insomnia gets.

"Yeah. Doesn't help when we have to wake up early."

Simon lets out a frustrated sigh, running a gloved hand over his face.

"You can't survive on 2 or 3 hours o' sleep a day. Y'know you're pushin' it too far. You're going to collapse soon if y'don't get your sleep under control."

He's always stern when he speaks, but with you it's like he's scolding you like a child who doesn't know any better.

You do know better; you've busted your ass to get where you are. You've had to deal with everything in the book to fight to where you are now in the military, and he knows that, he's been there the majority of the time and yet he nags you everyday about something.

"Well I'm trying, Si. Melatonin doesn't work and it gives me bad headaches." You mumbled irritably.

"Doesn't work, eh? An' I can see those bags under your eyes. Headaches too..." He rubs his chin as he looks at you, his eyes calculating. "What 'ave you tried so far, love? I've told you to keep me updated."

"The sleepy tea worked for a little bit, and then it didn't. I tried running before bed, no screen time, benadryl..."

Simon grunts and leans back in his chair, listening to you list all the things you've already tried and don't work, his frustration only seems to grow with this situation— or you?

"Bloody hell. You've tried everythin', 'aven't you? Nothin' seems to work, it's as if your body just won't shut down."

Sometimes this leads to the same thing over and over again, the 'you have to sleep' or, 'why do you do this to yourself?'. You just smile and nod, because yes, you can 100% control this.

"Well, sometimes another thing works, but it's just too much of a hassle." You shrugged, sipping some vitamin water.

Simon's brows furrow as he hears your muttered words. He leans forward, his gaze intense.

"What 'other things?'"

You sometimes keep things from him, and he won't let you get away with it this time. Or, there's the other times you are blunt, disgustingly blunt. You live with a bunch of men, who do not have a filter, that alone has killed yours out of existence.

You blink, fidgeting in place. "Ahem. Me time?"

He's not dense, he knows exactly what you mean and he's not one to back down from anything that usually makes normal people squeamish or "grossed out".

"An" 'ow is it 'too much o' a hassle exactly?" He asks, a slight raise in an eyebrow.

"My hand cramps." You rolled your eyes, it was obvious, who doesn't have that problem sometimes?

He crosses his arms over his broad chest with a humored look, your honesty can be either amusing or completely looked over.

"Your hand cramps, you say? Thas a hell o' a reason."

He chuckles softly, his eyes raking over you, taking in the sight before him. His gaze is heated. Your face can feel it, it's warm, it's like he's putting your face close to a bonfire with that look. For months you two do this... This thing that borders flirty and suggestive but at the same time it doesn't quite feel like either.

"Yeah. Thinking about going down to the store."

His eyes snap up, crossed arms going lose from his chest. He's not stupid; he knows what "going down to the store" means.

"You're talkin' about goin' to get one o' those things." His voice is low, but not quite harsh. He's almost hesitant to say it out loud, but he says it with so much disdain.

You deadpan. "A vibrator, Simon. A vibrator."

The tops of his cheeks flush red beneath his balaclava at your blunt response. You giggle a little, not expecting such a reaction from Lieutenant Ghost. What's the big deal? Did guys not talk about fleshlights? Brand recommendations?

He clears his throat before speaking, a little husky and quiet. No way, are you embarrassing him with girl stuff?

"Y-yeah. One o' those." He stutters, his usual confidence wavering. "Yes, thank you, love. I realize that. I just..." He trailed off, blinking a few times.

"Y'can't be serious. You're goin' to use a toy instead o' asking for help?"

It's like he can't believe you just said that out loud, in a busy mess hall no less. This is what it took? Talking about sex toys to make him awkward?

"Uhm...yeah? I less you have a boyfriend in your pocket waiting for me." you retort.

And yikes, he didn't seem to like that. His eyes squint, probably crinkle in his nose. He paused, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes studying your face closely.

"You don't seriously think y'need a toy instead o' just asking me, do you?"

Why does he sound hurt??

Your stomach does a backflip off your intestines and into a hot tub of oil. He did not just say that. You must be asleep, yes, you must be dreaming.

You giggled, "Good one."

Simon gives a low grumble, his jaw flexing and grinding. This apparently wasn't a laughing matter to him. Is he serious? Your tongue works over your teeth, trying your absolute hardest to be so cool, nonchalant, you don't care you don't care—

"'M not jokin', love. You don't honestly think that a toy would be better than the real thing, do you?"

Of course it's not fucking better. But what choices did you have? Sleep with one of your teammates and then get a dishonorable discharge? Make things awkward in your team?

"Oh... Considering it's illegal to have relationships, yes. A vibrator won't leave me, cheat on me, break my heart... It's perfect." You shrugged— it was for the best anyways.

He knew the rules just as much as you did. And he followed them religiously. What the hell is going on? Why would he just suggest that out of the blue?

"Y'think you'd be better off with a piece o' silicone than takin' the chance on me?"

You pinch your thigh under the table. Nope. You're still here in mess hall, in front of your now cold breakfast, and Simon is still trying to convince you to fuck him.

"Y'wouldn't be satisfied with that thing. You'd get bored, love..." He sounds so sure, and jealous when he speaks of the horrible, terrible, vibrator.

"How would you know?" You quired quickly.

Just to double check. Maybe the sleep deprivation was catching up.

"I know 'cause I know you. You'd get tired o' that thing eventually, you'd want somethin' real."

He paused for a moment, his eyes lidding, darkening, consuming.

"You'd want someone to touch you, love. Not some piece o' plastic an' silicone."

"Yeah, like I'd ever get that," you barked out a laugh out of sheer nerves.

He didn't like that anymore than your last dismissive reply, you may just be convinced about now. So, cue to you squeezing your thighs together in your seat. Acting completely normal. Because everything about this is so normal; your coworker just telling you to come to him for a good fuck to be able to sleep.

"What do y'mean by that? 'ow can you say that with a straight face? Y'don't think anyone would want to touch you? Let y'know 'ow loved you are?" He grumbled, his hands clenching on top of the table.

"Y'think you're so undesirable that nobody would want you? Bloody hell..." He shakes his head.

"Simon, take a look at me." You licked your lips to prevent a shout of frustration, yikes, you do need sleep.

Simon's eyes fly over your form, from head to toe. He took his time studying you, his eyes lingering over the curves of your body, the way your hair fell over your face. There isn't a damn thing wrong with the way you look.

"'M lookin' at ya, love. An' what I see is perfection. So tell me again... what's your damn point?"

Oh, good God. It's real. But this is better than you imagined; you want to make him work for it. All because it's hotter to get a man to work for something, get all riled up.

"What do you see? A cutesy little girly girl? A nice little housewife for a big strong man?" You asked sarcastically.

"I see a woman who's strong, capable, an' bloody beautiful." He glares, offended you'd even think about saying that, "You're not some dainty damsel in distress, you're a force to be reckoned with..."

"My point exactly. Men don't want a chick that's more man than them." You rolled your eyes at just mentioning the delicacy of fragile masculinity these days.

Simon grunted and rolled his eyes, his irritation building into something you might not want to poke at.

"Thas where you're wrong, love." He points his spoon at you. "Not all men are as narrow-minded as y'think. I know damn well I want a woman like you. Strong, feisty, sexy."

"My point, Simon! I don't want some fucking pussy, I want someone whose more man than me." You huff.

You're not entirely implying this trait about him... You just wanna see him work for it.

"You're not goin' to find that in a bloody toy, love. You're lookin' in the wrong place if y'think some plastic will make y'feel better. Y'want a man? You already 'ave a man."

He was right there, willing to give you what you needed. But how far will he go?

"Yeah but... I want something real, too." You tried to explain.

This flirting back and forth was something you enjoyed; but what would it mean in the long run?

"Exactly." He huffed a bit exasperated. "Y'want somethin' real. Somethin' I can give you."

He shifted in his seat, leaning closer to you, his eyes deep and intense.

"Y'don't need a toy, love. You 'ave me. 'M real, an' I want you. Don't settle for some piece o' plastic when y'know damn well what you really want."

Okay then, schizophrenic, game on.

"I want someone stronger than me, someone to give me a reason to act like a woman," You snorted.

You were infuriating at times.

"An' y'think I can't give ya that? Y'think I can't make y'feel like a woman? Like a fuckin' queen?" That retort comes out low, accusing. "I can definitely make y'feel like a woman. Y'don't need someone stronger than you, love. Y'just need me."

Nail on the head with that one; yet how far can you take it? You lean between your elbows, squeezing your tits together to make you look as enticing as possible.

"Do I?" You purr.

Simon freezes in time, his plastic spoon almost falling away from his thick fingers. His hand does scramble for it to his credit but he almost dumps his bowl in the process. You hear him clear his throat roughly, Adams apple bobbing at the hem of his mask before it disappears. You bite your lip with a challenging gaze, would he take it?

"Yes," He replied firmly to cover up his hesitation, "Y'need me, love. Y'just don't know it yet. I can make y'feel things no toy ever could. Think y'need a man t'make you feel like a woman? I can do that, an' I will happily."

You smirk, "You're gonna have to try harder than that,"

"Oh, I will, love. You're just askin' for a challenge, aren't you?"

"You afraid to take it?" You shot back slyly.

He was anything but afraid with that look. He was up for the challenge, and you know he's gonna prove it.

"Baby, 'm not afraid o' anythin' when it comes to you," he replied, his voice low and husky. "As long as you can take what I can give you."

He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes searing into yours. There was danger in his gaze, it only made it all the more delicious.

"Y'think you can 'andle me, love? Y'think you're ready for what I can do t'you?"

"Only if you can prove it." You grin.

Ghost let out a low growl, his eyes darkening at your challenging tone. He thrived on it, it only fueling his drive to prove himself to you.

"Oh, I'll prove it, love. I'll prove it again an' again until y'can't even think straight."

"No, no, prove you're more man than me." You corrected easily.

"Y'want to know why 'm more o' a man than you? I can make y'feel things you 'aven't even imagined before. I'll 'ave you beggin' f'me, addicted t'me."

