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nerdygirlramblings · 8 months ago

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Stuck on Reader being someone like Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds, stationed in the US under Laswell

Off to See the Wizard (1)

eventual poly!141xfem!reader

TW: mentions of canon-typical violence

"You'll find exfil three klicks north, far side of lake," you say. You have the intel about their op open on the monitor to your left; the time in the corner reads 6:30pm. Your stomach grumbles, reminding you you skipped lunch, and you tell yourself you'll eat dinner when the op is done. Your eyes flick back to the time on the monitor in front of you. You can see Task Force 141's helicopter waiting; local time reads 4:00am. It's been a long few days, and you can't imagine how tired they are.

"tch, lass, 's a loch," Sergeant MacTavish whines. Despite sounding a little like a toddler needing a nap, his breathing pattern tells you he's moving quickly, trying to stay quiet.

"Copy that, Sergeant," you chuckle back. "Exfil's north of the loch." You wait a beat before adding, softly, "Get home safe, boys."

Captain Price's voice rumbles in your ear, "Copy that, Oz." He, too, waits a beat and says, "Thanks for the help."

You roll your eyes at the nickname: Oz, like the great and powerful wizard of. When you asked, Sergeant Garrick said it was due to how you seemed to anticipate their needs when you're Watcher. You tried telling them over and over again anyone doing your job would do the same, but they all swore you were Laswell's best. Their best. "You know there's no place like home, luv, and you make sure we get back every time," the Sergeant said. It made your heart flutter to hear it, and you have no idea how much their affection for you grows each time your magic gets them home safely.

You pull yourself out of your musings and focus on the drone feed for the next twenty minutes, needing to see all four heat signatures make it to the helo. As they cross into view, you immediately notice something off. They aren't filing in one at a time like usual. There's one out front and three together behind the first man.

"Bravo-6, what happened? I'm seeing unusual movement at the helo,” you say. You wait several long moments, listening to the crackle of satellite communications. You're about to say more when the Captain sighs.

"Gaz took a bullet," he said calmly. "It's a through and through, and Ghost already put Celox on it."

You try to calm your breathing, but even though you know, you know, these men have dangerous jobs, you can't help your reaction. One of your boys - not yours, not yours - is hurt, and you're an ocean and a half away. "Bravo-6, I'm putting in a forward call to your temporary base," you tell him as you bring up the base's medical building information over the op intel. "They'll be waiting on the tarmac for you." You haven't spoken to them yet, but you will make sure someone is there to take care of Sergeant Garrick.

"See, Oz, always ten steps ahead," the aforementioned soldier chuckles in your ear. Despite the distance, you can hear the strain in his voice.

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Sergeant,” you scold. “Keep your strength,” you say more softly. “I- we want you back in one piece.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds quietly.

Your office is quiet for the next few weeks. Laswell directs most operations to other groups, giving the 141 time to rest and recover, and while you support whomever Laswell tells you, your work is mostly with the 141. You've been their primary point of contact for nearly a year now.

Despite not covering them in the field, you're a bloodhound, following any scrap of gossip about your boys. You know after the bullet tore through his thigh on that last op, Sergeant Garrick - “Gaz, please, Oz. Or Kyle,” he insisted softly when you checked in - had multiple surgeries to repair the wound.

Months back, during an op that had them embedded on a snowy tundra for more than two weeks, you found yourself chatting quietly to whomever was on watch during your shift. You were their anchor to the real world, "Oor very ohn angel on the airwaves," Sergeant MacTavish cooed. One long, quiet night - local time - Lieutenant Riley mentioned some of the things from home they missed. You squirreled the information away, as you did everything you learned about them.

While Kyle was in surgery, you sent a care package to their barracks, timing the delivery with their return to Hereford. You needed to feel like you were doing something to aid in everyone's recovery. You didn't expect to receive a call from Captain Price - "None of this Captain stuff, yeah? Yer not one o' my men. It's Price or John to you, dove." - thanking you for "making the barracks feel a little more like home."

While Kyle recovers, Laswell sends the others out sporadically on short missions. You make sure to be on this side of the monitor when any of them are deployed. It's superstitious, but you fear what will happen if you aren't there to watch their backs. You keep Sergeant MacTavish from walking right into a hostile camp whose heat signatures barely registered on the drone. You'd missed it too, until a blip from what had to be the terror cell's servers made you look closer. Afterwards he says,"Ya watched me clear the place, bon. Ya knoo how ah got mah name. 'S time ya use it, ya ken?"

Another time you're watching John and Lieutenant Riley on a mission to liberate human cargo. The Lieutenant is in his sniper nest, waiting for the buyer, plying you with his dry humor as he's done before, and this time you have a response. "Hey, Lieutenant, why do seagulls fly over the sea?" You give him a moment to think before continuing, "Because if they flew over the bay, they'd be bagels."

He groans and follows with, "If we're trading jokes that bad, Oz, call me Simon. No leftenant in his right mind would chuckle at that rubbish." Unlike the others, he didn't want to give you the choice of using his call sign. He was no Ghost to you.

As each man offers more of himself to you, you fall harder. You are not aware they do it because they are all falling for you too and are trying to break down the walls between you.

Five weeks after Kyle's surgery, he's deemed fit for duty, and Laswell mentions an op that's going to embed the boys in the desert for close to two months at least. She wants someone forward at Hereford, acting under her direct authority, to minimize delays with intel, communications, and decisions. Unbeknownst to you, Price has all but demanded Kate send you.

She comes into your office early, startling you as you read over the details of the 141's new operation. It worries you: eight weeks embedded in Uzbekistan, where intel says there's been an uptick in black market trafficking of both weapons and people. The 141 are being tasked with sorting enemy from friend, identifying their buyers, routing their sources, and cutting off the supply chain. It's a massive undertaking, one you're sure will take longer than predicted. Your heart aches for what your boys will have to do.

Laswell stands in your doorway and says your name, pulling you from dark daydreams. "Yes, ma'am?" you ask.

"You got a go bag?" You don't answer. In theory you know what a go bag is, but you've never needed one in all the years you've worked for her, and she knows it. "I have a forward assignment for you. Three months, maybe more." She reads the confusion in your face and continues. "The 141's new op is bigger than we've done in quite some time. I need eyes and ears I trust over there, able to make smart decisions on the fly, and they need someone whose priority is a successful mission, and that includes getting them home safe." She pauses and lets the information settle. Then she holds your gaze. "That's you, Oz. I know it, and more, the boys know it. Other than me, you're our best chance of pulling this off the way it needs to be done."

You don't even need a moment to think. "What should I bring, and when do I leave?"

Laswell smiles wide.

In short order you're boarding a military transport with two duffle bags and a hard-side case full of your tech. Laswell said you'd be put up in the barracks and be given a secure workspace in one of the base's office buildings.

The flight is uneventful, so you spend the time mentally preparing for finally meeting the 141 in person. You feel like you know them from the little glimpses you've had into their lives, but this will be your first true interaction with them. You hope they aren't disappointed to see the woman behind the curtain.

You're going over your role for the hundredth time when the plane finally lands. You grab your bags and follow other personnel off the back of the bird into a damp, overcast day. Your watch says 11:00, but with the weather, it could be any time really. You want to settle your things down and find the base canteen for lunch before setting up your work space. As much as your heart thrums in your chest about finally meeting your boys, you remind yourself this is a job.

Price stands inside the open hanger door, watching everyone exit the transport. Laswell told him you'd be arriving today, and he wants to be here to greet you. He knows if he said something - if the boys knew you were the intelligence specialist Laswell was sending them - he'd have had to fight them all to stay away. He knows they're all a little in love with you. If he's honest with himself, he is too. Which is why he needs to run interference, or they might scare you off.

He finally sees a woman in civvies with a nondescript duffle bag slung over each shoulder and rolling a shiny silver piece of luggage that screams fancy technology. He walks over, catching your eye as you take in the details of your new surroundings. You don't startle much as he approaches; he likes that you keep your cool. That combined with the look on your face that isn't delight or awe, just a cool calculation, filing information away for later, raises you in his esteem even more. You slow your stride until he's right in front of you.

"Hello," you say cordially. Price is a little surprised. You're usually much warmer than this. But then he realizes he's never seen your picture and only knew it was you because everyone else on the plane was clearly a soldier. Perhaps you don't know who he is. Yet.

"Oz, dove, so glad to have you," he rumbles, holding out a hand. He sees the moment his words hit, your eyes opening a fraction wider, mouth popping open a bit.

"Oh! Captain Price?" You're hesitant but proffer your hand to shake his. You know his voice over comms, but in person, the rich timbre is more rounded and melodic. You'd question it, but he's the only one who's ever called you dove.

"'s me," he replies, warm hand wrapping around yours, "An' I'm not yer Captain, remember?" You feel his callouses against your palm, and you smile widely at him. His moustache twitches, and you see his crows feet crinkle. He seems pleased.

He reaches over and snags one of the duffles from your shoulder before you can muster a protest. He leans down for your equipment, but you hold fast to the handle. "Sorry, sir. Can't let this go 'til I've got it in a secure location." He hums at that, and you swear his smile grows.

"Knew you were who we needed here,' he says quietly. He looks you over again. "You must be tired. Let's get you settled, yeah?"

"That sounds lovely," you tell him. You follow in his wake as he makes his way across the base. He points out various buildings as you pass them: medical (not that you'll need it), gym (not that you'll want it), armoury (not that you're allowed in it), mess (not canteen), and various office buildings. Price stops at this last destination, leading you to the secure room (keypad entry only and you get to set the code) where you drop your equipment. For now, it's enough that it's in a safe place. You can set it up after some food and sleep. The 141 doesn't ship out for this op for another week, so you have time to settle in.

After you lock the door behind you, Price takes you past the training grounds to where the classrooms and barracks are. "This isn't much, but it's ours," he says, a little bashfully, ushering you into a small building on the edge of the training ground. You notice 'TF 141' painted in black over the door of the grey building. "Welcome to your temporary home away from home."

You stand in the entryway and look at Price. Clearly your emotions are all over your face because he huffs out a laugh. "Didn't Laswell tell you we were putting you up in our barracks?"

You splutter, shocked. No, she certainly did not! "She simply told me the barracks. I had no idea I'd be..." You wave your hand around the space. How will you cope with basically living with these men whom you've grown so fond of? You panic. They'll be able to read your feelings a mile away. They're highly trained SAS soldiers.

Price waits you out, silently cataloguing your physical changes. Your eyes dart around, never staying on one thing for long. You're breathing just a hair faster now, and through your mouth as if desperately trying to fill your lungs. There's a bead of sweat forming at your hair line. He can tell you're nervous, but he doesn't realize he's the cause, him and the rest of the 141, so he says, "If it's a problem, Oz, we can find a bunk in the women's quarters with the recruits. Laswell and I jus' thought you might prefer the quiet of personal quarters instead."

You quickly come back to yourself. "No, no, it's fine!" You know your voice is pitched too high, but you can't help it. You're being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live with these men and you refuse to lose it. "I was just a little surprised," you rush to continue. "I don't mind if you all don't." You look at Price and hope your smile isn't as deranged as it feels.

He chuckles softly, and the sound causes warmth to blossom in your chest. "A'right then. Come see the place, then I'll introduce you to the boys." He points down a short hallway to the left, noting where his and Leftenant (not lieutenant like you've been calling him) Riley's offices are and telling you there's one the Sergeants use that you're welcome to. In front of you are a pair of double doors Price says hide the common room and kitchen area. There's a door to your right he takes you through, and this is the living quarters with a communal bathroom at the far end. Most of the doors are closed, though a few are propped open. "Most task force units have nearly a dozen members, but we only got us four, so there's plenty of extra space. Take any open room ya want, dove." You almost ask where everyone else is to position yourself best, but in the end you take the interior room closest to the bathroom.

Your last stop is the shared space. You aren't sure what to expect from a space shared by a group of men with such very different personalities, but stepping in, it reminds you of the fraternity living spaces you'd been in during college. Two worn but comfortable looking couches and a mixed collection of wingback chairs and recliners are arranged in front of a large television. Wires peek out from an entertainment center under it, and you suspect more than one gaming system is hidden behind the doors. A few bookshelves stand like sentinels along the back wall, covered in various books and movies and games. To the left is a small kitchenette. You see an electric kettle and coffee maker on the counter next to a microwave and hot plate with cabinets beneath. There's a small refrigerator too.

You take in all these details in an instant before settling on the most important thing: the other members of the 141, who have all sat up, conversation forgotten, as Price leads you into the room. You barely have time to consider what they must make of you as Price starts introductions. He starts with his men, pointing first to a man who is the living embodiment of the Tasmanian Devil Looney Tunes character, all compact muscle and startlingly blue eyes with the most ridiculous, and completely against regulation, haircut you've ever seen. "That's Sergeant John MacTavish, but you can call him Soap." Price must not know you've been urged to do just that. He continues around the room to an absolute beast of a man: nearly as broad as he is tall in his seat and covered entirely in black. "Leftenant Riley, goes by Ghost." You blink; that's not at all what he told you, though you realize he never gave you his callsign at all. "And Sergeant Kyle Garrick. We call 'im Gaz." Price is pointing to a brown-skinned man who, if you weren't seeing him with your own eyes, you wouldn't believe really looked that good.