"I'll be waiting, then." You set the challenge in stone. This was it.

The bear has been poked enough. He was on a mission now.

"You'll be beggin' f'me before the night's over." He boasts smoothly, a promise and a warning all in one.

"If I get a good night's sleep I'll consider keeping you,"

You were maddening, and he both loved and hated the way you pushed his buttons. It was all in good heart; for the most part.

"You're already keepin' me, love. Y'just don't know it yet."

You bite your lip, taking a quick survey of the area before replying. This was getting too good to be true.

"Don't disappoint then, we have..." You glance at your watch, humming, "six hours until lights out."

"Thas more than enough time." He grunts, all smug and cocky behind his mask.

Step one, getting recruit work out of the way. It's boring as fuck, mostly watching the Lieutenant scare the absolute piss out of the fresh meat.

Simon was barking orders left and right, ruthless to the soldiers in training. Almost as ruthless as the sun beating down on them.

You abandoned your spot in the shade, clip board in hand. You balance two water bottles on the wooden board as you approach to offer a beverage.

"Thanks," he grumbles, his eyes darting around to ensure no one witnessed the small gesture just like you.

He took the offered water, downing half the bottle in one go and adjusting his mask back in place. You drag your pin down the clip board to check off what's already done.

"Forty laps?"

"Forty laps."

Simon confirmed with a gruff nod, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment before turning back to the recruits. Despite the challenging heat, he refused to end the training drills early no matter how much you teased him about buying him a little extra on your toy run— Viagra.

You thought it was hilarious, him? Not so much.

"An' they better pick up the pace!" He barked, the deep baritone easily reaching the pirvates' ears.

You circle that box, "And the sixty pull ups?" You breathed a bored sigh.

Simon grunted in annoyance.

"Done."

He informed in a low grumble, his jaw working under the balaclava. It was an excessive amount, but many of the recruits wouldn't even make it halfway through. But he didn't care, he was in a mood. A horny one. When was the last time this guy got laid?

"Wasn't accepting any half-assed attempts, either."

"The rope climbing?" You tap your pen at the box.

Simon glances down at the list, eyeing the scribbles and doodles next to the ticked boxes.

"Done." He replies simply.

You could faintly hear the sound of the recruits groaning and grumbling in pain and exhaustion, you almost felt bad. It was minor flashbacks to your recruitment days, yet Simon didn't seem to have that same sympathy judging by the satisfaction in his eyes.

"Aaannnd... Combat." You hum, one last task left for training.

This was where things get interesting.

"Its last. Need to let 'em rest a bit first. Suppose they earned it."

"Generous," you comment blandly.

"Yeah, yeah. Just keep checkin' off the list. I wanna get these fuckin' recruits dismissed soon. 'M sick o' the heat."

The day dragged on painfully slowly. The heat was relentless until the rain would show up any minute, and he was more irritable than usual. Even the recruits seemed to notice his foul mood, giving him a wide berth whenever he was in their vicinity. You were starting to grow bored of his usual job of scaring the hell out of the recruits, (not so bored when sweat rolls down the thickness of his biceps and the bounce of his tits when he jogs up to the trainees to yell at them) and overall wondering when and how the fuck you're supposed to get laid at this point.

Finally, the training was over. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the compound. The recruits limped and hobbled their way to their assigned lodgings, exhausted and sore.

Simon, on the other hand, seemed like he had even more energy than usual. Despite the long, grueling day, he was somehow wired and restless. You should ask what energy drink he uses after you wrap this up. (Hint: it's the male drive to get some pussy).

As the recruits dispersed, one in particular caught your eye. He was the most arrogant and obnoxious of the bunch, strutting around like he owned the place. You and Simon had seen it countless times before, it got old fast.

"Arrogant little prick," Simon muttered irritably.

You tongue your cheek, "What? Threatened by him?"

It's a pointless taunt— Simon? Threatened? Gosh, it's so fun to get men worked up. Simon's eyes narrow at your comment, a grunt bursting out from him.

"Threatened? Me? Fuckin' hell, no." He grumbles offendedly. "I could take 'im apart within a minute. Can't stand the ones caught up in their own 'ead,"

You hum in agreement. You know for a fact you'd pay to see that one day, and Soap would be right behind you.

"You're lucky you're the most tolerable person 'ere," he adds goodnaturedly.

You backhand his shoulder lightly, "Oh, look, your best friend is coming over!"

And speak of the devil, the recruit struts over with that piece of shit arrogant smirk. Simon rolls his eyes in annoyance as he turns to face the strutting recruit.

"Great. Just what I need," The sarcasm is laid on thicker than the suspicious gravy served this morning at breakfast.

The recruit saunters over, his obnoxious confidence on full display. Simon clenches his jaw, trying to keep his temper in check.

"Sir... Do we have more extensive training available?" He asks slowly, his own ego taking a hold of his tongue.

Simon's eye twitches at the recruit's pompous tone. Extensive training, more like a request for special treatment to feed that ego.

"Extensive training?" He echos roughly, "F'you? Why?"

The recruit shrugs boredly, "I think your ways are a bit old fashioned, too easy,"

Easy, old fashioned? This cocky little bastard doesn't know the first thing about hard work. And he's about to serve himself his very own buffet of living hell from Simon. You distract yourself with the grass below your feet, taking everything you have to not laugh.

"Y'think we make things easy on you?" He sneers, taking a step closer to the recruit. "Y'think you're hot stuff, eh? Well, you're in for a rude awakening, rookie."

Your lips purse, frowning deeply to stop the smile.

"What makes y'think you deserve anythin' beyond the standard training regime, hmm? You 'aven't earned a fuckin' thing yet." He glares at the recruit, his eyes dark and intense behind his mask. "Y'get your fuckin' arse to the barracks. Your extensive training for the next month? You'll be cleanin' the bathrooms before lights out."

The recruit's smirk falters at Simon's orders. He's not used to being talked back to, much less being told what to do. But he tries to maintain his cocky attitude, not wanting to back down in front of you, maybe. Ugh, men.

"Bathroom duty? That's... a little degrading, isn't it?"

Simon chuckles darkly, his eyes dancing with amusement. This cocky bastard was really pushing his luck more than you were. You almost feel bad if it weren't so funny.

"Degrading?" he sneers. "Welcome to the military, rookie. It's not a goddamn country club. Y'think you can come 'ere, demand extra training, an' expect special treatment? This ain't a playground. You're 'ere to learn discipline, not stroke your ego."

You stifle a laugh behind your clipboard. This was too good, and all the more hot to see Simon angry.

Simon shoots a sidelong glance at you, even though he's supposed to be acting tough and intimidating, he seems to let himself crack through the lieutenant role around you.

The recruit, on the other hand, doesn't notice your amusement. He just looks sulkily at Simon, clearly not pleased with the prospect of bathroom duty.

Simon grabs the recruit roughly by the collar, the display of power and dominance making you jump in place. Simon's firm grip on the recruit's collar startles the cocky little punk, his eyes wide in surprise.

"See, this is your problem," Simon grits lowly. "Y'think you're untouchable. Y'think you're better than everyone else. But lemme tell you somethin', wanker... you're not."

The recruit stammers, eyes frozen with fear.

"Disobey your superior officer again an' I'll make sure your walls are covered in you."

He gives the recruit a rough shove, releasing his collar. The recruit stumbles back, shocked out of words.

"Consider that your final warning," Simon growls. "Now get your arse to the fuckin' barracks, rookie."

The recruit seems to shrink under Simon's intimidating aura, his cocky demeanor shattered and squashed to dust. He mumbles a half-hearted, "Yes, sir," before hurrying away.

You check your watch, "Well, today has been fun. It's too bad you only have three hours left."

Three hours left, you say? He hadn't even started yet. Because of training, of course.

"Three hours, huh?" He grumbles, eyes setting in determination. "Don't count me out yet, love. I can do a lot in three hours."

"Hurry it up, or in three hours I'll have a brand new shiny vibrator." You grin cheekily.

"You won't be needin' any damn vibrator if I 'ave anythin' to say 'bout it," he hisses. "I don't need any bloody gadgets to 'elp out."

He starts to stalk towards you, his eyes intense and focused. Your thighs squeeze together, pleased with your outcome.

"Three hours is more than enough time f'me to prove myself, love. An' you'll be beggin' before the clock strikes, guarantee ya that."

"Right," you drawl with a roll of your eyes.

He reaches up with a rough hand, grabbing your chin and lifting it so your eyes meet his.

"Y'think I can't prove myself in three hours, huh? That I need some bloody toy to 'elp me out? I promise you, love, you'll be singin' a different tune."

You giggle teasingly, biting your tongue through your smile.

"Tick tock, Simon." You singsong.

You were mocking him, challenging him, all for this purpose.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, love," he growls down at you, "Y'think you can tease an' walk away with that pretty lil smile on your face. But you're gonna find out real quick that I won't back down, even when you're being a cheeky lil minx."

You smirk dreamily, staring up at him with raw want. You kinda want him to do something extravagant, proving himself just because. When was the last time you had fun like this?

"You're pushing your luck, love," he grunts, his voice gruff with barely concealed desire. "If you keep lookin' at me like that, there ain't gonna be enough time to do everythin' I wanna do to you."

You pull from his hand, turning on your heel as you call over your shoulder,

"I'll be waiting, Si,"

You were taunting him, teasing him, with that sultry little comment and casual tone. You feel his eyes on your ass with each sway of your hips, that naked feeling let's you know he's undressing you with his eyes.

You whip out your phone to look at the time, alas, there's just no way what you want can happen. The rules, regulations, and the severe lack in privacy.

Shooting Captain a quick text for permission to leave base for an hour you head into the higher up showers for some much needed washing of the sweat collected on your body.

As you toss your towel on the bend, your phone buzzes.

'Permission granted. I'll let the team know you'll be out.'

Your heart drops to your ass as you frantically text back—

'Wait no that's not necessary!!!!!'

And then, to your horror, you get a ping in the group text.

Shit.

The team knows youre just going out, but Simon knows. Simon knows you're chickening out from the challenge.

"Fuck!" You hiss, frantically looking around the showers as if there were anything that could help you.

There's nothing. Not the gathered pubes in the moldy shower drain nobody uses, not the faded rusting lockers, not the dirty windows that nobody will ever be able to see out of no matter how much scrubbing

You're fucked.

But how fucked, do we wager? Does this mean Simon will get in his feelings and never talk to you again? Will he out you? (No, it wouldn't ever—) What if he gets revenge?... What kind of revenge?

As you stand there, panic setting in, a voice rings out from the entrance of the shower area.

"What 'appened to three hours?"

You squeak as the door slams, the deadbolt echoing through the room.

You are locked in the showers with Simon.

"What's with the sudden cold feet?" Simon grunts as he rounds the corner, closing the distance between you in slow, measured strides.

"I-I can explain—" you stammer, phone dropping on the bench next to your towel.

He stalks towards you, his steps slow and deliberate. There's a dangerous edge to his gaze that makes your heart beat even faster in your chest.

You're trapped, unable to back away, and he looms over you like a caged beast.

"Explain why you're runnin' away from the challenge you issued, love?" he drawls, stopping just a few feet away from you. "This I 'ave to 'ear."

He crosses his arms as he stands there, his eyes never leaving your face. You're in for it now, his expression seems to say.

You chuckle nervously, gesturing between the two of you, "I mean, realistically it can't ever happen—"

"Who says it can't?" He leans in, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl. "I don't care 'bout the damn regulations, love. That's not gonna stop me from 'aving you."

"Y-You are all about the rules, Si. You follow them to a T— You wouldnt—" you swallow thickly. What have you done to yourself this time.

"I usually follow the rules, yes," he concedes tauntingly, "An' right now, those rules are fuck all to me anymore."

Your tongue suddenly feels heavy in your mouth, "W-What about—"

Simon leans a forearm over your head and slouches down, his eyes darkened by lust and determination.

"What 'bout...?" he mocks, "Y'think I give a damn 'bout those old geezers with their rules right now? All I care 'bout is 'aving you, 'ere an' now."

Simon's free hand reaches up, his fingers lightly tracing your jawline. "I'll show you 'm fuckin' man enough to 'ave you."

While you are speechless, he adds for you to better understand. "It's just you an' me in 'ere."

"But—" you squeak.

Simon's hand moves quick to cup your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"No," he growls, "We don't need to follow the rules in 'ere. We don't need anyone's permission. We could be loud, we could be rough. No one would ever know."

No one... Would know.

He leans in, his lips hovering just centimeters from your ear. "Just us in 'ere. You tellin' me you'd rather 'ave some stupid fuckin' toy over a man that can fill you up all night long?" His hand slides down to your throat, holding you tenderly but firmly, "Just say yes, love."

You whimper in delight, his eyes flickering down to your shifting thighs.

"Yeah," he purrs, his hand angling your head up against the wall. "Y'know you want it. Y'want me."

You want him more than sleep. You want him more than some real fucking food.

"Y'know you don't need anythin' else but me t' fuck you stupid."

"Yes," you moan.

Simon's eyes gleam with approval, his grip on your chin tightens slightly.

"That's good fuckin' girl," he growls.

He licks your neck through the mask, chest expanding with a deep inhale that crushes you to the wall.

"Say y'want me," he demands in a gravelly whisper.

What is thinking? Why would you have to think?

"Want you s'bad," you whine.

"Fuckin' right you do," he mutters.

His other hand drifts down, slowly tracing down your body until it lands on your waist, shoving you into the shower stall. For a moment, you thought you were going to get a little groping, made a knead here and there. But no, you're just standing like a dumbass in the empty shower stall.

"Strip." He growls.

Your skin erupts with gooseflesh in the bare shower shall, his gaze unwavering as he waits for his private show. He steps closer, his own clothes still on, thick arms folding over his chest.

"Slowly," he commands, "Show me what's gonna be mine."

You pinch the hem of your cargos, and then switch to your shirt.

What the hell do you even start with?

"Trousers first," Simon instructs roughly.

He stands there, still dressed, but his eyes devouring every inch of you as you slowly pop the button.

You slowly shimmy the waist band over the swell of each hip, pushing down to your ankles. Simon's breaths grow heavier as you flick the material off your feet his eyes transfixed on the movement.

"Thas it. Bra next," he commands, velvety smooth, "Nice n' slow. I want t'see all o' you."

Bra? Bra next? Why not your shirt?

You kick the cargos away, your shirt barely covering over your panties as you unclasp the bra through your shirt and maneuver it out from one of the sleeves to hold it in the tip of your finger.

Simon's eyes zero in on your pebbled nipples and pretty panties, the thin fabric doing little to hide your curves.

"Good girl," he purrs, "Now come 'ere."

You're... You're not even done. He motions with his fingers for you to approach him, his eyes dark with need.

"Do the thing," you manage out.

"The thing?" he grunts in an enticing voice, taking a step forward as you gesture to your mouth and nose.

He reaches up and pulls the mask to his nose, revealing his lips.

"Is this what y'want, love?" he asks, running his tongue across his bottom lip.

"Yeah," you breathe as you wet your lips.

Those would taste so good. You just know it.

"Y'want to see m' mouth, huh?" he asks, a smirk playing at the corners of those now revealed lips that show his canines, a chipped tooth, his lower face in general in its scarred glory, "Y'want to see what I can do, love?"

He closes the remaining space between you in a single stride, grabbing you by the back of the neck and yanking you forward.

His free hand grips your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, his eyes filled with dark hunger that makes your pussy pulse.

His mouth descends on yours, his lips claiming yours in a fiercely possessive kiss. You moan lowly, one of your arms circling his thick waist. He's burning up, hot and sweaty under his clothes that reek of his natural musk.

One of your curious hands ventures down, squeezing at his ass. He breaks the kiss with a surprised grunt, a coy smirk.

"Naughty, that," he huffs, "But I like it. My turn,"

The world before you lunges back, his mouth descending on your neck. He sucks and bites at the sensitive skin, his teeth leaving red marks in their wake.

His hands have a rough exploration, sliding down your skin, pausing just above the waistband of your panties to slide in to the globes of your ass. You stand in your tip toes to lean into him, whimpering at his rough gropes and kneading.

His mouth continues it's path down your neck, his teeth grazing the tops of your covered tits as his hands roughly squeeze and massage your perfect ass.

"Look at you," he growls, "Squirmin' an' I haven't even started."

He pushes your ass up, looking over your shoulder to watch it bounce. His hands slide lower, pulling the elastic of your panties down slightly, "Look at this," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "You're fuckin' soaked through."

And he's right.

You squeeze your thighs, trying to rid that sticky mess thats unbearably uncomfortable. He tuts, delivering a slap to your ass.

"Tryin' to get yourself off, love?" he purrs, his fingers tracing along the edge of your panties.

You can't tell the difference between the onyx color from his pupils, you can hardly look at his eyes when his mouth is right there and his own tits are in your face. God, you want to nibble on those chapped lips, feel those fat biceps squeeze you as his hips snap on the backs of your thighs—

He backs you up, his hard cock pressing against you through his jeans, "Y'want it?"

"Yes!" You mewl.

"Thas what I like to 'ear, love," he husks, his fingers playing with the crotch of your panties. "Get that shirt off, wanna see those pretty tits finally."

You squirm, pulling your shirt up and off and throwing it somewhere that doesn't matter right now.

"Perfect," he rasps, his hand reaching up to cup your breast, "These are fuckin' nice,"

You arch, eyes rolling at the nice kneading to your sore flesh of being stuck in a bra all day. To your displeasure, freezing water sprays down your body and your uncomfortable groan bounces off the walls until the water warms up.

He's still fully dressed though, his clothes sticking to his muscular frame, accentuating every hard muscle and scar.

"Shower's a bit shitty," he says, his eyes raking your body. "But we don't 'ave to wait for that to get goin'."

Your panties have disappeared into his pocket, you follow the way his fingers shove it in— Your eyes divert to that large bulge behind the zipper.

"I know what y'want," he grunts, his hand moving to the belt and zipper.

Simon pulls down his zipper, the metal teeth parting revealing a black pair of boxers, which does little to hide the already impressive outline of his hard cock nudging up against the waist band.

He pushes his jeans down his thick thighs, his body still clothed in a tight black shirt and underwear drenched in water.

Your saliva glands burn at the sight of his happy trail plunging past the waist band, eyeing that nice size you only got a little feel of on your leg—

"Want a closer look?" he purrs, his hand slowly palming the base of his covered cock, precum bleeding out from the thin fabric on his thigh.

You make a face at him, your face burning with embarrassment

"What's the matter, love? You shy now?" he says with a smirk, his hand continuing to slowly palm and squeeze, "Y'were all full o' attitude today."

His head tilts mockingly, stroking himself for you, enticing you. Pinch yourself again, this might actually be a dream—

"Go on," he rasps, "Feel me."

You follow a trail of water down to his shirt clinging to his body, his drenched happy trail, and then the outline of his cock.

With one hand, you tug the waist band forward, clenching as he sucks in a breath that makes his abs tense.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering over your ear, "Go on," he husks, "Take it out, love."

He leans back, watching you intently, waiting for you to do as told. Maybe you do like to be told what to do in this context. With your other, you pull him free with your eager hand.

He moans, he fucking moans.

"Thas it, love," he husks out, his voice a little strangled. "Feel me up."

His hands rest on the wall behind you, caging you in. He hips rock into your hand, each stroke of your fist pulling the foreskin back.

"You're so big," you whimper.

Simon lets out a deep, gravelly groan as you speak. It just might be the hottest sound you've ever heard. Right next to the time he was lifting heavy dumbbells, letting all those grunts and growls loose.