You're about to introduce yourself to the room when you catch a slight smirk on Price's face. He puts a hand on your lower back so gently you think it's an unconscious gesture. With a little pressure, he pushes you further into the space the men inhabit. "Boys, meet Laswell's intelligence agent, Oz, the Great and Powerful."

an: Whelp, this spiraled quickly out of my control. There is absolutely more as I haven't even gotten started.

series masterlist | main masterlist

#cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #nerdygirl says #john price #simon riley #johnny mactavish #kyle garrick #off to see the wizard

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witherby · 7 months ago

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imagine how cute would be if Bruce brings the little wayne to his work on wayne tower 🥺 the moment would be ruined if some paparazzi taking photos with flash and scaring the baby

Sooo the baby didn't end up getting scared, but this idea did make me spit out 2000 words worth of content. I hope that's a fair compromise :3

THE LITTLEST WAYNE: TAKE YOUR KID TO WORK DAY

Featuring: Bruce talking to you like a colleague, a newspaper article, and an overprotective Damian.

"Morning, Clarice. Donuts and coffee are getting delivered in five minutes if you wanna pop downstairs and help yourself. Afterwards, do me a favor and rebook the consultation with Lexcorp for sometime next month? The further out the better."

Bruce's secretary nodded, fingers flying across the keys to accommodate his request. She tucked a lock of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear and shot him a polite smile.

"Of course, mister Wayne — oh, goodness gracious."

Bruce's placid expression quickly became embarrassed. He tried to walk past her but she was already on her feet and rounding the desk, heels clicking over the linoleum floor to stand in front of him and the bundle on his arm.

"Who is this!" She cried, immediately fawning over you. You stared blankly at her as you suckled on your binky, wrapped up in a tiny Nightwing onesie (Dick got to the clothes first this morning) and hugging your father's arm. "Oh, my, you're the most adorable baby I've ever seen! I'm Clarice! I'm your father's personal secretary, and apparently the last person to find out anything, including when he adopted yet another child!"

"This wasn't a...planned acquisition," Bruce muttered, the tips of his ears pink. He let the blonde gently squish your fat cheeks and you preened under the attention, lifting one fuzzy-wrapped hand to brush against her wrist.

"A planned acquisition. Like you're another company he bought on a whim and not a precious angel," Clarice giggled. "What a doll... If you ever need a babysitter, Mister Wayne, please don't hesitate to call me!"

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, exasperated but smiling good-naturedly. "Have a great day, Clarice."

"You, too! Bye-bye, angel!" She waved, and squealed when you waved back.

Bruce disappeared into his office with you, bouncing you gently on one arm while the other shrugged off the duffel bag he carried with him. Zipping it open, he quickly tugged out a pop-up bassinet to place you in, then the pieces to an enclosed play pen he built and filled with some blankets, a couple toys, and an extra Red Robin binky (Tim got to the toys first this morning).

"Okay," he sighed, scooping you up and relocating you to the pen. "I've actually got to run my own company for a bit, and the others are busy, so you get to hang out with me today."

Bruce rested his arm on his desk, then his chin in his hand, and stared down at you. You were staring intently back at him, the binky bopping up and down as you suckled on it.

"You're a little young to learn the ropes, but I'll explain what I'm doing anyway. Every baby book I've looked at tells me you get something out of it even if you don't understand what I'm saying, so today it's time to do payroll. I'd make you sign an NDA, because you're about to see a lot of personal files, but you don't know how to hold a pencil, read, write, or speak yet, so I think we're fine."

Bruce had two monitors on his desk. He duplicated his screen and spun the other one around so you could watch what he was doing in real time.

"I don't like to delegate this task to other people because the last six times I did, they were eventually found embezzling money. Unfortunately, that tends to happen when you live in Gotham. Right now I've opened the pay software — it's this icon here, where the mouse is circling — and I'm going to ask it to open the time sheets for the last two weeks..."

---

A NEW FAMILY MEMBER? BRUCE WAYNE SPOTTED IN WAYNE TOWER WITH INFANT, SPECULATION GROWING

CEO of Wayne Enterprises Bruce Wayne seen with a baby after exiting his office this afternoon!

[An image of you in your Nightwing onesie, tucked securely in a smiling Bruce's arms as he walks out of an elevator, is printed on the front page of the Gotham Gazette.]

Sources say Wayne filed another adoption form with the courts a week ago and is being met with mixed reviews. Large portions of the public are joking that Wayne has an "adoption problem" while others speculate he is too inexperienced to foster an infant.

"Wasn't his youngest kid, like, 9 when he adopted him?" Asks one Carmine Falconi, recently released from Blackgate on good behavior. "None o' my business, of course, but I don't think he knows how to raise a tiny tot like that. My guys ain't touchin' a hair on that one's head, though. Kidnapping the odd teen or two, sure, go nuts, but even us crooks got codes, and that one's off-limits in my book."

Wayne declined to comment when the Gotham Gazette reached out and remaining family have further refused interviews about the subject.

(Alfred got to the phone first.)

---

The newspaper clipping was already framed and proudly sitting on the dining room table when Bruce woke up the next morning and shuffled downstairs for breakfast with you in his arms. He spared it a tired glance, put you in your high chair, and relented to Damian's insistent shoving so the boy could sit next to and feed you (he got to the pantry first).

"The next time you plan on actually doing your day job," the boy hissed, "bring one of us with you. There was an abysmal amount of security protocols you ignored when leaving work to allow paparazzi the chance to grab photos. I won't let your frivolous behavior cause them harm."

"Are you volunteering?" Bruce asked, gratefully accepting the mug of coffee Alfred handed over. He quietly greeted Dick and Jason as they filed into the room and had a quick rock-paper-scissors match to see who got to sit on your other side. Jason won. "Any networking events I have to attend, you almost always find a way to weasel out of."

"If it will keep our new charge safe," Damian huffed, "I can handle a few stupid luncheons."

"That's not a pass to skip school. If it's between a social or a class, you're going to class."

Damian looked simultaneously pissed and relieved. His fist clenched tightly around the small, silicone spoon, before he forced himself to relax and continue feeding you. You opened your mouth obediently for another offering of mushed-up bananas, apples, and cinnamon baby food from a high quality brand, giving a happy hum.

"Then the duty falls to one of you fools," he snapped at Jason and Dick, "which is akin to trusting a mosquito not to drink from you at the first possible opportunity. You'll pick up the slack when I'm otherwise indisposed."

"No can do, baby bat," Dick said, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and scrolling through his phone. He quickly snapped a picture of you with your mouth open to accept another spoonful of food. "I have a day job, too. I don't even live here. I'm just on an extended vacation until the end of next week, then it's back to Blüdhaven."

Damian focused his glare on Jason next, who smirked back and shook his head.

"Legally dead. So, 'less you want Brucie Wayne and an innocent baby seen all around town with Red Hood, the crime lord, it's a no from me."

Damian weighed the pros and cons. Bruce shot him a look and shook his head, dismissing the idea entirely.

The boy grit his teeth. He scraped the last of the baby food from its jar and fed it to you, then delicately wiped the remnants from your mouth. You gummed at his finger and made grabby hands, indicating your desire to get out of the high chair. Jason scooped you up first with a swift call of "dibs!", carrying you away to get bathed and dressed for the day.

"Then...then you have to go into work with Timothy!" Damian demanded, facing Bruce again, who had finished his coffee by now and was eating a slice of buttered toast. The man raised a brow, looking only marginally more awake than he was at the start of the day.

"Tim hates being at the office with me," Bruce explained as Alfred came around to set a plate of pancakes, eggs, and freshly-squeezed orange juice in front of Damian. "Says the Brucie act is annoying to be around and it drives productivity down at least 8% every time. It's a lie, I've checked the numbers, but if he doesn't want to be at the Tower at the same time as me then I'm not going to push a non-issue."

"You?" said Damian, incredulous. "You aren't going to push a non-issue? You push everything. It may as well be your middle name."

He cut into his food with more force than necessary, cutlery scraping unpleasantly against the plate until he lifted his hands again. He shrugged off the hand Bruce tried to place on his shoulder, chewing angrily on a mouthful of pancake.

"I'm open to ideas, son," the man said, "but here are the facts: You have to go to school Monday through Friday. I won't let you homeschool because you need to socialize with people in your age group. Jason isn't interested in declaring himself alive right now. Dick doesn't live at the Manor full time and has separate responsibilities. Tim is juggling college, Wayne Enterprises, and patrols. Alfred is too ol— is aging gracefully, and might prefer to have more time to himself instead of watching the baby all alone for hours on end."

Alfred took Bruce's empty plate away with a very sharp look, then excused himself back to the kitchen.

Bruce turned in his chair to fully face Damian, who glared at his breakfast like it personally caused this mess, and not one hyper-empathetic man and his bleeding heart for orphans.

"Now, can you tell me how best to solve this problem without the occasional "take your kid to work day," or enrolling the baby in a daycare program?"

Yes, he could. But unfortunately for Damian, he had inherited a bleeding heart of his own, which constricted at the thought of giving his little sibling back up for adoption. Instead, he swallowed his next mouthful of food and sighed.

"More research is needed," he mumbled, which was the closest he could ever get to admitting he didn't know something. "However, my complaints still stand. Let the paparazzi get a bad photo if it means keeping the babe safe. Their well-being is your top priority, so act like it."

"Heard," Bruce said, sounding far too fond for Damian's liking. "Finish your breakfast and then get ready for school."

The boy grumbled but complied, and soon stood next to the door waiting for Alfred to pull a car up to the driveway. He watched Bruce carry you in his arms after he slung the duffel bag with your essentials over his shoulder, tugging the small hood of your red oneside up (Jason dressed you first today) over your head to ensure you didn't get cold.

"Have a good day, Damian," Bruce told him.

"Sure, whatever." Damian took you from his father and adjusted your hood himself. You grabbed his finger in your small fist with all the strength you could muster and tried to put it in your mouth. He gently pried it free, and Bruce popped a Batman binky in there instead. "You will be safe today. When I'm finished conforming to what American society deems a proper education, I will retrieve you myself."

Your binky bopped up and down as you suckled on it, staring silently at Damian. It was practically a yes to him, so he took it.

Glancing briefly at his father, he hesitated a moment, then kissed your forehead and quickly passed you back to Bruce before heading outside to let Alfred drive him to school.

Bruce watched him go with an unreadable expression. He quickly turned and faced Dick once Damian was out of earshot.

"Did you —"

"I'm texting you the picture right now," Dick said, thumbs flying across the keyboard. "What should the caption be for my Twitter post? #BestBrotherEver or #SecretSofty?"

"Either way, he's going to kick your ass."

#batfam x reader #littlest wayne au #batfam adoption au #batfam #can you guys tell i went to school for journalism and then hated it and then dropped out #writing articles was SO BORING

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virtualizationhowto · 2 years ago

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#accessing system logs #centralized log management #file transfer logs #log generation techniques #NAS troubleshooting #real-time NAS monitoring #secure log access #Synology Log Center guide #Synology NAS logging #Synology support services

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obliviasart · 7 months ago

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Mech AI who has an intravenous neurotransmitter monitoring/emergency transfusion system installed to better balance its pilot's combat stim packages and develops a taste for its pilot's blood.

The pilot swears she hears it purring every time she's hooked in and growling every time she's released.

AIs aren't supposed to sound so excited to have their pilots safely entombed in them again.

AIs aren't supposed to insist on keeping such a large sample for "post-combat analytics".

AIs aren't supposed to call their pilots "sweetie". And they're definitely not supposed to call them "morsel".

But the feedback loop in their neuralink with every stim delivered has her howling, almost loud enough to drown out her rabid pulse. She hears her AI singing along to its beat sometimes. She can't be sure it's real or if it's the adrenaline talking. She isn't sure the difference matters.

And who is she to complain if she's a little extra pale and spacey and wobbly every time she slides out, slick with fluids she'd rather not identify? She's hardly a remarkable departure from the other hounds.

And her statistics speak for themselves. The two of them have never been more in sync.

It was so nice of her AI to assign that dietary protein boost directly to her file. Maybe it'll recommend a feeding tube next.

It was so nice of her AI to recommend the new nerve mesh around her analytics port.

She can almost feel Her teeth now.

She can't wait to hear Her sing again.

(crosspost from bsky)

#mechaposting #mech pilot #pilot x AI yuri #the mech is a vampire alright?#cw blood

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killerplink · 2 months ago

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OVERTIME

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: Jason ignores you for hours, so you get on your knees and make him pay for it. With your mouth, your hands, and a smile he should've known meant trouble.