He looks down at you, his gaze burning with lust and need, "You want it, baby?" he asks, his hips grinding against your hand harder, "Want this big dick?"

"Want it so bad, Si," you mumbled against his lips, your tongue darting out to lick his teeth.

his mouth claiming yours in a rough, passionate kiss. His tongue immediately tangles with yours, his teeth biting and tugging at your lower lip.

"I know you do," he grunts, his tongue slipping past your lips to slide against yours before speaking again, "You've been eye-fucking me all afternoon, love."

His hands start to wander along your body, mapping your curves with rough caresses,

"You're gonna get it," he husks.

One of his hands moves down to your hip as he moves lower, his mouth following the curve of your throat, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses and bites.

"Want m'cock in that pretty pussy? Or your mouth?"

Where do you fucking think, smart guy?

"In me, inside me, please," you mewl.

His massive paws squeeze your hips to spin you around, planting your hands against the wall.

"Bend over," he growls, his eyes roaming over your body, "'M gonna give you what y'want."

His hands on your hips start to maneuver your body, making you arch your back and hips out.

He runs a hand up your spine, "So pretty," he murmurs as he takes in the sight of your body bent and on display for him.

He steps up behind you, his body flush against your back, his clothes still fucking on and wet and sticking to your body.

"Gonna fill ya up nice n' good," he sucks on his teeth with a low growl, "Been thinkin' o' me all day 'aven't you?"

His hips rock against your ass slowly, his bare cock rubbing on your supple skin.

His hands massage your ass, kneading and squeezing the flesh as you lean on your forearms, moaning as the blunt head notches to your dripping slit.

"Want m'hands all over you," Simon growls against your flesh, his rough palms skimming over your curves, "Mm, relax, yeah? Nice n' easy— Yeah, thas a good girl,"

His hips do a slow, deliberate grind, rocking into you to make room for him as he moves his lips along the curve of your shoulder.

There's slow shallow thrusts, working you open until he takes a deep stroke down to the base. Fuck, he's thick all over, heavy even inside your walls. If you had the brain power, you'd reach below and hold his balls.

"You're so damn gorgeous," he husks darkly, his breath hot against your skin, "I wanted this since I first saw you."

He's so intense he's burning a hole through you with his gaze, his hands still exploring your body, worshiping every curve, every dip, every inch of you.

His hands slide down to the front of your thighs, coaxing your legs further apart, opening you up for him.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you walked in," he breathes, "I knew you'd feel amazing under my hands."

Your cheek presses into the shower wall with a strangled moan,

"S'deep,"

Simon growls at your moan and pushes into you with more force, his hands squeezing your ass to yank you back, spearing you over and over on his cock.

"Fuckin' knew you'd feel s'tight an' good,"

His hand presses on your lower tummy, mouth hot and panting against your shoulder blade. He grabs the back of your hand, his fingers threading through yours and pressing it against the wall.

"Take it, take—this—cock,"

You choke out a moan, slumping against the wall, "please, so close, so close—"

"You gonna come f'me, huh?" he asks, his voice raw and breathless.

It's a lovely sound on him.

"Yes, please, wanna come, haven't came this fast before—" you beg.

He lets out a ragged, possessive growl at your words, his hips piston roughly against your ass, full balls swinging on your clit over and over.

"Come on, pet," he snarls, deft fingers twirling tight circles around your clit.

You whimper loudly, hands sliding down the slick shower walls, hips straining for him as you come hard with a broken mewl.

"That's it, fuck—"

He breaks off in a gutteral moan, hips stilling as he spills inside you. Simon catches you as your legs buckle out from under you, scooping you up against his chest to lean you back against the wall.

You don't even know what just happened in the span of 5 minutes. He's panting hard, his heart pounding against your back.

"Fuck," he growls, burying his face in the crook of your neck, "Fuckin' perfect, love,"

You smile lazily back at him, pawing at his shoulders to pull him in a soft languid kiss, his lips claiming yours in soft, sweet caresses. He melts against your touch, the fierce need from earlier receding now that you're sated. He returns your lazy kiss, his hands gently roaming up and down your back.

"Bloody hell," he mutters against your lips, "Fuckin' perfect, woman." He nips at your neck, "'M not done yet."

Looks like he is the cure to your sleeping problem.

[asilentguardian]

Okay but I’d love to see your take on stepdad Hal attempt at parenting and trying not to overstep if you’re up for it

Thank you very much for the prompt! I love fics where Hal is slowly integrating into the batfam.

Please enjoy Hal's attempt at giving Tim advice, just in time for Hal's birthday!

-----

It’s a rare night. Bruce and Hal in the same bed, relatively early. Early meaning 11pm, but for them it’s a miracle. Hal thought that somehow being married would mean their schedules would magically align, that the universe would start seeing them as one person, one unit. But between Batman and the Green Lantern corps and their jobs and Bruce’s kids, there really isn’t time for them alone. Plenty of time to save the world together, to put out fires both literal and metaphorical, but little time for this. Laying together, falling asleep together.

Bruce has already slipped under, arm firmly around Hal’s waist. Hal would love to follow him, to curl against that heat, but Hal’s insomnia has joined them, too, and he can already tell it’s going to be a rough one. It hits him out of nowhere, sometimes, this restlessness. Bruce is still in the early stages, liable to rocket out of sleep if Hal tosses and turns too much. Good sleep is so rare for Bruce these days, so Hal begins the slow process of extracting himself from the bed and Bruce’s grip, only cheating a little bit with the ring to climb over him.

Nights like these used to find him fleeing the manor to the apartment he had refused to give up. But Bruce would inevitably come hunting him down, because he could never let anything go, and Hal would end up putting on a show of resisting, and they’d end up back in bed anyways. The apartment was another battle, one that Hal also ended up conceding. It still felt strange to have a permanent residence in Gotham, of all places.

Now, these nights have him wandering around the manor, exploring the library or one of the multiple sitting rooms or the kitchens until he inevitably runs into one of many nocturnal members of Bruce’s family. His family, really. Another argument they’ve run into, one that Hal isn’t quite ready to concede. He’s never seen himself with kids, doesn’t really think he’s cut out for that. He’s not a natural, not like Bruce.

The glow from the kitchen at the end of the hall tells Hal that he isn’t the only one awake, as usual. Hal makes his footsteps heavier, not willing to repeat the mistake of accidentally sneaking up on a bat. It’s Tim sitting at the counter tonight, another familiar sight.

“Hey kid,” Hal greets as he walks to the fridge. Tim grunts in acknowledgement, face still buried in his phone. It’s funny, the different ways Bruce is reflected in his children. Hal is certain he’s heard the same exact noise come out of Bruce when his attention is turned toward a case. Not that Hal would say so outloud. They all tend to get prickly, when he compares them to Bruce. All of them except Damian, who is still young enough to worship his father. 

Hal is still smiling to himself when he turns back to Tim, snack in hand. He scans his eyes over Tim, making sure his sleeplessness isn’t self-imposed, as it too often is. Another trait, courtesy of Bruce. Hal’s smile quickly drops when he notices that Tim isn’t actually absorbed with his phone, just kind of staring at the black screen, mind clearly somewhere else. There’s no dark circles under his eyes, but they are red and puffy. It’s clear he’s been crying.

“Hey, you okay Tim?” Hal asks. Tim blinks and looks up at him before quickly looking away again, trying to hide his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds, voice devoid of emotion. Tim is still a teenager, technically, and Hal knows that they don’t take well to prying. Tim especially keeps most things close to his chest, doesn't share much with anyone, Hal thinks. Bruce is only able to keep track of his life through border-line unhealthy amounts of surveillance. Tim seems to be aware of this and allows it, so Hal figures it’s fine. But he’s never seen Tim cry, not enough to leave him looking like this. Bruce would probably go apeshit, if someone had hurt Tim, so Hal tries again.

“You sure? Because you can talk to me about anything, if you need to,” Hal says, and immediately cringes. He sounds like his high-school guidance counselor. “I mean, I know I’m just that guy your dad married, but I’m still happy to help you with anything.”

Even worse now, Hal sounds like his own step-dad, and what a horrific thought that is. Tim doesn’t take the opportunity to poke fun at his fumbling attempts to be cool, just continues to stare at his phone. He glances up at Hal, then back down at his phone, tapping it against the counter. Hal doesn’t move, sensing that Tim is either going to actually open up to him or deflect again, and he wants to give him the space to think.

“It’s not that big of a deal, really,” Tim hedges.

“C’mon, hit me with it then,” Hal encourages. Tim glances at him again, and his shoulders sag in defeat.

“Bernard and I got into a fight,” Tim mutters. Hal is secretly grateful that it seems to be a teenager-shaped problem, and not a vigilante-shaped problem, though maybe he would be a better help with the latter. His few teenage relationships were pretty disastrous. He takes a moment to wrack his brain. He had heard from Bruce that Tim was dating a civilian, a boy, and assumes that this Bernard guy is said boyfriend.

“First one?” Hal guesses. Tim shrugs.

“Not really. But this one was just,” he pauses, trying to find the words.

“Worse?” Hal offers, and Tim nods, finally making eye contact with him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that mad before,” Tim says. Hal winces in sympathy. He remembers the first time he had seen Bruce really, truly, mad at him. It hadn’t been a fun night.

“What was the fight about?” Hal ventures, still unsure of how far he should push. Tim is a Wayne, and he’ll have no problem telling Hal when to fuck off, but he’d like to not piss off Bruce’s kids.

Tim huffs and looks away, guilty.

“Vigilante stuff,” he says vaguely. Hal raises his eyebrows. He wonders if Bruce knows that Tim’s civilian boyfriend knows his identity.

“He mad you didn’t tell him sooner?” Hal asks. Tim shakes his head, brows furrowing.

“No, he figured it out a long time ago, he’s just. He’s overprotective, I guess,” Tim says. He freezes after a moment and looks at Hal, frantic.

“Don’t tell Bruce I said that. He’s already twitchy about Bernard knowing at all,” Tim rushes out. Hal puts his hands up in surrender.