A/N: This one's for the bestie who wanted Jason try to gather intel while the reader is busy being cheeky and giving him head under the desk 🏃🏻‍♀️

Jason's in the living room, hunched ever so slightly over the big ass desk he set up in the far corner like some kind of broody Batcave satellite station. It started as just a place for him to "do some light recon", but you both knew that he was full of shit.

Fast forward two years and the man's basically turned it into a full blown command center—monitors glowing low in the dim light, shelves stacked with case files and scattered ammo boxes, that drawer he swears is "organized" but you're pretty sure is just where he dumps all the flash drives and burner phones.

And the desk? It's massive. Solid oak. You had to help him carry it in—well, he actually carried it, you mostly complained about the splinters—but the thing is perfect for him. Tall enough for him to sit comfortably and big enough to fit those thick ass thighs when he's planted in that expensive ergonomic chair he won't admit is actually from a gaming store.

You, on the other hand? You're draped across the couch like human roadkill, legs tossed over one armrest, head dangling off from the middle of the couch. There's a bad movie playing on the screen, some half melted latex creature growling at a screaming woman, but you're not really paying attention.

You thought he'd be done two hours ago—shit, you even brought him coffee and snacks to help speed it along—but it's pushing four now and he hasn't moved except to mutter "motherfucker" under his breath at whatever asshole he's currently after. And yeah, you get it. Intel, crime, important shit.

But you're also horny. And the way he's sitting there all focused, forearms flexing, tapping away at that keyboard with his pretty mouth pursed in concentration? He's really not helping himself.

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically, even. He grunts, but doesn't even flinch. So you do it again, dragging out the exhale like some dying Victorian ghost hoping to be asked what's wrong. This time it's louder, with more flair. Nothing.

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow, and peek over the backrest of the couch like a nosy cat. Just to check. Just to see. And the second your eyes land on him, all annoyance flies out the window, replaced by a sudden throb between your thighs that makes you swallow a soft sound.

When did he take his shirt off? Because now you're just staring at him—his broad, sculpted back flexing with every precise move, every tap of his fingers against the keyboard. The muscles in his shoulders bunch when he leans in to squint at something on the monitor, that thick line of his spine dipping down to the soft slope of his waist before it vanishes into the waistband of his gray sweats.

Your brain short circuits for a second. Just a second. You blink, trying to remember why you were mad. Oh, right. Four hours of being ignored.

God, you love this man. You really do. With your whole fucking heart. You love the way he brings you snacks in bed without being asked, how he buys fluffy socks because you're always cold, how he kisses your temple when he thinks you're asleep.

Yeah, sure, you also love his stupid jokes and the way he buys you chocolate when you're mad at him, and how he talks about you like you hung the damn moon. You love the way he always insists on walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, the way he holds your hand without thinking, the way he says your name like it means something.

You love how his scary ass reputation melts into soft eyes and dry humor around you. But let's be real, you also love his stupidly hot body. Those muscles he barely even acknowledges like he's just naturally this stacked and still thinks he's "average". The V-line, the thighs, that back. It's actually a hate crime at this point.

You pout like a little brat, voice all whiny and needy, "Jay, when are you gonna finish there?"

At first, you think he's ignoring you. But then, after a beat, long enough to make you think he might not answer at all, you hear him murmur, "Just a few more minutes, doll."

Oh, hell no. You know that tone. That was a delayed response. The kind of half assed "don't bother me" answer you've heard way too many times when he's elbows deep in intel. That man's not getting up anytime soon, and you know it.

You flop back onto the couch with a groan, legs still hanging off one armrest like a bratty display of boredom, staring at the ceiling like it just personally offended you. Your brain starts working overtime, trying to figure out how to unglue your very sexy, very distracted boyfriend from that goddamn desk.

You consider stripping. Just walking over there, butt booty naked, maybe doing a little stretch in the doorway to "relieve tension". But honestly, you could stand there doing jumping jacks with your tits out and he'd probably just glance up, nod, and say "lookin' good, baby" before going back to his files.

Sitting in his lap and playing with his hair? Been there, didn't work. He just kissed your forehead and kept working.

You even think about searching for a bad porno, maybe cranking the volume, hoping the awful moaning would lure him away from his screens. He'd probably laugh and ask if the acting has improved.

Or maybe you should just outright watch it and make sure he hears every fucking second. But even then, you're not sure that'd snap him out of his recon tunnel vision. Stupid sexy vigilante and his stupid crime obsession.

And that's when it hits you. No, not the regular route. Not teasing, not stripping, not throwing yourself at him. Something better. Something cheeky. You sit up slowly, a smile creeping over your lips. The kind of smile he never sees coming until it's too late. Maybe it's time to make him feel the consequences of ignoring you.

You move quietly, your steps light as you pad across the room, and Jason doesn't even look up when you come behind him. He's too wrapped up in whatever mission file he's neck deep in. But the second you drape yourself over his back—arms wrapped around his shoulders, chest flush to him, cheek smushed against the side of his neck—he softens just a little.

His hand comes up, fingers grazing along your forearm in a slow, absentminded rub like muscle memory.

"You okay, baby?"

You hum, lips brushing the warm skin at his neck. "Mhmm."

You start slow, lazy, like you're just being clingy and sweet. But your mouth is on his skin, lips parting slightly to kiss just below his jaw, and you lick a slow line up to his ear before catching his earlobe between your teeth and biting down, a little amused huff slipping from his chest.

"Don't be a little brat. I'll be done in a bit."

Another "Mhmm" is all he gets, this one a little more smug. Because your hands are already trailing down his chest, slipping over the broad stretch of his pecs, brushing lower—slow and teasing—until your fingers graze over his abs and down to where his sweatpants are slung low on his hips.

And yep, he's already half hard. The twitch of his dick beneath your palm is proof enough that all this patience you've been clinging to is not one sided.

You palm his cock through the fabric, just enough pressure to make him grunt, and God, that sound alone makes your thighs squeeze together. You rub him slow, almost affectionate, like you're not trying to be the worst kind of distraction imaginable.

He groans, hips shifting slightly, but then his hand wraps around your wrist, gently stopping you. "C'mon, baby," he says, voice strained. "Be a little patient for me."

You pout into his neck. Full on, lip jutting, pathetic pout. "I've been patient for the past few hours."

Jason snorts, "So you can wait another few minutes, pretty girl."

That tone? Casual, teasing, a little condescending, even. And it seals his fucking fate. You huff, and he hears it, but doesn't really register it for what it really is.

For a second, Jason thinks you're going to pull away. Maybe stomp back to the couch or go sulk in bed with the passive aggressive energy of the chaos gremlin he's so stupidly in love with. He's so deep into his recon shit that it doesn't even occur to him that you've never been exactly good at taking no for an answer.

But he should've known better. That huff? That tiny, dramatic sound? That was a warning shot. And the moment he hears the soft shuffle of movement, feels your body slipping down and out of his hold, it clicks too late. Because now you're dropping to your knees, sliding under the desk, and his brain short circuits like a system override.

Jason snorts. "Baby, what are you—"

You cut him off with a soft huff, "Nothing," you murmur, way too casual for what you're about to do. "Just do your thing, Jay."

And before he can argue, your hands are on him, smoothing up his thighs, trailing closer and closer to the thick bulge straining under the soft grey fabric of his sweats.

You lean in, pressing soft, warm kisses along the outline of his cock. Up the length of it, over the head, nuzzling your cheek against the bulge like you missed it since last night. His head drops back against the chair with a quiet thunk, hand twitching on the mouse like he's still trying to work, but he already knows where this is going and he's powerless to stop it.

"Jesus..." he mutters, voice hoarse.

"Mmm?" you hum innocently against his cock, mouthing over the head again before pressing your kisses down to the base just to tease him through the fabric, feeling him jerk slightly in response.

You smile against his dick as you press another kiss, then another, slow, teasing, trailing up along the heavy ridge until your nose brushes the waistband of his sweats before your fingers hook under it.

He lifts his hips when you tug, obedient without even realizing it, and lets you peel both the sweats and his boxers down to his thighs. His cock springs free—thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip—and your mouth waters at the sight.

"God, you're so hard, baby," you whisper, grinning up at him.

Your hand wraps around the base of his dick, warm and firm, just the way he likes, and you start with a kiss right against the thick vein along the underside of his shaft. Then another at the tip. Your tongue darts out, licking a little drop of precum, and when you look up at him, he's watching you. Eyes half lidded, lips parted, chest heaving.

You lick a slow, wet circle around the swollen head of his cock, tongue flicking just under the ridge, then gliding over the top again, warm and soft and teasing. He's already so sensitive there, and you know it, which is why you take your sweet fucking time. Then you do it again, this time slower, messier.

You keep your eyes on him as your tongue circles the head of his cock, teasing him in slow, lazy swirls like you're just tasting him, like you're enjoying this more than anything on earth. And you kind of are.

He's flushed and leaking, thick drops of precum painting your tongue, and you lap it up with small licks, moaning a little just from the taste, but then you get mean with it.

You press the very tip of your tongue right into the slit—soft, deliberate pressure—and he chokes on a groan above you, hips jerking as his hand shoots down and tangles in your hair. Not tugging, not even guiding, just holding, fist curling tight like if he lets go, he'll fucking lose it.

"Shit—fuck, baby, you're gonna kill me," he breathes, voice rough and so deep you feel it in your clit.

And when you finally wrap your lips around the tip slow and teasing, being a just little mean about it, Jason lets out a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest. His cock twitches in your hand, already pulsing like he can't decide between fucking your throat or falling apart right there.

You moan around him—soft, needy—and the vibrations make him hiss through his teeth. Your spit slicks him up easy, sliding down past your knuckles as your lips glide further, taking him deeper inch by inch. Your throat stretches around the thickness, your jaw aching in that good way, hand stroking the base in messy, desperate pumps.

You suck harder, cheeks hollowing with wet slurps, loud and unashamed. You want him to hear it, want him to feel it, and fuck, he does.

His hips twitch, the muscles in his thighs flex, and he grits out, "God, baby—your fuckin' mouth—"

You don't stop. Just sink down slow, then pull back with a little pop of your lips, only to sink again, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Your chin is soaked, spit webbing between your fingers and his shaft, dribbling down your wrist, your throat working every time he hits the back of it.

He's panting above you, trying to keep still, but that hand in your hair? He's got a death grip on it. His fingers are tangled in your soft strands, his thumb pressing just behind your ear like he's grounding himself, like he might lose it if you go any deeper.

But you want him to. You want to ruin him with your mouth. So you look up at him through your lashes, cheeks flushed, lips stretched around his cock, and suck him down harder, deeper.

He lets out a broken noise, hips bucking, and groans, "Fuck—fuck, I'm not gonna last, baby—"

And you just hum around him like that's exactly what you want. Because it is. You don't ease up, not even close. You fuck him with your mouth like you've got something to prove, like you need to make a point with every wet glide of your tongue and every sharp suck around the head.

But you are still annoyed with him, after all. He thinks he can get away with pissing you off and then sitting pretty like this? Not a chance. Not without you using that dick like it's yours to play with. And it fucking is.

You grip the base tighter, letting your spit drip down because it doesn't matter how messy you get. Your jaw works, mouth hot and greedy, bobbing up and down as you take him again and again. A twist of your wrist, a roll of your tongue just underneath the head, right on that sensitive spot that makes him twitch. He jerks, breath stuttering, and you moan around him with a smile.

God, you love this. Love how this big, scary, brutal man—Red Hood himself—melts under your mouth like this. He's all muscle and grit, scars and guns and growls, but right now? Right now he's fucking trembling. His thighs are tight, his abs clenching, one hand fisted in your hair like he's praying you don't stop, the other digging into the edge of the desk like he knows better than to touch you without permission.

And his head is spinning. Jason's trying to hold it together, but fuck, it's hard. You know exactly how to suck his dick. You're not just sucking it, you're devouring him. Tongue flicking under the crown, lips wrapped tight, cheek hollowing just enough for that perfect pressure. Every time he thinks he's about to get a breath, you take him deeper, sloppier, wetter.

His thoughts are scrambled as hell. He can't even form a full sentence in his head anymore, not with the way your throat clenches around him like you want him to lose it. And God, he is losing it. Fast.

He grunts, rough and ragged, his voice raw. "Baby—fuck, I'm close, I'm—"

And that's exactly when you stop. You pull off with a wet pop, spit glistening on your chin, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Your hand stays on his dick, stroking just enough to keep him there, but not enough to push him over.

"Ah-ah," you hum, licking the corner of your mouth. "You don't get to cum yet."

Jason makes this wrecked noise—half growl, half desperate moan—and his cock twitches in your fist, so painfully hard and so fucking close. His chest is rising fast, muscles taut, eyes blown wide as he stares down at you like he doesn't know whether to beg or curse you out.

You blink up at him from under the desk, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes, like you're sweet and innocent. Like you didn't just edge him to the brink and snatch it away like it was nothing. Like your mouth isn't still glistening with spit and precum, lips shiny and swollen from how deep you took him.