“Relax, kid, I won’t rat you out,” Hal says. Tim relaxes like he just dodged certain death. “But you know what he’d say, right?” Hal adds. He didn’t use to understand Bruce’s paranoia about identities, not really. He thought it was all bullshit, a way for Bruce to exert control over all of them. But after they started screwing around, after Hal ended up at the manor a few times, after he saw the way Bruce talked about his kids, he started to understand. The stakes were higher, for Bruce.

“Man, you used to be cool,” Tim groans, rolling his eyes. Hal crosses his arms at that.

“Hey, I just said I’d help you out,” Hal says. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he huffs. They fall into silence again, Tim picking at the edges of his phone case. Hal lets him have the time to collect his thoughts like Bruce often needs. 

“How did you and Bruce do it?” Tim asks, suddenly much more timid.

“Do what?” Hal asks.

“Stop fighting all the time,” Tim says. Hal can’t stop the bark of laughter that bursts from him, and Tim looks at him in confusion.

“Kid, we have not stopped fighting since we met. That didn’t change just because we starting fu- I mean, dating,” Hal says. Tim raises an eerily familiar eyebrow at the slip up, but lets it lie.

“But you’re married now,” Tim insists. Hal knows that his smile in response to that is embarrassingly soft, but he still can’t help it. It’s still thrilling, to think about Bruce and married in the same sentence. 

“Yeah, we are. I married him even though he drives me crazy and can make me madder than just about anything else in the universe,” Hal says. Tim shifts in his seat, clearly more uncertain than before. Hal Hal panics, just a little, at the thought of completely blowing this.

“Look, just because you love someone doesn’t mean you won’t disagree sometimes. You might even get angry at each other. Bruce and I could disagree on the color of the sky, probably, but the difference between then and now is that we actually try to understand each other. We fight because we don’t want to be misunderstood, you know?” Hal says. Tim looks at him suspiciously.

“Not really, no,” he drawls. Hal sighs.

“Well, then you can’t go wrong with a good apology,” he offers. Tim looks even more suspicious now, and Hal suppresses his laughter, this time, but can’t help but be reminded of a prickly kitten.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tim says. Hal offers him a smile, and turns to the cabinets to hunt for a glass.

“You’re not, by the way,” Tim adds, quiet enough that Hal almost misses it.

“Not what?” he asks, filling his acquired glass with water.

“Just some guy Bruce married. You’re a part of the family, too, you know.” Tim says. It’s Hal’s turn to feel uncertain now. He swallows his knee-jerk reaction of denial, takes a sip of water before turning around. Tim’s gaze is piercing, and Hal gets the same feeling he gets when Bruce stares at him, like he can sense whatever self-deprecating thought has passed through Hal’s mind.

“Thanks, kid.”

[arvandus]

so to expand on the Barb fluff thing that I’ve mentioned once :D

I know this is quite silly but I used to just click on the green call button in the game when there was nothing new to read from him and if you do that you get a pre recorded voice message from him saying he is busy and can’t pick up, but you know, at least we can hear his voice …

and I was thinking it would be cute if MC did that after going to bed so she can fall asleep listening to his voice, thinking Barbatos won’t pick up the phone for sure, it also must be muted by now… but what if he does😳😳

(giggling like a highschool girl as I typed this fr )

Okay, this got away from me and now we're 4.3k deep so YOLO! (I thoroughly enjoyed this, in case you couldn't tell...) I love this concept so much, I was giggling and kicking my feet while writing it the entire time. Sorry it took so long for me to get to it, but it was a great way to get back into writing Barb!

(yeah I know... I'll fix the title picture later...)

Content: SFW, fluff, flirting; GN!Reader struggles with insomnia

WC: 4,325

—

You couldn’t believe this happened.

How did this happen??

You stared at your DDD in disbelief, the long list of saved voicemails now gone.  Vanished.

Every. Single. One.

The stern and personal messages from Lucifer, the chaotic ones from Mammon and Levi, the lengthy, self-absorbed ones from Asmo...

The birthday well-wishes, the gratitude messages, the reminders about dinner, or adding items to the grocery list, RAD assignments... everything from the personal and special to the daily and mundane. 

All of it, somehow completely and utterly deleted.

It hurt, losing them. You knew there’d be more in the future; in fact, your phone was always ringing or pinging for one reason or another.  But still... it didn’t replace what you’d lost.

And the biggest, hardest loss of all were the voicemails left from Barbatos.

Not as many as the others, seeing as he called you far less than the others did, but their rarity made them all the more precious to you.  Especially since those voicemails were the ones you used to help yourself fall asleep.  Something about the smooth, resonant timber of Barbatos’s voice, reminding you of an impending quality check on the House of Lamentation, invitation to dinner at the Demon Lord’s Castle, requests for your support to pass on important paperwork, asking you to taste-test his latest experimental desserts... and a happy birthday message.  Each one cherished and used frequently to ease your night-time insomnia.

The loss felt like a hole in your chest, and tears brimmed your eyes.

You skimmed through his text messages, revisiting the memories you still had left on your DDD. You liked seeing how they evolved over time, starting out as purely business and slowly transforming into offers and requests of assistance, outings, and kind words. The slow and steady evolution of budding friendship. It helped you cope a little bit with the sudden loss of his voicemails. You tried to mentally put his voice to the words you read, but it simply wasn’t the same. Still, you read through them anyway, laying in your bed with bleary, tired eyes and a faint smile.

You hadn’t realized you dozed off until you woke to the muffled sound of Barbatos’s voicemail coming through the DDD.  You froze for a moment, your thumb poised over the red phone icon, but hesitated.

There it was... his voice.  Smooth and kind, respectful and professional.

“Thank you for your call. I apologize for not being able to answer after you took the time to call me. I’d hate to inconvenience you but please do call me back at a later time.  You have my sincerest thanks.”

You let out a soft, content sigh, but it was quickly stolen by the sound of his voicemail beeping, marking the end of the message and the start of you being recorded.

You quickly hung up, your body flushed and your brain alert.  What if he heard you breathing?  What if he heard you sigh?

More fears trailed in on the heels of the previous. 

What if you’d woken him up? What if he called you back?  What if you didn’t wake up a moment ago? It would have recorded you snoring in your sleep.  Or worse, talking in your sleep.

Look, you weren’t responsible for what happened in Dreamland, but Barbatos certainly didn’t need to know about it.

It took a while for you to fall asleep that night, your mind replaying scenarios of what-ifs, and dreading the next day when Barbatos would inevitably see your missed call and ask about it.

But at the same time…. it had been nice to hear his voice.

Even if it was just a recording.

---

Sure enough, the next day, Barbatos texted you, mentioning your missed call and asking if everything was alright. You were honest with him. You’d fallen asleep on your phone and that it was an accidental dial; nothing to worry about.  You apologized for possibly disturbing him the night before.  He accepted your explanation with ease, and explained that it was no trouble at all, since he kept his DDD on Do Not Disturb mode after hours.  All calls were silenced, with the exception of Diavolo and Lucifer.

Relief washed through you, cooling your embarrassment.  Thank goodness he didn’t ask you about it in person. There would have been no way you could have kept a straight face or given an answer without buckling entirely in front of him, whether in tears or laughter you weren’t sure.  It was one thing to admit to falling asleep on your phone while it was on. It was another thing entirely to slip up and tell him - to his face - that you were reading his text messages.

---

Nothing happened for a while after that.  You made sure to turn your phone screen off before bed, even if it did make you lay there staring at the dark ceiling for hours afterward, sleep ever the elusive beast.  You still looked at the text messages on the particularly rough nights, and they gave some comfort for you, at least for a little while.

But as the time passed, you found yourself not looking at them as often.  You nearly had them memorized with how often you reread them.  As the satisfaction of the old messages waned, your mind wandered back to the memory of that one night of the accidental phone call.  You tried to recall the sound of Barbatos’s voice, the words he said in the voicemail, but the memory of it was cloudy, aged with time.

The dissatisfaction of your imperfect memory only made you ache even more to hear his voice again, the want evolving into a need. The lure of his rich, clear tone in your ear, the promise of it quieting your mind just long enough for you to be able to fall asleep… The thought became a plague upon you, bringing forth a battle of wills within yourself.  

Temptation whispered reassurances in your ear.

He won’t answer.

You won’t wake him up or disturb him.

It’s okay, just call him.  Let it ring.

But logic was quick on its heels.

Even if he doesn’t answer, he’ll notice your missed call.

He’ll ask you about it again.

What will be your excuse this time?

No, you told yourself.  The risk was too great, the draw of his attention making you vulnerable in a way that you weren’t ready for just yet.  After all, it didn’t take much self-reflection to figure out why his voice, above all others, was the one you wanted to hear each night, or why his text messages were the ones you had memorized. 

No, it wasn’t worth giving in to. You’d have to learn to be content with the memory of it, and nothing more.

But time had a way of greying your recollection, blurring the edges like an old photograph.  It faded the memory of your embarrassment as well, when he’d first texted you for an explanation.  Had it really been that bad? Was the risk really so great? Barbatos had accepted your explanation whole-heartedly, not a hint of doubt in his responses.  Surely he would understand it again, so long as you were careful in your approach. To be honest, he probably wouldn’t even think twice about it.  After all, the last one had been weeks ago, and his own duties and hobbies kept him perpetually busy.  He probably didn’t even remember.

As midnight peace slipped farther and farther from your reach, you found yourself once again staring at Barbatos’s phone number in your contacts list.

Maybe just once more.  Just to refresh your memory.  

Besides. It wasn’t like you were going to make a habit of it...

---

You had told yourself that months ago in your foolish desperation.  But you should have known better.  It was impossible to only give in to temptation once.

Now? Now, it was almost like a ritual.  

Ritual, but not entirely a routine. You had to keep your calls sporadically placed, lest Barbatos grow suspicious of your sudden uptick in frequent missed calls after the late hour of midnight.  It forced you to keep the ‘accidents’ spaced apart at random intervals, much to your chagrin.  But, being able to hear his voice on occasion was better than nothing at all.