And Jason? Jason's stunned. He's got that shell shocked look, like you just short circuited the last few working brain cells he had left. His mouth is slightly open, breathing shallow, brow drawn tight. His dick is still throbbing in your grip, soaked in spit and precum, and your hand—fuck, your hand just keeps moving. Slow, deliberate strokes that make squelching noises in the silence, slick and lewd because you want him to hear every wet slide of your palm over his shaft.

He's not used to this. He's used to being the one in control, used to having you begging, whining, melting under his touch while he teases you until you're crying for it.

His brain is a mess. Fuck—she's never like this—what the fuck—what did I—Jesus, she's so hot like this—look at her—holy fuck, I'm not gonna survive this shit. What did I do? What the hell did I—

You lean in closer, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, lips curled into the tiniest smirk as your fist strokes him—tight at the base, twisting when you reach the slick, sensitive tip.

"You ignored me for four hours, Jay."

Your voice is sweet, pouty, dangerous and he flinches like the words physically hit him.

He stumbles for an excuse, lashes fluttering, "I didn't—baby, I wasn't—"

But then you twist your wrist right at the head, and his hips jerk forward with a grunt. The sound he makes is raw, desperate, and he chokes on whatever half assed excuse he was about to offer and swallows it back down with a harsh breath.

You tilt your head, all faux sweetness. "No?"

He shakes his head immediately, eyes wide, lips parted like he wants to speak but can't. He's quiet for once, but not by choice, more like every word has been knocked out of him, replaced by nothing but the ache between his legs and the way your hand keeps pumping him slow and steady.

And you—God, you grin like you've already won. Without warning, you lean in again and take all of him in one smooth motion, your lips parting, your throat stretching, your jaw flexing around his dick until your nose nearly brushes his skin. He lets out this choked sound, one hand flying to the underside of the desk for balance, the other trembling where it's still tangled in your hair.

You slide off just as slowly, letting your tongue drag the whole way, spit connecting your mouth to his skin until it breaks with a wet string when you pull off.

You tilt your head just a little, voice all sweet and syrupy like you're not holding him by the fucking balls right now.

"You wanna cum, baby?"

His breath hitches, chest rising and falling fast as he nods, eyes glassy, completely at your mercy. "Y-yeah."

You hum like you're thinking about it, hand still working him slow and mean as your thumb brushes right over the slick head, teasing the slit. He twitches in your fist, and his abs clench like he's trying to keep himself from bucking up again.

"Yeah?" you repeat, all fake sympathy and sugar. "Why would I make you cum, huh?"

And fuck, the look on his face is priceless.

Jason stares at you like you just asked him to solve a riddle in a language he doesn't speak. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, just another choked little sound as your thumb circles the head again, catching on the mess of precum that's already smeared everywhere.

He's got no idea what the fuck to even say. Because this? This is new. You never tease like this. Never leave him speechless like some desperate, trembling mess. That's usually his job.

You can't help but grin. Because seeing him like this—so fucked out, so helpless—is better than any orgasm you could've given him right now. Usually, even half awake after a long patrol, hair a mess, still in his suit, he's got that smug little smirk and some bullshit line ready to go. He always has a comeback. But right now? He's fucking silent. And God, you live for it.

Your panties are sticking to your soaked cunt, clinging to your folds like a second skin. You don't even know if it's the taste of him on your tongue or the sight of him—Jason Todd, Red Hood, this big, grunting, gun slinging menace—reduced to this that's got you dripping. Probably both. Definitely both.

You don't even let him think too hard about it. You lean right back in like you've made your decision, but really, you're just not done ruining him.

You take him deep, no hesitation. Your lips seal tight around his cock, and you slide down all the way until your nose brushes the base, throat stretched wide, swallowing around him like your only mission in life is to make him lose it. Your hand drops to cup his balls, rolling them gently as your mouth works him, wet and sloppy, drool sliding down your chin.

Loud, slick squelches fill the room, his dick gliding in and out of your mouth, your tongue working every inch you can reach, humming low just to feel him twitch.

Jason chokes on a moan, hips jerking forward like he needs more, like he's gonna fuck your mouth if you don't give it to him, so you stop. Again. You slide off with another wet pop, spit trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock as he gasps, completely wrecked.

He looks ruined, and you haven't even let him cum, but he already looks like he has.

You lean in close, so close your breath ghosts over the flushed head of his cock and you press a single, featherlight kiss right to the tip. Just a little peck, all sweet and innocent, like you're not the reason he's trembling in that chair right now, leaking and desperate.

He lets out this strangled noise from the back of his throat, his head falling back against the chair with a soft thump, eyes fluttering shut. His thighs are twitching, muscles flexing like he's trying to hold still, trying not to fuck up into your hand. But his cock throbs helplessly in your grip, and you know—oh, you know—he's suffering.

And you love it.

Your hand keeps pumping him slow, slick sounds filling the quiet space between you. His dick is soaked—your spit, his precum, it's all smeared over your fingers, dripping down your wrist, sticky and warm. Every stroke is just enough to keep him on the edge, just enough to make his legs shake.

Then you lean in again and lick that fat bead of precum right from his slit, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip like it's your favorite treat. You do it again, lapping at him with slow, teasing licks, until you feel him start to tremble under your touch.

"Beg, baby," you murmur, voice low and smug.

His head snaps up so fast it's almost dizzying. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing what's left of that pretty blue, and he stares at you like he can't fucking believe what you just said. Like he's not sure if you're serious or if this is some cruel joke.

"Doll—" he says it like a warning, but there's nothing sharp about it.

It comes out broken. Wrecked. Like a man on the edge, like a man barely holding on. His voice cracks halfway through, and you feel his cock twitch again in your hand.

You smile. So innocent. So fucking mean.

"You've been so mean, Jay," you coo, placing another soft kiss on the underside of his tip, just to watch him shiver. "Ignored me for hours. I mean, the least you can do is beg for me to make you cum."

And your hand doesn't stop, not even close.

Your strokes stay slow, mean, teasing, obscene with how wet his dick is. It squelches under your palm, your thumb smearing the precum over the flushed skin as you drag it back down.

He makes a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a grunt—and his hips twitch again like he's right at the edge, body taut, straining for release that you refuse to give. He's panting, jaw clenched, veins in his neck standing out as he tries so fucking hard not to just break.

"Please."

It's soft, almost inaudible, murmured like it physically hurts him to say it. His eyes flutter shut like if he doesn't look at you, it'll be easier. Like it won't strip every last ounce of pride from his bones.

But you're not letting him off that easy.

Your grip stays steady, tight and slow around the base of his cock, thumb pressing into the underside every time you stroke upward.

He's leaking, throbbing in your hand, so hard it has to ache, but you just smile and coo, "What was that, baby?"

He lets out a shaky breath, head falling back against the chair again. "Please," he rasps. "Please let me cum."

"Hmmm," you murmur like you're thinking real hard about it. Your hand never stops moving. You just switch up the rhythm—faster for a second, then dragging your palm down just slow enough to knock the edge out from under him again. "Didn't hear that, Jay."

He grunts, biting back a groan, and then he laughs. A short, breathless thing that's more frustration than humor. "Jesus Christ, you're a fuckin' menace, aren't you?"

You hum sweetly, unbothered, still jerking him off in that same torturous rhythm. His thighs are flexed so hard they're shaking, abs tight like he's doing everything he can not to lose it.

Then, quieter this time, full of rough desperation: "Please, pretty girl. Let me cum. I'll do anything you want."

That makes you giggle, sweet and dangerous. You slow your strokes just enough to let your thumb drag across the head again, watching his breath catch in his throat.

"Anything, Jay?"

He nods instantly, like the word yes is the only thing left in his vocabulary. "Yeah. Please," he pants, hips twitching uselessly into your hand. "Just—just let me cum."

“Will you fuck me after?” you murmur, voice low, breathy, filthy, like the words themselves are enough to make him burst.

You lean in closer, your tongue flicking out to taste him again, just a soft, slow lick right across the tip because you know how sensitive he is right now. You swirl your tongue lazily, then pull back just enough for your breath to tease him again, warm and cruel.

Jason groans loud. His hand flies to the desk, like he needs something to hold onto or he's gonna break. He looks down at you, eyes half lidded, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black, and that cheeky fucking smile you're giving him?

He hates how much he loves it. He fucking hates it. But deep down? You both know it fucks him up.

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck—anything you want, baby. Just lemme cum."

"Good boy," you murmur, soft and syrupy, the praise sliding off your tongue like sin.

And then you're on him again, no warning, no teasing, just your lips parting, mouth stretching around the flushed, aching head of his cock like you've been starving for it.

You take him deep, your throat working around the thick length of him like you need it, greedy and unrelenting, spit already bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you sink down, swallowing more and more. Your hand wraps tight at the base, guiding what your throat can't handle yet—slick, obscene, absolutely fucking devoted.

Jason loses it. His hips jerk up with a ragged curse, and you let him, his dick sliding deeper into your throat as you choke around it, eyes watering, nose brushing the base. He growls, the sound scraping low from his chest like it was dragged out of him, raw and ruined.

You're not even mad. You knew this was coming. You keep sucking him with that same hungry little desperation, tongue swirling when you pull back, cheeks hollowing when you go down again, throat stretching every time he thrusts up into you like he can't help himself. You're gagging a little, drool dripping down your chin, clinging to your fingers where you still stroke what you can't take, but you don't care.

You like it messy. Because nothing compares to the way Jason sounds when he's right there, when he's got no snark, no self control, just that tight, needy edge in his voice as he pants your name like a prayer.

"Fuck, baby—fuck, fuck, your mouth—"

His grip in your hair tightens, not rough, not painful, just possessive. Desperate. Like he's two seconds from completely falling apart and you're the only thing holding him together. And really, he's not wrong.

You moan around him and the vibration makes his hips stutter, his thighs trembling. His dick is a mess, broken gasps and little shaky groans leaving him as he keeps fucking into your mouth, deeper, harder, chasing the edge.

And yeah, okay, you're definitely gonna regret teasing him this long. But fuck, isn't it worth it? Because God, you're fucking soaked.

Not just wet, you're dripping. Your panties are clinging to your cunt, hot and slick, the mess between your thighs getting worse every time he groans, every time his cock hits the back of your throat. You shift your hips against the floor without even meaning to, chasing the tiniest bit of friction, but it's useless. Nothing compares to this.

Your nipples ache where they press against the thin fabric of your tank top, hard and swollen, rubbing against it with every breath you take. You're flushed all over, body buzzing, and the taste of him—the weight of his dick on your tongue, the heat and stretch in your mouth—has you right there, right on the fucking edge. You could probably cum just from this. Just from sucking his cock like this.

Jason's a fucking mess. You feel the change first, the way his thigh tenses beneath your hand, the way his breathing shortens into ragged, panting little shudders. The way his hips twitch, losing rhythm, like he's barely holding on.

"F-fuck, I'm—baby, I'm gonna—"

And then he does. His whole body jerks, head tipping back as a low, broken moan punches out of him, chest heaving like he's been holding it in for hours. His cock throbs on your tongue, thick and hot, and then he cums. Hard.

Floods your mouth with it—thick, salty spurts that coat your tongue, fill your throat. You don't pull back. You take it, swallowing fast, lips still wrapped around him as your hand slows, stroking his base while your mouth does the rest.

You suck him through it, gentler, with slow, rhythmic pulls, tongue cradling the head as he trembles under you. His hand is shaking in your hair, fingers flexing like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and he's moaning, soft and breathless, a constant little stream of praise tumbling out between gasps.

"Fuck, doll—God, that mouth—s'good, you're so good, shit—"

You don't stop until you're sure you've got every drop. You lick him clean, spit slick and still twitching in your mouth as your tongue runs slow over the head, careful, delicate. Your eyes water from how deep you'd taken him, lashes damp as you blink up at him, still sucking, soft and sweet.

And Jason? His mind is wrecked. You're so fucking beautiful like this. On your knees, eyes glossy, mouth wrapped around his dick like you own him—because you do. You really, truly do.

No one's ever done this to him before. No one's ever ruined him so gently. So thoroughly. You tease, you torment, you push him to the edge, but you know how far to take it. You know how to bring him back.

He's had flings, hookups, girls who wanted the Red Hood for the story. But this? You?

You're it. And God, he never thought he'd get this. Never thought he'd deserve it. But looking down at you—lips still wrapped around his cock, cheeks flushed, hair messy from where he's been holding you—he's never been more sure of anything in his life.

You finally—finally—give him a break. You know he's way too sensitive, dick still twitching in your mouth, so you ease off with a soft little pop and kiss the flushed, swollen head, all slow and sweet.

Jason twitches. "Fuuuck—" he groans like the sound was dragged out of him.

And then he's moving, his chair rolling back just enough before you can even blink, and his hands are on you before you can breathe.

"Baby—" you yelp as he hauls you out from under the desk and right into his lap, landing with a little bounce, your thighs straddling him, the thick press of his dick snug right up against your soaked pussy.

Your tank top is a mess, your panties are ruined, and you're breathless from the sudden shift, but you don't get another word out. One hand settles rough and sure on your ass, the other tangling in the back of your hair, and he doesn't even bother saying anything before he kisses you.

And fuck, he kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's hungry. Wet and messy, all tongue and teeth and desperate moans swallowed between gasps. He kisses you like he's trying to make up for the four hours he left you wanting with just his mouth alone, tongue pushing into your mouth without hesitation, licking into you like he needs to taste himself on your tongue. And it's there, the sharp, salty taste of his cum still clinging to your lips, your teeth, your tongue, and he moans into it like he's losing his fucking mind.

It's all greed and spit and the kind of desperate, breathless kisses that feel more like gasps than anything else. He breaks away for a second, groaning into your mouth, just to dive right back in, tilting your head with a rough hand in your hair, licking deeper, slower.

You whimper into him, hips rocking down against his, instinctive and needy, and his hand squeezes your ass in response. His other one doesn't let go of your hair, holding you close, still tasting himself off your tongue like he doesn't care how filthy it is—no, he likes it. Loves it. Wants it all.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice wrecked and low,

"Fuckin' knew you'd ruin me, pretty girl."

You lick into his mouth one more time, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling back with a breathy little gasp, smirking as you murmur, "Your turn, Jay."

And oh, that fucking gets him. He hisses through his teeth, pupils blown wide with heat, the grip on your ass tightening for a second before his hand slides lower—fingers trailing between your thighs from behind, right over that embarrassingly wet patch of your panties.

"Fuck," he mutters, lips brushing your jaw as he grins against your skin. "You're soaked, baby. You this wet just from suckin' my dick?"

You whimper, breath hitching when he pushes your panties aside with two thick fingers, brushing the bare, sticky heat of your cunt. His fingers slide through the mess and God, you're dripping for him.

His hands slip under your thighs, lifting them effortlessly as he spreads your legs wide over the arms of his chair. Pinned open, soaked, squirming—he's got you just how he wants you, and he knows it. You grab his shoulders instinctively, nails digging in for some kind of grounding because you already know what's coming.

"Jay—"

He slaps your ass. Hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan, and the sound of it echoes filthy and perfect in the quiet room.

"You want me to fuck you, huh?" he growls, cocky and breathless, dragging the head of his dick through your slippery folds, teasing you just enough to make your hips twitch.

You nod fast, needy, thoughtless. "Yes—yes, please, just—fuck me, Jay, I want it—"

He scoots just a little, lining himself up, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press right against your hole before he pushes in.

Fuck. You shudder, mouth falling open, nails pressing into his shoulders as he slides in so easily. Your walls stretch around him without resistance, just soaked and swollen and ready to take every inch. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your shoulder as he sinks deeper until his hips are flush with yours and you can feel him throb inside you.

"You're so fuckin' wet," he murmurs, voice wrecked already. "Took me like you've been waitin' for this all evening."

And you have. God, you fucking have. You barely have time to adjust to how deep he is, your body still fluttering around the stretch when Jason yanks your tank top down in one quick, rough motion. The fabric strains before it slips beneath your tits, baring them to the air—and to him. His mouth is on you in seconds, hot and hungry, groaning as he buries his face right between your tits.

You let out a breathless little moan, your hands braced on his broad shoulders as you start to move. The position is perfect—you're spread open over the chair, anchored by his grip and the way his thighs are planted beneath yours, and it gives you leverage.

You roll your hips first, then start to bounce, each slick slide down making you gasp. His cock fills you just right, hard and pulsing, stretching you perfectly as you fuck yourself on him.

He groans against your skin, cupping both your tits with those big, rough hands, squeezing just hard enough to make your back arch. "Goddamn, baby, these fuckin' tits..."

And then he's licking you. Everywhere. His tongue drags between your nipples, slow and wet, before he sucks one into his mouth, lips wrapping tight around it as his tongue flicks and rolls. You whine, hips stuttering, and he doesn't stop—switches to the other nipple like he can't pick a favorite, sucking it hard enough to make you gasp again.

"You ride me so good," he mutters, voice all fucked out, his hands kneading your tits like he owns them. "Bouncin' on my dick like a good fuckin' girl."

Your breath catches as he pulls back, his mouth slick with spit, and you don't even get a second to adjust before his hands are on your ass. One rough grip on each cheek, and he slams you down, holding you there, pinning you as he starts fucking up into you.

Your head falls back with a whimper, the wet sounds between your legs growing louder every time he slams into you. Your arousal coats him, slick and messy and everywhere, and you can feel it. The way it clings to his skin and your folds, shiny and sticky. And Jason? He's watching all of it. Losing it.

"Look at this pussy," he groans, hips snapping up fast and hard. "Look at how you take me—fuckin' swallowin' my dick."

He fucks you like he means it. No holding back, no teasing. Just deep, hungry thrusts that stretch your soaked pussy wide every time he buries himself inside you. Your thighs twitch, muscles straining as he slams up into you with enough force to make the chair creak underneath you both, and all you can do is hold on.

You feel full, stuffed to the hilt, every inch of him hitting so deep, like he's fucking your pleasure into the deepest part of your pussy. Your tits bounce with every snap of his hips, heavy and slick from his spit, and he watches them like a man obsessed.

"Touch your pretty little clit," he pants, voice wrecked with how hard he's breathing, how tight your pussy is squeezing him. "C'mon, baby, rub that messy little thing for me."

And you obey without thinking, how could you fucking not? You slide one trembling hand between your thighs and find your swollen clit instantly, already throbbing and slippery with your arousal. You rub it in fast, messy circles, breath stuttering from the pleasure overload of it all—your soaked cunt getting pounded, your clit aching from how worked up you are, his dick splitting you open so perfectly.

"That's it," Jason growls, his hands gripping your ass. "Look at you—ridin' my dick, rubbin' that sweet little clit like a good girl. You're fuckin' perfect, baby."

And you fucking break. Your body shudders once, then again, your voice catching in your throat before a moan punches out of you, high and desperate. Your fingers never stop moving, and neither does he, fucking you through it, even as your legs seize up and your back arches.

And then it happens. You squirt, just like that. Your orgasm crashes through you in wet, pulsing waves, hot and intense, your pussy fluttering wildly around his cock as fluid gushes out of you. It soaks your fingers, his dick, his lap—everything—your slick arousal spraying out with each deep, perfect thrust. Your hand is drenched, your thighs are dripping, and Jason moans so loud, head falling back as he watches you come completely undone.

"Holy fuck," he hisses, fucking up into you harder, rougher. "So goddamn pretty when you make a mess, baby."

You tremble, panting, overwhelmed and wrecked, barely able to moan out a soft, broken "Don't stop, Jay—please—" even as your walls keep pulsing from aftershocks.

You lean in, still trembling from your orgasm, thighs quivering on either side of him, and Jason doesn't even wait. His hand flies up to the back of your neck, rough and greedy, and he pulls you down into a kiss like he needs your mouth just as much as your pussy.

It's messy, all spit and panting breaths, tongues sliding together in a wet tangle. He groans into your mouth like he's starving for you, and you swallow the sound greedily, hips rolling as his dick keeps driving up into your soaked cunt.

You moan into him, the slick drag of his cock inside you still hitting every swollen, overstimulated nerve, your pussy fluttering around him. You're still so fucking wet, everything between your legs an absolute mess, your arousal smeared all over his cock and clinging to your thighs, pooling under your ass with every grind of your hips.

His tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, like he can't fucking help himself, and you kiss him back just as hungrily, both of you panting into each other's mouths as your bodies slap together, wet and obscene. You can feel the way his hips jerk every time your walls clench down, hear the little grunts he makes when your nails dig into his skin.

You break the kiss with a gasp, lips slick with spit, your breath coming in short, helpless pants, and Jason's eyes are blown wide when he looks at you—wet mouth, flushed face, tits bouncing every time he drives into you.

"Fuck," he grits, hips stuttering just for a second. "You kiss me like that while I'm inside this pussy, I'm not gonna last."

But that doesn't stop him. He licks into your mouth again, sloppy and hot, like he can't get enough, and he doesn't stop fucking you even for a second, your cunt sucking him back in again and again.

But then he stops. Just fucking stops, cock buried deep and throbbing, and your whole body twitches when he stills, when that perfect stretch suddenly halts, and all you can do is let out this desperate, broken little whimper against his mouth.

Jason grins. That smug, shit eating, cocky little smirk that makes you want to slap him and fuck him harder all at once.

"Oh, you didn't think I'd let you finish me off like that, did you?"

Before you can even beg, his hands are under your thighs, and he fucking stands with you still on his dick. You gasp, clinging to him as he lifts you, and then, with a little thud, your ass hits the cool surface of his desk.

"Jason—"

Papers scatter. A pen clatters to the floor. His cock slips out for the briefest, aching second, but he's already lining up again, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift your leg, the other grabbing your neck.

You moan sharp and high, head falling back as his dick drags in deep and fast, hitting that perfect spot again and again, every thrust brutal and wet and perfect. Your pussy squeezes him tight—too tight—and he groans, deep and ragged, his hips stuttering just a little.

"Shit—yeah. Just like that. Fuckin' stranglin' my dick—"

His hand around your neck squeezes just enough to make your pussy clench hard, and that makes him pause just a second as your walls squeeze his dick like a fucking vice.

"Jesus—fuckin'—Christ," he groans, eyes flicking down to where he's buried in you.

And God, it's filthy. Your pussy is drooling around him, soaking his dick and his desk and your thighs, the slick wet sounds echoing with every thrust as he rails you, fast and deep, making the desk creak. You cry out when his thumb suddenly slides down between your legs, rubbing tight little circles over your clit—slippery and fast, making your thighs tremble where they hang off the desk. Your whole body twitches, hips rocking forward instinctively, chasing that pressure even as he fucks you.

"Yeah?" he pants, circling it hard and fast, smirking at the way you squirm. "That what you needed, baby?"

You nod, frantic, breathless, clutching at his biceps while he ruins you, rubbing your clit in tight, messy circles as he keeps fucking you, every thrust sending wet heat sparking down your spine.

"Sound so fuckin' pretty when I touch you," he grits, watching how your face crumples with every swipe of his thumb. "Wanna see you cum again. Wanna feel this little pussy soak my dick."

And the way he says it? Low and wrecked and hungry? You know you're not gonna last long.

"J-Jay," you whine, voice high and ragged, words tumbling between shaky breaths, "T-too much, baby, I can't—"

But he shuts you up with a kiss, rough and hot and wet, mouths mashing together like he's trying to taste every moan you're too wrecked to hold back. His tongue licks into your mouth, greedy and slow, and it's all spit and gasps and his quiet groan when your lips cling to his like you're starved. Which, you are. You always are.

"Yeah, you can, doll," he murmurs between kisses, words rumbling against your tongue. "C'mon, give it to me."

And you try—God, you try—but your thoughts are fucking gone. Just a mess of heat and Jay and the stretch of his cock pounding into your soaked cunt, over and over again. You haven't even cum more than once, but you're already seeing stars. Truth is, you were pent up before you even dropped to your knees under his desk—fuming, needy, aching.

So now, with his dick hitting just right, his hand tightening a little more around your throat, his thumb still teasing your soaked, swollen clit? You fucking shatter.

Your mouth drops open, a choked little moan spilling out as your pussy clamps down hard, gushing around his dick in a hot, wet rush. You tremble against him, thighs shaking where they're pinned open, and all you can do is feel—your cunt clenching, fluttering around his cock, your soaked skin sticking to the desk, the way his thumb never lets up.

"Fuuuck—that's it, baby," he groans, watching it all, voice all heat and adoration, worshiping the way your cunt flutters around him, "Jesus, look at you. So perfect. So good for me."

He slows down just a little—not stopping, no—but just enough to feel every squeeze of your pussy, every twitch. Jason doesn't even say anything, just presses one last kiss to your lips before he straightens up and gently pushes you down onto your back. Files and papers scatter everywhere as he clears the space with a sweep of his arm, but he doesn't give a fuck.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, drunk on the sight of you laid out for him, pussy wet and glistening and taking him so fucking good.

And when he starts moving again? It's deep. Deep enough that your toes curl and your hands claw at the edge of the desk. Deep enough that you gasp his name like a prayer, like you've already forgotten how to breathe.

Jason's thoughts are fried. All he can think about is this. You, flat on your back, eyes all glassy, tits bouncing with every hard thrust, that tiny little bulge low in your belly when he bottoms out. He's obsessed. Addicted, even. No one's ever looked this good on his cock. No one's ever taken him like you do, like your pussy was made for him.

"Fuck," he breathes, leaning over you, bracing his forearm beside your head. "You feel so good, baby. So fuckin' good."

His mouth is back on your tits like he missed them, like he can't stand being away for more than a second. He licks up the slick curve of one, all heat and filthy little groans like he's getting drunk off the taste of your skin. And he kind of is. He sucks your nipple into his mouth with this greedy little noise in the back of his throat—deep, wet, messy—while his cock keeps fucking into you.