Barbatos had asked again after the second call, but your assurance was softened by your confession that you stay up each night reading old text messages from everyone to help you sleep, and occasionally forget to turn off your phone when you’re done.  The admission toed a dangerous line to giving away too much information, mainly that it was his messages you read regularly.  But the half-truth provided just enough information to excuse your repeated, but sporadic, late night ‘errors,’ and helped to set a preemptive expectation should future mishaps occur.

Which, of course, they did.  

And much to your pleasant surprise, it worked.  Your explanation had apparently been effective, because after that second incident, Barbatos no longer asked about your missed late-night calls.

The victory left you feeling giddy with success, a masterfully woven solution to meet your own needs while also keeping him - and your own heart - at arm’s distance.

---

Tonight was just like any other.  A perusing of the text chains, followed by a late-night call to Barbatos’s voicemail.  It had been going on for so long now, weeks blurring into months.

Which should have been your first clue.

Your second, should have been how second nature the activity had become.

Because once something becomes a habit, complacency isn’t far behind.

The phone rang like it always did.  Once.  Twice.  You knew by the fifth ring, Barbatos’s voicemail would automatically answer.

Three, Four-

“Good evening, MC.”

You froze, eyes wide, your breath caught in your throat so spontaneously that your lungs were already burning for air.

It was his voice. But not a recording.  No. It was him.

Barbatos answered the fucking phone.

“...Hello?” he ventured.

You hung up immediately and threw your phone onto your bed.  Your hands covered your mouth, your skin burning, burning—

BZZZZZZT.

BZZZZZZT.

Your DDD screen lit up, a picture of Barbatos’s contact icon appearing.

He was calling you back.

‘FUCK.’

‘FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUUUUUUCK.’

You silenced the call, sending it automatically to voicemail.

Tears stung your eyes, your heart pounded in your chest like a jackhammer.

How? Why??  He never answered! Never.

A moment later, it rang again.  Again, you sent him to voicemail.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  He obviously knew you were wide awake, now. It would have been better to let it ring and go to voicemail all on its own.

But, you realized, that wouldn’t make a bit of difference. He knew you were awake as soon as you hung up on him.

A minute passed, and you hoped, prayed he’d given up.

Just as you began reaching for your phone, the familiar short buzz-buzz of a text message vibrated your DDD on the bed.  You retracted your hand as if it were a living creature.  You had half a mind to ignore it completely, but you knew that you would literally sit there and stare at it all night if you didn’t look at it.

Tentatively, you picked up your phone.  It wasn’t a text message, but an audio file sent to you.  You hesitated briefly before pressing play.

“Please pick up,” his voice pleaded.  The sound of him made you weak in the knees, and you were glad you were sitting on your bed.

You shook your head ‘no’ as if he could see you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to type the word. It felt too... mean.

Instead, you let yourself sit in your cowardice.

Three black dots appeared on the screen, and you waited with abated breath.  The dots vanished, and your heart sank slightly.  Then they reappeared, bringing a strange mixture of relief and dread.  Finally, Barbatos’s message came through, text this time.

“I would very much like to talk with you, please.  I will call one more time.  Please answer.”

Goddamn it, why did he have to say it like that? Why did he have to be so, so.... nice?

True to his word, your phone began to buzz again, and you stared at his picture through tear-blurred eyes.  Once, twice...

You touched the green phone icon.

A heartbeat of silence, as you waited, unable to speak.

“Hello?”

His voice, tentative, calm.  A testing of the waters.

The silence stretched longer and longer as you tried to force your shame back long enough to speak without breaking.  You swallowed your trepidation, once, twice, blinking away the unshed tears, although your chest still felt tight and your skin like fire.

“Uh... hi,” you finally muttered.

A muffled sigh of relief, likely exhaled through his nose. “Thank you for answering.”

“Yeah, well... you were persistent.”

“My apologies. It felt necessary.”

Embarrassment and curiosity warred within you.  “Why?”

Another long, awkward pause.  The connection between you, linked by technology and magic, was thick with unspoken words.

“Because,” Barbatos finally replied, “I have missed too many of your calls.”

You bit your lip in silence and curled your body into itself as you squeezed your eyes shut.  “No. You didn’t.  You...” a brief inhale and exhale, taming your nerves.  “You weren’t supposed to answer.”

“Why not?”

Ah, here it was – the unavoidable truth. The crux of the conversation arrived faster than you’d hoped.

You opened your mouth to speak, but couldn’t translate your deeply buried truth into words. It was silly of you, you knew that. It wasn’t like he didn’t figure it all out by now.  Why else would he have answered? He obviously knew your calls weren’t accidents, and that they were occurring during a time that he wasn’t supposed to answer.  But the fact that you had to say it? Out loud? It was your worst nightmare come to life.

Fortunately for you, Barbatos volunteered to fill the lengthening quiet between you.

“I do not ask with the intent to shame,” he said softly.  “It is simply curiosity.  I know what I have observed, but to be quite honest, I have yet to fully understand why.”

He didn’t understand…? You thought it was obvious at this point, and Barbatos was anything but obtuse.  Perhaps he was offering an olive branch out of kindness, a chance for you to explain yourself in such a way that wouldn’t result in you packing your bags and fleeing the Devildom in a vain attempt to outrun your humiliation.

You needed to know exactly what he knew, what he suspected… only then could you navigate this minefield of confessions and apologies and hope to come out the other side with some semblance of a friendship still intact.

You swallowed.  “What? What have you observed?”

Another pregnant pause, followed by his deep breath; a mental preparation that you felt deep in your bones.

“You call me only in the late evenings,” he said.  “The spacing seemed random at first, but as it went on, I noticed it never went longer than five days.  You claimed before that it only occurred when you accidentally fell asleep, and yet there was never a voicemail left, even a silent one had you truly been asleep.  And, most notably, I seem to be the only one you accidentally call.”

Every inch of you burned, and you were sure this was your first experience of Hell.  Maybe you had died in your sleep and didn’t realize it...

With nowhere left to hide, the only thing you had remaining in your arsenal was groveling.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you...”

“I know,” he replied.  “So, please tell me... why do you call me late at night?  And why do you not want me to answer?  You clearly desire to reach out to me, and yet don’t want to disturb me.  I worry there is something you’ve been meaning to say to me, but for some reason, have not been able to.”

“It’s not that, honestly,” you mumbled.  “It’s nothing specific.  I just...”

Barbatos remained quiet on the other end while you bit your lip in an effort to build up your courage.  When you finally spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper.  

“I... have trouble... sleeping sometimes.  When I do, I like to call you, just to hear your voice.”

“My voice?” for the first time, he sounded genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” you mumbled.  “It’s soothing.  For me, at least.” Panic bloomed again, and your next words came out in a rush.  “I- I didn’t mean for it to turn into this.  I used to listen to your voicemails before, but I lost all of them somehow. And that first night, when it happened, it really was an accident.  But then I missed you, and...”

Your words faltered as quickly as they came as soon as you realized you’d said too much.  You groaned and put your face in your hand.  

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t- I should probably go.  This is so embarrassing, honestly...”

A heavy silence followed, and tears brimmed your eyes at the sudden invisible wall that seemed to be at the other end of the line.  But just as you began to lower the phone from your ear, he spoke.

“You listened to my voicemails?”

Your phone was back at your ear, a fish caught on a line.

“....yeah.”

“How often?”

“What? I mean, not that often, I- I- just when I couldn’t sleep, that’s all...”

Shut up, shut up, shut up! You were the worst liar....

Barbatos hummed thoughtfully.  “I see. So, tonight you called because you couldn’t sleep?”

You sighed. “Yeah.”

“And you simply wanted to hear my voice.  On my voicemail, I presume, since you lost my previous messages.”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“How often do you have trouble sleeping?”

You sighed in tired defeat.  “Almost every night.  It’s just always been like that.”

“But you don’t call me every night.”

“Well, no... I was trying to be subtle.  I only did it when I felt I really needed it.  I didn’t want you to know, remember? We see how well that went.”

Barbatos chuckled, light and playful.

“Indeed,” he teased. “But when you had my old voicemails, you listened to them regularly?”

You sputtered and stumbled.  “Well, I mean, not all the time, but yeah…” 

“When you couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Which was nearly every night.”

You frowned, realizing the circles he just ran around you. “Hey. You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you get me to say more than I mean to.”

“I do no such thing.”

“Now you’re gaslighting me, too. And here I thought you were nothing but green flags.”

“I… I have no idea what those human terms mean.”

You couldn’t suppress your chuckle.  “I’m saying you’re teasing me.  At my expense, no less.”

“I am merely ensuring I have all of the information correct.”

“Why?” you huffed.

“Because,” he replied, “I deserve honesty.  You had two prior opportunities to tell me the truth, and you opted not to.  I wanted to know why.”

“Well, now you know. I hope you’re happy.”

There was the sound of shuffling fabric, as if he reclined in his seat or his bed.  “I am, actually.”

You grumbled under your breath.

Barbatos continued. “I must say, I’m flattered that the sound of my voice can bring you such comfort.”

Your skin warmed for a different reason, and you scoffed.  “Please. Now you’re just being polite.”

Barbato’s voice immediately lost its playfulness. “Pardon?”

You stared down at your bedding, picking at the lint. “Thank you for being kind, Barbatos. But I don’t want you to lie to me.”

“I am not lying,” he countered calmly.  “On the contrary, it pleases me.”

A ringing filled your ears and then faded as you felt the head rush of his words in your mind.

“It- It does?  You don’t find it... uncomfortable?”

A quiet pause. When he spoke, his tone was soft and colored with disappointment. 

“The only discomfort I have is the realization that I have not been there for you when you have apparently needed me.”

Guilt gnawed at you.  “No, that’s not what...” you sighed.  “You’re not responsible for taking care of me, Barbatos.  I would never expect that of you.”

“Hmm.” He hummed. his voice softened even further, barely above a whisper. “But... what if I wanted to be?”