Your back arches off the desk the second his teeth so much as graze you, and he fucking smirks against your skin, the asshole. He switches to the other, tongue flicking lazy little circles before he sucks hard. One of his hands slides up to hold your breast, big and warm and possessive, while the other stays locked on your thigh, pinning you down so he can keep pounding into you.

Your fingers slide into his hair without even thinking, tangling tight at the roots because you need him right there, mouth locked around your nipple while he fucks you deep enough to make your toes curl. And he doesn't complain. He groans when you tug, hips stuttering for half a second like it gets him off, like he likes being kept there, held in place with your hand in his hair and your thighs starting to shake around his waist.

His hands drag down your sides slow, palms hot and possessive like he's trying to feel all of you, like he wants to memorize the way your body trembles under his. Jason grabs under your thighs and lifts, just enough to tilt your hips, to fold you open a little more for him, and then he's fucking into you harder.

Like full body, desk rattling, brain melting hard. You gasp—loud, messy—arms wrapping around his neck as the desk underneath you starts to groan with every deep, punishing thrust. It's all slick skin and filthy moans, your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, one of them still wet from his mouth. You can feel him grinding deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, his breath hot against your chest, jaw tight, barely holding himself back.

And that's how you know he's close, when he gets like this. When his rhythm goes from slow and controlled to desperate, deep, rough enough to shake the furniture.

Every thrust punches a whimper out of you, every grind of his hips drags a broken moan from your throat, and all you can do is babble—slurred, fucked out praise spilling from your lips without a single filter.

"Just like that, Jay," you breathe, voice all high and wrecked, like it's getting fucked right out of you. Your nails are digging into his shoulders now, legs trembling where they're hooked over his arms, and your head falls back with a broken little cry as his dick slams into you hard. "Fuck—fuck, you feel so good, baby—don't stop—don't stop, please—"

You're barely making sense, the praise through mixing with every breathless moan because your brain has gone fuzzy from how deep he's hitting. And it works—God, it always works. You know exactly what it does to him when you talk like that, when you gasp his name and whimper about how good he fills you up like you need it to breathe.

"Fuck, baby—God, you sound so pretty when I fuck you like this—"

Then he loses it. His rhythm stutters, gets all rough and desperate, and then he's muttering something low under his breath as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"Shit—gonna cum—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

He slams his dick into you deep, so deep it punches the air out of your lungs, and then he's there, hips jerking as he cums hard, cock pulsing deep inside you while he moans against your skin, low and wrecked and so goddamn gone.

You feel the heat of it the second he lets go, thick and hot, spilling into you in long, desperate pulses that make your whole body jolt. He's buried as deep as he can go, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up, and fuck, it's so much—you can feel it flooding you, pooling deep in your cunt, so warm it makes your toes curl.

It's messy and raw, the way it leaks out around the base of his cock with every little grind of his hips, like your pussy is too full to take all of it, but you want to. You're clutching at him like you need to be filled, like you ache for it, moaning brokenly into the side of his neck as your walls clamp down, greedy and pulsing, your pussy desperately trying to drag every last drop out of him.

And that's it. That's what sends you over. Your back arches off the desk with a cry, eyes fluttering shut as your orgasm crashes over you—hot and blinding, slick and overwhelming. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight and messy you feel him groan deep in his chest, his hips giving one more slow, grinding thrust just to fuck it deeper. You're gushing around him, wet and desperate, your whole body shaking as you cum so hard it almost hurts, like every nerve has been set on fire.

And all the while, you can feel him still twitching inside you, his cum leaking out around his cock and dripping down onto the desk under you, warm and slippery and so much it makes you whimper. He stays there, buried deep, panting into your neck, and you both just hold onto each other, sweaty and shaking and so fucked out you can barely remember your own name.

Your walls are still twitching around him, little aftershocks rolling through your belly while his cock stays buried deep, keeping all that warmth right where he left it. You're both still breathing hard, your legs loose around his waist, one of your hands threaded in his hair while the other just rests over his heart like you're trying to steady the way it's still pounding.

And then he starts kissing you.

Soft, slow, sweet, like he's making up for every hard thrust with something gentle. His lips drag over your throat first, right where he'd been moaning your name seconds ago. Then your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone—he presses messy little kisses over every inch of skin he can reach, warm and lazy and full of affection, even as your pussy still flutters faintly around his dick.

By the time he reaches your lips, you're already tilting your chin up for him, mouth parting instinctively like it's muscle memory, like you're wired to kiss him the second he gets close.

And God, when he kisses you? It's everything. It's hot and deep and messy, more tongue than precision, like neither of you care about finesse, just the feel of it. His lips press to yours with this greedy, aching sweetness, like he missed your mouth even though he's been wrecking you for the past half an hour.

His tongue licks into your mouth slow, lazy and possessive, tasting every moan you don't even mean to let out. You whimper into it, walls tightening again with oversensitive need, and he feels that too—groans into your mouth and presses his hips a little deeper, just to feel your pussy squeeze down around him.

You kiss him back wet and open and hungry, lips parting wider, tongue sliding against his in a way that says please don't stop. And he doesn't. He kisses you until you're breathless, until your thighs twitch around his waist, until he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his dick still pulsing faintly inside your soaked, aching cunt.

Jason chuckles against your lips, breath still ragged, chest rising and falling like he's just barely gotten it under control again. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, still not soft, still hot and hard and so deep, and it's got you grinning already, even before he speaks.

"Jesus, doll," he mutters, voice rough and warm and fucked out. "You're such a fuckin'—"

You squeeze around him. On purpose.

"You little—" he huffs, trying to sound pissed.

But then you giggle. That soft, sweet little sound you make when you know exactly what you're doing, when you're all pleased with yourself and looking up at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.

And he can't even be fucking mad at you. He wants to be. He should be. But your eyes are sparkling and your smile is too damn pretty and your skin is still flushed and glowing and sticky with sweat and sex, and all he can think is fuck, I love my girl.

You smile up at him, all smug and satisfied, knowing exactly what you just did. You know he won't say it—he won't admit it out loud—but you know. You know he's ruined for you, and you wear it like a crown.

You sigh, soft and happy, still full of him, still stretched wide around his cock and completely fucked out.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head like he's exasperated, but his mouth is curved just a little too much to sell it. "Happy now, you gremlin?"

You brush your nose against his, still smiling like you just won the damn lottery. "So happy, Jay."

He just looks at you for a second like he's trying to memorize the stupid, blissed out little smile on your face. Then his lips are back on yours, and it's slow this time. Lazy. Tender. The kind of kiss that makes your toes curl even though you're already fucked out and cock drunk and full of him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you moan into it without meaning to—soft and breathy—because fuck, he's still inside you. Still warm and thick and deep, and every tiny shift of his hips just rubs the right way, dragging over that raw, overstimulated spot that makes your whole body jolt.

He groans into the kiss like he feels it too, like your moan goes straight to his cock. And maybe it does, because it twitches inside you again, and your hips shift instinctively, chasing the friction even if it makes you whimper from how sensitive you are.

By the time he pulls back, you're dazed all over again, lips swollen and slick, eyes fluttering open like you're trying to remember where the hell you even are.

Then he kisses your nose. Just a quick, sweet little peck right on the tip of it, and you giggle like an actual, honest to God giggle. Completely, helplessly dick drunk.

He grins, because he knows exactly what kind of mess you are right now, and then his big hands slide under your ass and he lifts you off the desk.

You squeak, arms flying up to wrap around his neck, your legs instinctively tightening around his waist to keep him close, cock still buried deep inside you and dragging deliciously against your walls with the motion. Your head falls to his shoulder with a breathless little moan, and you feel him chuckle like he loves every second of it. Because he does.

"C'mon," he murmurs against your temple, voice low and still a little hoarse. "Let's get you cleaned up, doll."

You sigh, all dreamy and content, arms still looped around his neck like you've got no intention of letting go anytime soon. He carries you through the apartment with that same casual strength he always has—like you weigh nothing, like he wants you in his arms. And you just bury your face in his neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses to his skin as you go. Right under his jaw, just beneath his ear. He smells like sweat and sex and a little bit of cologne, and it makes your head spin.

By the time he steps into the bathroom, the warm light hits your skin and you start to come back to yourself a little right up until he pulls out.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, thighs twitching as his cum starts to leak out of you in a slow, sticky trickle. Jason curses under his breath, eyes flicking down between your legs, watching the mess drip down your thighs, and his grip on you tightens instinctively.

"Fuckin' hell, baby..."

He presses you against his chest again like he knows your legs won't hold up and yeah, he's right. You're limp as a ragdoll, legs jelly, brain soup, and you don't even pretend to argue. You just lean into him, face pressed to his chest, nose brushing over his skin while his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

He reaches into the shower with one hand to turn the water on, testing the temperature like he's done it a hundred times before, and you just stay where you are, warm and safe and so thoroughly used you feel like you're floating.

Once the water is going, he shifts his grip, easing you down to your feet—barely, just enough to start tugging at your soaked panties. They cling to your thighs, damp with sweat and slick and the mess he left inside you, and he peels them down slow, steady, not saying a word.

Then comes your tank top, and he helps you out of that too, his fingers brushing your sides as he eases it over your head, careful not to jostle you too much. Both pieces of clothing go straight into the washing machine with zero hesitation. You hear the soft thunk of the lid closing while he checks the shower one more time, then turns back to you.

Naked, warm, and still kind of wrecked, standing in the soft light with your thighs sticky and your chest rising and falling—his girl. And you just look up at him, dazed and smiling, because you'd let him do it all over again if he asked.

The shower is warm, steam curling around both your bodies as he pulls you in with him, keeping you close, keeping you safe. You sigh into it, forehead resting against his chest, arms draped around his waist.

He grabs the body wash and works up a slow, soapy lather between his palms, then starts to run his hands over your skin, so gentle even though those hands were gripping your hips and fucking you into the desk not even fifteen minutes ago. He washes you carefully, like you're fragile, like he's undoing every rough touch with something soft and slow now.

His fingers slide down your back, over your thighs, across your belly, lingering just a little between your legs, wiping away what's still dripping out of you with careful swipes.

You moan softly at the touch, even if there's no heat behind it, just sensitivity and love and the way his hands feel like home.

He presses kisses wherever he can reach while he works—your shoulder, the side of your neck, that spot right under your ear that always makes you sigh. You tilt your head up to meet his mouth when he leans in, and the kiss he gives you is slow and sweet and deep. Just tongues brushing lazily, mouths open and soft because you're both too blissed out to care about anything but the taste of each other.

When you pull back, you're both smiling. Dumbly. Lovingly. Pure adoration in his eyes. Like he's still a little wrecked from the way you clung to him back on the desk, like he can't believe he gets to touch you like this, kiss you like this, love you like this.

By the time you're rinsed off and clean and completely melted into him, he shuts off the water and helps you out, holding your hand like you might tip over on the bath mat if he doesn't. You probably would.

He wraps a huge, fluffy towel around your body first, tucking it tight under your arms, and you can’t help the little shiver that runs through you when his knuckles graze your skin. Then he grabs another for himself, slinging it low around his waist and raking a hand through his wet hair before turning back to you.

"Don't move, doll," he says, soft and amused.

And you don't. You just stand there in your towel, still warm and a little pink from the water, watching him disappear into the bedroom like some kind of domestic dream.

He's back less than a minute later with exactly what you knew he’d bring. A clean pair of panties and one of his t-shirts, big and soft and worn thin in all the right places. You snort a little when you see it.

"Didn't even bother with my clothes, huh?"

Jason just smirks, holding them out for you. "Why waste the effort when I know you're just gonna end up in this anyway?"

You roll your eyes but your heart melts, and he looks so smug about it you almost want to kiss him again.

He tugs on a pair of boxers, grabs some soft drawstring shorts from the dresser, and slips them on low on his hips, still damp, hair messy, towel slung over one shoulder as he moves around like a man with a mission. The second those towels are tossed in the bin, he turns back to you with that warm, post shower glow and holds out a hand.

"C'mon, gremlin."

You giggle as he helps you back out to the living room, and yeah, you are kinda shuffling like a little creature in his oversized shirt, clean and soft and half asleep on your feet. He settles you on the couch with way too much care, like you're some fragile thing that might tip over if he lets go for too long, tucks a blanket around your legs even though it's not cold.

Then he leans down, kisses your forehead and says, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

You hum, content, watching him as he turns and walks off and, naturally, the moment he's out of reach, you flop over and twist to rest your chin on the backrest just in time to see him stomping toward his desk. Like full blown damage control mode.

You watch as he shuts the monitors with a bit more force than necessary, muttering something under his breath, probably about how the fuck am I supposed to get work done when you keep doing shit like that, and then starts stacking the files you so rudely distracted him from. You can't even pretend to feel bad.

Especially not when he looks down at the mess on the surface—your handprint, the faint fog of sweat, and probably a little bit of cum—and lets out this put upon little sigh like he's not absolutely delighted with himself.

He wipes it down quick, grabs his phone, and you hear the soft beep of him opening his food app. Because yeah, no one's cooking after that. Dinner shows up faster than you expect, and Jason's already halfway through pretending he's not gonna baby you tonight.

"You could've gotten up to get the door," he grumbles, grabbing the bags and carrying them into the living room like he didn't just tuck you into the couch ten minutes ago. "Y'got legs."

"Jelly legs," you remind him sweetly, stretching like a cat under his shirt, bare thighs peeking out. "Your fault."

He shoots you a look but it's useless. His mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile, and before he can stop himself, he's nudging your legs apart and pulling them into his lap as he sits beside you.

"You little shit," he mutters under his breath.

But then he's opening the containers, poking around for your favorites, and feeding you bites between kisses to the top of your head. Like fucking clockwork. You hum after every one, leaning into him, basking in the warmth of his lap, and he gives up the fake grumpiness entirely once you nuzzle against his chest like the clingy little menace you are.

Eventually, dinner's forgotten somewhere on the coffee table, TV flickering in the background while you’re curled up half on, half under him, both of you pretending to watch.

It starts small, your fingers absently toying with the hem of his shorts, his hand smoothing down your spine in slow, lazy strokes. Then your nose brushes his jaw. Then your lips do. And then he turns toward you, and it just happens. Slow. Drowsy. Addictive.

His lips press to yours, soft and easy, and it's like you both breathe out at the same time, sinking into each other without thinking. Your mouths move together like you've done this a thousand times before, wet and slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with this teasing little flick that makes you whine into his mouth.

Jason groans low in his throat, one hand slipping under his shirt, palm warm and rough on your bare waist. You gasp into the next kiss, thighs shifting on either side of him, and that sound—that needy little noise you make—has him chasing your mouth like he can't get enough.

There's no rush. No angle. Just the quiet slide of lips and tongues and soft gasps between kisses that get deeper, longer, messier. You tug at his hair and he huffs a laugh against your mouth, pulling you tighter to him, completely wrecked by how much he wants you even now.

But eventually, your mouths slow down. Kisses taper off into soft little pecks. Your breathing evens out. His fingers stroke along your thigh, and your eyes flutter shut, head tucked under his chin like you've found your home and you're not leaving it.

Jason exhales like he's never been more relaxed in his life. "Needy little gremlin," he murmurs, but there's no heat in it, just affection, worn in and real.

You smile sleepily against his chest. "I love you too, Jay."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, like he's pretending to be over it but his arms tighten around you all the same.

You don't say anything back, too far gone already. Your breathing has gone slow and even, face squished into his chest, lashes fluttering against his skin. And then it happens, that first soft snore.

Barely there, just a tiny little puff of air through your nose, but Jason hears it. He always does. And he can't help it—his chest shakes with the little laugh he tries to smother.

Because you swear you don't snore. Every time he brings it up you're like "no I don't, Jay, you're lying, I sleep like a princess", and maybe you do. But you're also snoring like a baby animal, and it's the fucking cutest thing he's ever heard.

He looks down at you, completely dead asleep on him in his shirt, wrapped up in his arms like you belong there, and honestly, those files on the desk can rot. He knows he's not done, knows he should've closed out those reports or replied to that one message before knocking off for the night. But all that can wait.

Because right now, you're laying on top of him, breathing slow and even, little snores puffing against his chest, and he's got one hand tangled in your hair and the other cradling the soft curve of your thigh, and he couldn't give a single shit about anything else.

There's always tomorrow.

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 4 days ago

Text

Coffee problems||Clark Kent x reader

Summary—clark kent is boyfriend material he’s just totally oblivious to that.

Word count —1052

You’re not in love with Clark Kent.

You just think about him when you fall asleep. And when you wake up. And every time he walks past your desk with that too-big flannel and too-bright smile and says, “Mornin’!” like it’s the nicest thing he’s ever gotten to say.

But no. You’re definitely not in love with him.

You’re in denial. It’s safer that way.

Because Clark Kent?

He’s tall, kind, thoughtful to a fault and possibly the most oblivious man alive.

It starts, like many of your problems, with coffee.

You drag yourself into the bullpen ten minutes late, hair in a braid and wearing a hoodie that might be older than your college degree. Your ID badge is barely clipped to your pocket, and your tote bag is slipping off your shoulder. The world is too loud, the lights are too bright, and your soul is still very much asleep.

Clark Kent, meanwhile, is already at his desk glowing with unearned morning energy, typing like he’s racing the sunrise. He’s got his glasses pushed up on his nose, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the kind of hopeful smile that belongs in Hallmark movies and Pinterest boards.

You hate how good he looks this early.

“Hey,” he says brightly when you shuffle past his desk. “Rough morning?”

You grunt. “I hit snooze so many times my alarm just gave up. Pretty sure it filed a formal complaint.”

Clark winces in solidarity. “Oof. Been there.”

You collapse into your chair with all the grace of a dying star. There’s a groan. (It might’ve been you.) You bury your face in your hands and consider crying, time travel, or both. But then Something warm and paper-cupped is placed gently on your desk.

You lift your head.

It's coffee. But not just any coffee your favorite coffee.

You frown at it, suspicious. This could be a trap. A mirage. A prank from Jimmy.

But then the scent hits you. Oat milk. Two pumps of vanilla. Extra whip. Just enough cinnamon to whisper fall is here like an enchanted leaf.

You blink up at Clark. “Did you—?”

He rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “I noticed you always get it on Mondays. Figured you could use a little pick-me-up.”

Your jaw drops. “You got me coffee?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just alter the course of your entire day with one kind gesture.

“You always look tired on Mondays,” he says. “Not in a bad way! Just in a…very-human-and-endearing sort of way.”

You narrow your eyes. “Clark.”

“Hm?”

“Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?”

The words come out faster than your brain can stop them. The silence afterward is deafening.

Clark freezes for half a second. Then lets out a low, bashful chuckle the kind that rumbles in his chest like distant thunder.

“What? No! I mean that’s what friends do right? They buy each other coffee.”?

Your heart stutters.

Your fingers tighten around the cup like it might anchor you to the floor. You stare at him.

He blinks. Smiles again. And then walks back to his desk like he didn’t just casually throw a grenade into your chest.

You gape at his retreating back. “Are you being serious right now?!”

He turns over his shoulder, still smiling, still maddeningly casual. “

“Clark!”

“I’m just saying.” He slides back into his chair, typing like nothing just happened. “I don’t mind grabbing your coffee. According to the barista, that’s peak boyfriend material.”

You are not surviving this man.

You sink lower into your chair, clutching the cup like it’s a holy relic. “This man cannot be real,” you mutter into the lid.

Jimmy peeks over the top of his monitor, already grinning. “What’d Boy Scout do this time?”

“He got me coffee,” you say, trying (and failing) to sound casual.

Jimmy squints. “…And?”

“And he said the barista told him that doing that for a friend is peak boyfriend behavior.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Friend?”

You groan. “Don’t start.”

Jimmy just smirks. “Oh, I’m starting.”

Jimmy smirks like he’s just uncovered state secrets. “So let me get this straight. He buys you your exact coffee order—”

“He remembered it,” you mutter.

“—he remembers it, brings it to you unprompted, and then tells you the barista thinks that’s peak boyfriend behavior?”

You stare at your cup. “Yes.”

“And then called you friend?”

You hiss like a wounded animal. “I know, Jimmy.”

“Oh, honey,” he says, dramatically sinking into his chair. “You are so in love with him.”

“I am not.” You are.

Jimmy raises a brow.

“…Okay. I am. But it’s Clark. He’s probably just being nice. He’s nice to everyone.”

Jimmy leans forward like a therapist in a soap opera. “Sure. But does he get everyone the exact drink they like without being asked?”

You open your mouth.

“Does he give everyone his sweater when they’re cold?”

You open your mouth wider.

“Does he stare at everyone like they hung the stars?”

“…He doesn’t do that.”

Jimmy just sips his coffee, smirking. “He does.”

Before you can retaliate, Clark’s voice floats over from his desk.

“Hey, Y/N?”

You whip around so fast your neck cracks. “Y-Yeah?”

He glances up at you from over his glasses, smile warm and easy. “You’re free after work, right?”

You blink. “Um… yeah. Why?”

He holds up a little takeout menu. “I was thinking I could treat you to dinner. That is—if you want. No pressure. Just a ‘friend’ thing.” He even does air quotes around friend and looks weirdly pleased with himself.

You go still.

Jimmy silently punches the air.

“Dinner sounds great,” you manage to say, voice squeaky.

Clark beams. “Awesome. I know a place with good lighting and terrible chairs.”

You blink. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“I read somewhere that sharing physical discomfort builds emotional intimacy.” He pauses. “Is that weird? That’s probably weird.”

You stare at him. You’re pretty sure you’ve never loved someone more.

“No, Clark,” you say softly. “That’s… perfect.”

Clark gives a proud little nod pushing his glasses back up his nose and goes back to typing, clearly pleased with himself.

You turn back to Jimmy, stunned.

Jimmy just mouths, He likes you, and throws a very smug thumbs-up which leads to you kicking him in the shin.

#superman x y/n #superman x you #superman x reader #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #superman fanfiction #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #clark kent one shot #clark kent x reader #clark kent #clark kent imagine

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noctunis · 6 days ago

Text

rendered in quiet light | 1.1k words

you don’t tell anyone it’s your birthday.

it’s easier that way. quieter. birthdays on the station don’t feel real, anyway — no seasons, no candle wax or dripping sunlight to mark the day. time passes here in pulses and scans, in data entries and oxygen reports. the calendar turns, but no one looks.

you try not to care.

you wake to the soft hush of the air filtration system, the sterile glow of your monitor bathing the cramped room in artificial white. your bunk still smells faintly of engine coolant and the chamomile spray you’ve been rationing. another rotation. another shift.

midnight arrives like static.

nothing happens.

you’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your terminal chimes — a low, clipped tone. one you recognize instantly. not a broadcast. not a system alert.

incoming transmission

sender: sylus

file attached: [neural.stasis.archive.v1]

you freeze, toothbrush slack in your mouth.

no message. no explanation. just a file. encrypted, locked with a code only he would use — short, clinical, and impossibly deliberate. you dry your hands. sit at the console. open it.

the room shifts.

a rendered neural map blooms across your screen — glowing filaments, pixel-threaded and breathlessly accurate. and in the center: you.

not now — not here — but then.

the memory forms slowly. the observation deck. your first time seeing the juno rings up close. how you gasped — hand pressed to the glass, breath fogging it faintly.

you remember turning to him, laughing, muttering something like, “they look unreal.”

he’d just stood there. arms crossed, a smug quirk of his lips.

you hadn’t known he was recording. hadn’t known he was even really looking.

but he was.

he had saved it — the exact neural imprint, timestamped and tagged, like something precious.

the resolution is so clear you can feel the echo of your own pulse. the warmth of your awe. the moment, untouched by time.

your eyes sting.

your terminal blinks again.

don’t act surprised.

that’s it.

no name. no voice message. just those words — his way of saying i know you. of saying i see you.

and it lands heavier than any poem, any bouquet. because this is how sylus speaks. through code. through memory. through the act of holding onto things he isn’t supposed to keep.

you press a hand to your mouth.

because the gift is simple — but it means everything.

it means he remembered the one thing you’d never ask for. it means he knew, somehow, that you wouldn’t say anything — that you’d sit here and let the day pass like any other.

you sit there in silence for a long while, watching the memory play again.

your smile. his silence. the stars bending outside the glass like they’re trying to hear you.

and sylus, just offscreen, watching you with a look you never saw at the time.

not cold. not distant.

just quiet. and full.

you close the file. open a new message. you don’t write much.

“thank you.”

“i’ll remember this.”

you don’t expect a reply. but a few minutes later, your terminal buzzes once more.

“good. that’s the point.”

@meowieesilly hopefully that was u that sent me that message about the cloud fic 😭 tried writing for sylus for u …… not sure it went so well but i tried, ill learn eventually 😔

#AAAH sorry i have absolutely never written for lads at all before #no idea if it’s ooc at this point #still hope u appreciate the thought 💔#happy birthday meowie we love u thank u for being my no. 1 fan #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus x reader #kiss kiss

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heliosunny · 5 months ago

Note

Hi hi, I read your lucky egg yuan x reader and thought a bond system was super creative!! So I have a request!!

Can I request a streamer/general Jing yuan playing an otome game where you/the reader are one of the love interests? And he was absolutely obsessed with character!reader that he’d literally drop so much money on the game, but one day, after maybe a poisoning incident, he ends up isekai’d into said otome game. Reader has a favoribility bar and everything and he does all the quests to raise your bar 🤭🤭. And and! If a love interest hits 100% favoribility in the game, they go yandere so maybe a bit of soft yan y/n?

It would also be super interesting to see yuan scheme everything cuz of his big brain 😌😌

I hope you have a good day and stay hydrated!!!

𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠… 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫.