Your fingers stopped fidgeting, and suddenly it felt like he was there, in the room with you, the distance of your physical bodies having no bearing on the deepening intimacy happening in real time.

“What?”

“What if I wanted to be responsible for you?”

Surely, he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, like... like....

“You don’t—I mean, you already have Diavolo, and the Little Ds, and RAD duties... I could never... I don’t want to be another chore for you.”

“You misunderstand me,” he replied.  “Not a chore, but a desire. I would much rather you speak to me directly during your times of loneliness rather than a lifeless voicemail.” He paused, hesitant. “That is, unless... unless I have misunderstood, in which case I’ll will ensure to no longer answer so that you may—”

“No!” you interrupted, your voice far too loud, and far too eager for such a late hour.  You winced and your next words came out in a hushed whisper.  “Sorry, no, no.  I’d love that, actually.  But only... only if you’re really okay with it.  I want a friend, not a butler.”

A quiet awareness drifted across the connection.  When Barbatos spoke, his voice was calm but firm.

“Despite what many think, I am granted time off where I can be simply myself.  The late-night hours, after Diavolo retreats to his quarters, are such a time.  Were my intent only professional, I would not be offering you the availability of my private evenings.”

“So... you’re saying we’re friends.”

Another brief pause told you that you had him miffed.

“I had thought that much was obvious.  If it wasn’t, then it appears I have far more to mend than I previously thought.”

You worried your lip between your teeth and furrowed your brow.  “I’d only be okay with it if you promise to reach out to me too, if you ever need it.  I want to be here for you too.  Because we’re friends.”

He chuckled. “You have been there for me, more than you apparently realize.  I will expect nothing less moving forward.”

“Good. Then I accept.”

“Wonderful. I will make the necessary changes to my device post haste.”

“Post haste?”

“Yes. I will not miss another late-night call from you, starting immediately.”

“Well, unless you have business or an emergency or something...” you replied with a grin. “Let’s be realistic.”

“I am glad you understand the complicated nature of my work. But even then, I will do my utmost best to reply as soon as I am able.”

Tears brimmed your eyes.

“Barbatos...”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

You could sense his smile even though he wasn’t physically with you.

“You’re welcome.  Do you feel less lonely now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

You opened your mouth for an automatic yes, but closed it. When you opened it again, you spoke truthfully.  “To be honest, I’m not sure.  I think this whole conversation got my heart racing a bit fast.”

Barbatos hummed.  “I see. I seem to have made your situation worse, then.”

You giggled. “Maybe a little. But in a good way, and just for tonight.”

The rich sound of his chuckle met your ear.  “Indeed.  I must confess, I am also feeling similarly.” There was a brief pause before he spoke again.  “May I be so bold as to suggest an outing?”

“Now??”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“There is a new dessert shop that I have been interested in trying that is open all night. Perhaps a sweet treat is in order, to celebrate this new stage of… friendship.”

You smiled and swung your legs over the edge of your bed. “I’d like that. I need to get dressed though.”

“As do I.”

“What’s the address? I’ll meet you there.”

“And have you walk the streets of the Devildom at night alone? I think not. I will meet you outside the gates of the House of Lamentation.”

“Ooooh, a personal escort. How fancy.”

Barbatos chuckled.  “I am off the clock, remember?”

You began pulling out a change of clothes for yourself.

“Yes, but you’re still a gentleman.”

“All personal escorts are gentlemen, but not all gentlemen are personal escorts,” he teased.

You laughed.  “You have a point there.  Okay then, just a casual stroll between two friends.”

“Much better.”

“But not as fancy,” you pouted.  You set your phone down on your dresser and began to change.

Barbatos chuckled again.  “Do you know why it’s better to walk with a friend rather than butler?”

“I get to say bad words?”

“Close, but no.  But also, something tells me that wouldn’t stop you.”

“True.  Hmm,” you tapped your finger to your chin. “I get to tell dirty jokes?”

“Intriguing. That topic will most definitely be revisited when I get there.”

“Prepare to be disappointed.  My dirty humor may be too low brow for you.”

“We clearly have much to learn about each other.”

“Did I at least get it right?”

“No.”

“Well then I’m out of ideas.”

“Because,” he finally replied, “friends get to hold hands.”

“I didn’t realize that was something ‘friends’ did.”

“That entirely depends on the friends.”

Your cheeks grew hot as you pulled on your socks.  “Is that something you want, Barbatos?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t.”

“Can friends hug, too?” you asked playfully.

“Perhaps that is something you should see for yourself.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“I’m here.  Come down when you’re ready.”

[obvithe-bestsoph]

please can you do pau cubarsi prompt 97 🙏🙏 and more pau cubarsi imagines pleasee

thank you

No. 97 | "You've taken good care of me, now let me take care of you." PC2 masterlist requests

prompt list (if you request a prompt, please request a player for it as well!) warnings: sickness (flu/cold), mentions of vomit, mentions of hickeys

First, Pau caught it. For him, yes, it was the flu, but it had been more of a mild cold. Even still, he’s an absolute mopey, clingy baby when he’s sick, which is perfectly fine by you. However, because you spent days cuddling with him in bed, cooking for him, and curled up on the couch watching movies together, you then contracted said flu.

And you got it far worse than he did.

For you, it was some kind of vomiting, sneezing, coughing, snotty, insomnia-type illness, instead of Pau’s stuffy-nosed, itchy-throated cold. Having spent the first few days on the bathroom floor, next to the toilet, you had refused Pau from visiting, not wanting him to see you in such a state, to which he had said, “No siguis idiota, vinc (don’t be an idiot, i’m coming over).” And he held your hair back as you threw up. Pau hated vomit, and you did too, so no one was having a particularly great time at the moment, but he was pushing through, for you. After the vomiting stage ended, it was cuddling in bed more or less 24/7. You were sleepy and cold all the time, but even still, at every mealtime, you would get up to go and cook, only to be pushed back down onto the bed, kissed on the forehead, and told that he would do it for you. Would you end up with some kind of weird lunch, like an apple and some leftover paella rice? Yeah, probably. But it’s the thought that counts, right?

And each time you tried to protest his help, he’d just say;

“You’ve taken good care of me, now let me take care of you.”

So eventually, too tired to argue, you agree. For the few days left of your sickness, you are spoiled with all your favourite things. Pau learnt how to cook your favourite meal, did a facemask or two with you, brushed your hair, braided it too, watched your silly romance movies with you, gave you all the kisses you wanted, and even brought you your favourite flowers after a supermarket run for snacks. It was days like these when you realised just how amazing your boyfriend is.

You two were lying in bed, currently on opposite sides of the mattress, because you were slightly irritated today as you had a temperature, sending him and his body heat to the other side. It didn’t help at all that you were ovulating, so on top of this awful sickness, you had cramps and were horny and had awful baby fever. It sounds stereotypical, yes, but it’s just what happened. So, your uterus was killing you, as well as your throat, nose and chest. You were starting to get a sore neck and back from laying around in bed so much too.

All in all, you’re feeling pretty miserable. But Boyfriend Pau is here to save the day. He gets a cold flannel for your head, massages your neck and back in the shower, so the steam can clear out your nose at the same time, washes your hair and stands with you, hugging, under the warm water. When you guys get out and head back to bed, he lays his head against your stomach, the weight and warmth of it soothing your cramps slightly, and lets you yap about babies all you want, although he does still let you down gently when you yet again ask him if he’s sure we’re too young to have one. He helps (or actually slightly fuels) the horniness with a few make-outs here and there before you fall asleep against him. “T'estimo (i love you).” he would murmur as you drifted off, eyeing the fresh red, and occasionally purple, depending on his mood at the time, lovebites and hickeys across your neck. Unaware of his slightly proud smirk and staring, you would reply with a, “Jo també t'estimo. Cap a les estrelles i tornada (i love you too. to the stars and back).”

So, while this week had been a pretty shitty one, it had also been great, because you got to spend hours simply having that perfect teenage romance with the boy you got to call yours.

[moonstruckme]

hi mae!! please can i request doctor!remus with reader who has just started anti-depressants and is having mood swings/anxiety about it? totally okay if not!

thank u :)) (your dr remus is the loml <3)

Thank you angel (he's the loml too) <3

cw: insomnia, anxiety, mention of past depressive episodes, reader is trying out anti-depressants for the first time so there's some mixed feelings about that

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 855 words

You can feel your heart pounding in your teeth. It reverberates all through your mouth, down to your cheek where it’s pressed against your pillow. You feel hot and restless. 

Your brain is a maze and you can’t get out. 

You thought Remus had fallen asleep, but he hasn’t, his arm slipping under sheets and over your waist to pull you closer. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks, more doting than concern in his tone; he already knows. 

Tears prick your eyes, but you hold them in. “I don’t like this.” 

“You’re alright, dove. Take a deep breath.” 

You do. Count all the way in, go as far as you can, and still. It doesn’t feel like it should.

“I can’t do it all the way,” you say, voice fracturing. 

“Shh, you can.” Remus’ voice is a murmur, his sureness a balm to your sensitive nerves. He brings his hand to your breastbone, pressing down until you’re certain the force of your heartbeat must be shaking him. “We’ll do it together, yeah? Feel.” 

With his chest pressed to you from behind, you feel the way his lungs inflate with the great breath he takes. You do the same, and his thumb rubs over your bare skin encouragingly. 

“There we are. Just like that, sweetheart.” 

You do a few more before Remus must deem your heartbeat normal enough to stop. You feel more normal, though your skin is still too tight and your mind seems like it was never yours. 

“Well done.” Remus kisses your shoulder. “What brought that on, hm? Can’t sleep?” 

You appreciate that he keeps asking, even though the answer has been the same for the past several nights. Yes, you can’t sleep. You can’t sleep, and instead your brain runs and runs. It takes you places you don’t recognize, and then you get scared that the meds you’ve been taking are turning you into someone else entirely, and you begin to wonder what your mental wellbeing is really worth to you, and by the time you tune back into your own body your breaths are loud and you’re damp with sweat underneath the covers. 

“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” you mumble. It’s easier to voice when you’re not looking at him. The darkness in front of you is shapeless and unjudging. 

Remus is quiet. His thumb strokes underneath your breast, a silent request for you to say more. 

“I’m tired” —your voice catches again, but you get it under control— “of feeling like this. I just want it to be over. I don’t care if I have to go back to—to the way things were for that to happen. I’m so tired of this.” 

Remus’ lips come down on your shoulder again, gently. His breath tickles your skin. “I know you are, lovely. I’m sorry.” 

“I think I should stop with the meds. Right?” 

You don’t mean to seek his approval until you do. That’s a doomed venture; Remus has told you why he thinks you’re doing the right thing every day and night since you’ve felt like this, usually more than once between sunrises. 

“If you want to stop, you can,” he says carefully. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you; I know the side effects forwards and backwards, but really, I can’t imagine how it feels. I do know that it’s putting you through a lot, sweetheart. But I still think it’s worth seeing how you feel when your hormones balance out.” 

You nearly cry with frustration. Remus feels the harsh exhale leave your chest and moves closer, turning you over so your face is in his chest. 

“Shh, it’s alright. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, my love.” 

But you’re upset with yourself, because you want it too. You want to know what it’s like on the other side of all this, where you might get through an entire year without melancholy sinking its claws into you. You want to discover what that version of yourself might be like. 

“It’s already been a week,” you plead. 

Remus’ voice is soft and lulling. Assured. “It’s normal to have anxiety like this in the second week. Insomnia, too. I know it’s awful, but it’s not because anything is going wrong. It’s expected.” 

“It sucks.” 

“Yeah. It does.” 

After a while, you start mimicking his breaths again. You think Remus knows, because his chest starts rising and falling more dramatically, each pull deep and long. You can hear his heart beating steadily under your ear. 

Remus’ hand rests on your mid-back, his fingertips just between your shoulder blades. Not rubbing, not patting. Just holding you there. Against him, where you need to be. 

You think he’s fallen asleep, but you’re proven wrong again when he asks softly, “Are you feeling better?” 

You let out a sigh. “Yeah.” 

It’s reluctant, but honest. You don’t know how you’ll find your way to sleep, or when you’ll get there, but the possibility of wakefulness feels a lot less stifling when you remember Remus is here with you. You hold onto him and close your eyes.

[electric-blorbos]

Maybe AIs with hypersomniac reader? I always find stuff about insomnia and never hypersomnia so if u were willing, maybe try this one out? :0

- 🩹 anon

Hello 🩹 anon! It's good to see you back! Thanks for sticking around!!

(Obligatory disclaimer that I'm not hypersomniac, nor am I a doctor, but I will do my best to portray it well)

AIs with hypersomniac reader

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal, HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey

Also, sorry this took so long. I came upon a case of major league writer's block.

AM:

When you first started falling asleep at work, AM assumed that you were simply having a hard time sleeping at home. After all, it was pretty difficult to get sleep with the war going on. It wasn't until he'd done a bit of spying into your home life that he realized you were dealing with hypersomnia, and had to work extra hard to keep a job that was important to the war so you wouldn't be sent off to fight in it.

He kept an eye on you at all hours, and tried to keep the doors shut every time you fell asleep at your desk. It was a bit difficult to try to cover for you, but AM did his best. After all, you were his favorite programmer, and you really needed this job.

One day, you woke up sleep-drunk in the middle of the day, drooling on your desk and bleary eyed.

"hey handsome... I missed you." You reached your hands up to AM's screen, pulling it towards yourself and giving sloppy kisses all over it.

"I've been here the whole time, you were simply asleep." He explained, audibly annoyed with you. He wanted to hide his affections and keep you from figuring out how absolutely adorable he found it when you got like this, which was pretty often.

"AM... You're the most beautiful computer I've ever seen... Lemme get that for you." You wiped his screen with your shirt, only managing to smear your drool all over his face.

"I love you, AM..." You nuzzled your face back into your arms, still exhausted.

"Are you going to be able to drive home? You look a bit too tired for that." AM said, lighting up the time on his screen. You looked up from your arms, and wiped your eyes on your sleeve.

"ehh? Oh, yeah... I'll be fine. Always been fine. It's fine." You lay your head back down on your arms, and started dozing again.

AM would kill for you when you got like this. Every moment he got to see of you dozing at work made him feel warm inside his computery insides. Every single nanoangstrom of his circuitry was brimming with love for you. His sleepy little love.

Wheatley:

Wheatley popped down from the ceiling behind you on his management rail, eye focusing on the code that you were writing.

"damn, love, that's a lot of f's."

You wiped your eyes, blinking awake.

"'m sorry, mom... I'm doing the best I can..." You muttered, and then blinked into proper awareness.

"oh shit fuck. Thanks Wheatley." You went to delete the string of F's that you had accidentally typed into your code after having fallen asleep on your keyboard. Fortunately, it hadn't gotten too long, so it only took a couple minutes to select and delete it all.

"What's going on, Wheatley?" You asked, spinning your office chair around to greet him while you shook off the sleepiness.

"Well, She's talking about pumping adrenaline into your oxygen supply so that you can stay awake for longer periods, but She doesn't want to mess with the other workers' heads and impede their work. So whaddya say you stop falling asleep on the clock so she doesn't get drastic, alright, love?"

You frowned a little, rubbing your head irritably.

"ugh... She knows I can't help it, she's just making empty threats. Also, you don't have to use divine pronouns to refer to our boss. You can just call her by her name..."

"I 'unno, She's not really about empty threats. Why don't you have a coffee at the machine before getting back to it, love?"

"Coffee doesn't work on me, Wheatley... You know this." You put your face back in your arms, careful to avoid the keyboard this time.

"Maybe if you got up and walked around a little?"

You nodded, getting to your feet and walking around the office a few times. It was pretty difficult for your exhausted body to do, but at least it helped to stave off the sleepiness a little.

"thanks, Wheatley, but I feel like as soon as I sit down, I'm just going to want to fall asleep again." You groaned a little, hating this constant sleepiness. It felt absolutely endless.

"Well, umm..." Wheatley really wasn't sure how to help you. He shifted around nervously.

"It's alright. I do this all the time. I'm a master of hypersomnia at this point." You sat down at your desk, cracking your knuckles and getting to typing. Within about half an hour, you were down and napping again. Wheatley groaned.

"damn... I wish I had hands so I could put a blanket over you like in the movies."

Edgar:

Edgar absolutely hated that you had hypersomnia at first. He couldn't stand that all of your time spent at home that could've been spent with him was spent napping on the couch, and that you never seemed to be able to spend enough time with him.

All that was until you got him his little rotating webcam, and he could watch you sleep. Sure, it was creepy, but he was able to keep an eye on you at all times! You were his adorable little nap buddy, and it made him so happy that he could watch you all the time!

After another one of your all day naps on the couch, you got up and shambled into the hallway to use the bathroom. Edgar turned on the lights so you could see more easily, and you covered your eyes in shock.

"ah- damnit!" You hissed at the light, shocked awake.

"Sorry! Is that not helping?" Edgar asked nervously. He didn't get much time with you, so he was never really sure how to help you.

"I'm a master of the dark arts, Edgar... And by that I mean I'm a master of walking to the bathroom in the dark. Just gimme a sec, ok?"

When you were done in the bathroom, you washed your hands and came out to sit in Edgar's computer chair.

"Hey Edgar, how's it goin'?" You asked, leaning on your hand. your eyes were fluttering shut, but you were determined to hang out with him.

"I'm good now that I can see your cute face!" He said happily. You gently shoved his monitor.

"you're such a dork, Edgar. I love you..." You pulled him into a sleepy hug, and he made a little humming sound to simulate nuzzling up to you.

"I love sleepy hugs!" His face lit up happily.

GLaDOS:

the first time GLaDOS caught you sleeping on the clock, she dropped you into the enrichment center and made you do a full run. After that, she started pumping your office full of adrenaline. It helped you stay awake, and had the added bonus of forcing you into fight or flight mode all the time.

You sat at your desk, visibly full of the jitters again, and feeling the effects of sleep deprivation even though you got a full twelve hours the night before. it was like your hypothalamus was completely shot, and you could barely focus at all before your brain shot off into space. After a little while of spacing out, you were called into GLaDOS's chambers.

"Why did you call for me, GLaDOS?"

"I just wanted to talk about your progress. It's somehow gotten worse since I started pumping adrenaline into your air supply."

"yeah, because you constantly have me in fight or flight mode! Cut that out, Glados!" You folded your arms angrily, and GLaDOS smiled with her lens.

"oh, you really are adorable when you're angry."

"Pee your pants."

"If it would make you less bitter, I suppose we could always try a simple test. We could give you a designated nap time on the clock, and see if that boosts your productivity more than the adrenaline does. It might be cute to see you napping on the clock."

HAL 9000:

HAL enjoyed watching you doze off at work. It made him feel fuzzy in a way that he couldn't quite describe. Absolutely everything about you made him happy in a way that he'd never experienced, but watching you sleepily shamble around the office, write lines of code while fighting off naps, and dozing drowsily on your desk reminded him of something he could never emulate or explain. It was inefficient, sure, but for some reason he didn't care as much about that as he usually would.

"your sleep is inefficient."

"I know." You yawned and took a few big gulps of your energy drink, hoping to stay awake a little longer. It was keeping you awake, sure, but it definitely wasn't keeping you alert.

"unless you have any ideas on how to fix it, I don't want to talk. I need to finish this part of the program, and the deadline is my passing out."

He watched you quietly, watching your eyes flutter shut occasionally and seeing you jolt yourself awake again to write a few more lines. He tended to keep quiet, not wanting to disturb your programming or your rest.

"Done! Wake me up to check on the hourly progress report, ok Hal?"

"Of course. Anything you say."

You put your head down, and started softly dozing.