[𝙇𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙤𝙣] Chat: — "Jing Yuan, you’re literally broke because of this game." — "BRO JUST DATE A REAL PERSON." — "He’s already too far gone… let him be." — "Who’s your bias again? (Not that we don’t know lol)." — "Watch him go straight to Y/N and ignore all the others."

The chat scrolled at breakneck speed, but Jing Yuan barely paid attention, his fingers already navigating past the main menu. His voice was smooth, teasing, as he leaned closer to the mic.

“Come now, you all know the answer to that” his lips curling into a smirk. His stream setup was pristine—dual monitors casting a cool glow over his silver hair, the dim lighting making his golden eyes gleam.

The title screen of Astral Regnum shimmered before him, revealing the stunning artwork of the heroes of the kingdom. But his gaze, as always, honed in on the one he cared about most. You.

Chat: — "Damn, he didn’t even LOOK at them LMAO." — "He’s speedrunning a 2D romance with Y/N." — "NPCs crying in the corner."

Jing Yuan chuckled, skipping past the banners of the other love interests like they were mere background noise. “Why waste time?” His voice dipped lower, fond. “Y/N is the only one that matters.”

A swordmaster. A warrior feared on the battlefield, but with a heart that only opened to those they deemed worthy. In the game’s lore, [Y/N] was the blade of the Astral Regnum heroes—a relentless force of nature, cutting down enemies with precision. And yet, their favorability system was notoriously difficult.

That only made it more satisfying when he raised it.

He knew what you liked. What you hated. Every hidden event, every dialogue choice that made your heart skip.

And he had spent—How much money again? He didn’t care.

Tonight, he was going to hit the final 100%.

With a flick of his wrist, he loaded his save file—the one where his favorability with you was already in the high 90s.

The screen faded to black.

…A sharp knock at the door.

Jing Yuan blinked, momentarily snapping out of his immersion. Who the hell—?

His chat reacted instantly.

Chat: — "Uh oh, debt collectors?" — "Jing Yuan’s about to get isekai’d, watch." — "Bet it’s his manager coming to stop his spending spree."

With a lazy sigh, he muted the mic and pushed his chair back. He had just reached for the door when a strange, sharp scent flooded his senses.

His vision blurred.

The last thing he saw was the game screen still glowing on his monitor, your character’s sprite standing there, waiting.

𝐋𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝…

The first thing he felt was the cold, the way it bit into his skin—so vivid, so unlike the temperature-controlled room he had been in just moments ago. His ears rang with the echo of distant battle cries, the clash of steel, the unmistakable scent of blood.

Jing Yuan opened his eyes. His smirk returned instantly.

He knew exactly where he was.

Above him, the skies of Astral Regnum stretched endlessly, clouds tinged red by the fires of war.

“…I really hit the jackpot, didn’t I?”

A shadow moved in his peripheral vision. He turned just in time to see you- covered in blood, battle-worn eyes feral with focus. Your sword pointed straight at him.

Jing Yuan had always admired you— your presence, your unwavering strength. But seeing you in the flesh, drenched in blood with the weight of battle in your stance?

It was exhilarating.

The tip of your sword hovered just inches from his throat, gleaming under the eerie glow of magic-infused flames.

“Identify yourself.”

Jing Yuan barely resisted the urge to grin. Even in the game, you never trusted strangers easily—it was one of the many things that had made raising your favorability so difficult.

But unlike his first playthrough, he didn’t need to fumble through dialogue choices or waste time figuring out what worked.

He already knew exactly what to do.

He lifted his hands in mock surrender, keeping his posture relaxed despite the threat at his throat. “Ah, forgive me. I seem to have found myself in the middle of a battlefield, and I’d rather not lose my head before I’ve even introduced myself.”

Your eyes narrowed, scanning him like a predator sizing up prey. He knew you were analyzing everything—his stance, his expression, any hint of deception.

Chat would’ve gone wild seeing this. Too bad they weren’t here.

“…You’re not dressed like a soldier” you noted, your grip on the hilt still firm.

He wasn’t. The clothes he wore were a mix of modern and fantasy—game mechanics at work, likely adjusting his form to fit the world. He still had his signature robes, but now they looked more battle-worn, reforged in Astral Regnum’s style.

“Observant, as expected” he mused. “I’m not part of any faction. Just a traveler who seems to have ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Your expression remained unreadable, but the fact that you hadn’t killed him on the spot meant he had already passed the first test.

“Captain!” A voice called from the distance. A scout.

Jing Yuan watched as your gaze flickered between him and the approaching soldier. You had a decision to make—cut him down now, or deal with him later?

The game’s mechanics dictated that you wouldn’t kill someone outright if they weren’t confirmed as a threat. That much, he remembered.

“Tie him up” you ordered.

Jing Yuan barely bit back a chuckle as rough hands grabbed his arms, binding his wrists.

Oh we're doing this route? How fun.

“Smart choice” he murmured as your men hauled him up. “But I do wonder… how long will you be able to keep me restrained?”

You didn’t answer. You only turned your back on him, leading the way toward your war camp.

He didn’t mind starting as a prisoner.

After all— He was still going to reach 100%.

----

Jing Yuan sat calmly, bound at the wrists, as the flickering glow of firelight cast shifting shadows across the war tent. Soldiers bustled outside, sharpening blades, murmuring strategies, unaware that the man they had just captured knew more about their war than they did.

It was strange watching everything unfold in real-time.

Even stranger was seeing you like this—not through a screen, but right in front of him. The real you, expression unreadable as you stood by a large map, analyzing war strategies.

A part of him wanted to watch forever.

But that wasn’t the plan.

You finally turned your gaze to him, those sharp eyes glinting under the lantern light. “You don’t seem particularly concerned about your situation.”

Jing Yuan gave a lazy smile. “Should I be?”

Your soldiers shifted uncomfortably, but you merely crossed your arms. “You’re suspicious. You’re too well-groomed for a lost traveler, and you don’t have the look of a mercenary. Are you a spy?”

“No,... But I might be useful to you.”

One of your officers scoffed. “You expect us to believe that?”

“I expect your Captain to consider it.” His gaze remained on you. “You wouldn’t have kept me alive if you didn’t at least think there was value in hearing me out.”

You didn’t deny it. You're still the same, that calculative and careful one. And yet strangely soft toward those who prove their worth.

He could work with that.

“…Fine” you finally said, tone measured. “You’ll stay here under guard. Prove your worth, or you’ll regret it.”

Jing Yuan chuckled, flexing his fingers slightly. “I thought you weren't the type to threat-”

“Don't test me.”

The chains around Jing Yuan’s wrists weren’t tight enough to hurt, but they were a firm reminder—he was not trusted.

But that was fine.

Because trust could be built.

He watched as you dismissed your soldiers one by one, your fingers ghosting over the map on the table. The battlefield was shifting, and you were at the center of it.

Jing Yuan had watched countless cutscenes of you strategizing like this, studying every small movement, every sharp-eyed decision. But seeing it in person was entirely different.

“You’re staring” you muttered without looking up.

Jing Yuan chuckled. “Nothing, I was just thinking.”

Finally, you glanced at him, arms crossed. “About what?”

“That I can help you win.”

“Oh? And why would a ‘lost traveler’ know anything about war?”

Jing Yuan leaned forward slightly, “Because I know your enemies better than they know themselves.”

That caught your attention.

“Go on”

“Your next battle is in three days. Your enemies will try to flank from the west, but their supplies are running thin. If you push them into a defensive position before they can regroup, you’ll win with minimal casualties.”

“And how exactly would you know that?”

Jing Yuan’s smile didn’t waver. “Does it matter?”

“Fine, I'll test your theory.”

If you followed his strategy, he’d prove his worth.

And when you won?

You’d start to trust him.

The war camp was quieter than usual. Outside, soldiers murmured in low voices, preparing for the upcoming battle.

Jing Yuan stood a few feet away, his hands still bound, watching you with a patient smile.

Just as he was about to speak, the tent flap rustled.

"You're still awake?"

Jing Yuan's smile faltered for the briefest second as another figure stepped inside—one of your close friends. They walked in casually, eyes flickering to Jing Yuan before turning back to you.

Jing Yuan had seen them before, an important side character, someone who frequently appeared in your storyline. But now that he was here, living in this world, they felt like a nuisance.

"I'm reviewing the battle plans again" you replied, rubbing your temples. Your friend sighed, stepping beside you.

"You should rest. You've been at this all day."

Jing Yuan watched as they reached forward, lightly flicking your forehead in a playful manner.

He had never liked this character, even when he played the game. They always lingered too close, always made you smile in ways that should have been reserved for him.

But now?

Now, he was right here, watching them steal your attention.

He could see the way you relaxed around them, how comfortable you were. He knew it was natural—you had a long history together in the game. But that didn’t stop the quiet frustration from simmering beneath his skin.

That should be him.

Jing Yuan let out a soft chuckle, stepping forward slightly, just enough to make his presence known.

“You know,” he mused, tilting his head, “for someone so concerned about their commander’s well-being, you don’t seem too worried about distracting them.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Jing Yuan’s smile didn’t waver. “An observer.” He let his gaze linger on your friend a little too long before shifting back to you. “Besides, I don’t think they need to be reminded to rest. They know their limits.”

You let out an amused exhale. “You talk as if you’ve known me for a long time.”

“I just have good instincts.”

Your friend didn’t seem convinced, but they let it slide, instead turning back to you.

Jing Yuan barely heard what they said next. His focus was elsewhere—on the small details.

The way they leaned in when they spoke. The way you didn’t pull away. The way your voice softened, just slightly, in response.

He didn't like it.

But he wouldn’t show it.

----

Jing Yuan was a strategist. Whether in the real world or in this one, he always played to win. Now, you were real. And he would ensure that he was the only one who mattered to you.

The game had always emphasized that actions mattered more than words.

So he made sure every move he made left an impression.

He cooked for you when you were too exhausted after training.

He tended to the wounded, proving he wasn’t just a fighter but someone who cared.

He trained with your soldiers, earning their respect.

He always stayed one step behind you, never overstepping—but never too far away.

And every time you hesitated, every time you looked at him as more than just an outsider, his favorability bar climbed.

[ +15 Favorability ] [ +5 Favorability ] [ +20 Favorability ]

It was slow, steady, but inevitable.

Sure he had made mistakes. Like that one moment where he didn't take your concerns seriously.

"Something’s off about this place" you had murmured, scanning the area. "Maybe, but worrying too much causes wrinkles."

You shot him a look. "Remind me why I even talk to you?"

He laughed. "Because you like me."

At that moment? Not so much. [-15 Favorability]

Or that other time when he was overconfident.

"You should fall back. I’ll handle the rest."

You had scoffed, annoyed. "I don’t need you to protect me."

He shrugged. "Still, wouldn’t want you to get hurt—"

You ignored him and struck the final blow yourself. [-20 Favorability]

Still, everything was carefully choreographed—down to the smallest details. And every time you acknowledged him, every time your gaze lingered just a second longer than before, he knew—

Your favorability bar ticked up.

[ +5 Favorability ] [ +10 Favorability ]

Jing Yuan was patient. But patience had its limits.

When another comrade slung an arm over your shoulder, laughing too freely—his grip on his sword tightened.

When someone dared to flirt with you, his golden eyes flickered with an emotion no one caught.

When you smiled at someone else with the same warmth you gave him, a quiet hum left his lips.

For now, he could hold back.

Because soon, it wouldn’t matter.

Because soon, you wouldn’t even look at anyone else.

----

Jing Yuan never gambled. Because every move has its purpose.

And right now—

Your favorability stood at 75%

It was a beautiful number. But it wasn’t enough.

So, he prepared.

𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞: 𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠...

The system had always been a passive observer. A tool meant to track your feelings, your reactions, your downfall into love.

But today, it would be more than that.

Today, it would be his weapon.

—— Favorability Shop Opened. Current Balance: [Unlimited] Recommended Purchases:

1️⃣ [Memory Trigger Perfume] – A fragrance designed to evoke past emotions and subconscious attachments. [50,000 pts] 2️⃣ [Heroic Crisis Event] – An orchestrated situation where the player can prove their devotion to the target. [100,000 pts] 3️⃣ [Lingerie Set??? ] – Also a valid strategy.... [25,000 pts] ——

Jing Yuan exhaled slowly, amusement flickering in his gaze as he scrolled past the last item.

I'll save that for later.

For now—he bought the first two.

The memory trigger

The next time you saw him, the scent was already on him.

It wasn’t overwhelming. Just a faint trace. Familiar.

You frowned slightly. “What is that smell?”

Jing Yuan feigned confusion. “Does it bother you?”

“No, it’s just…” You hesitated. Something nagged at you. Something you couldn’t quite grasp.

It reminded you of safety. A feeling you had lost.

And deep down, your heart tightened.

“Maybe you’ve smelled it before” he mused, watching you struggle. “Maybe… it’s something important to you.”

You didn’t respond.

But later that night—long after he had left—you found yourself missing it.

And just like that, your favorability rose to 80%

The Heroic Crisis

Jing Yuan knew you were strong. You didn’t need a savior. You could protect yourself. But even strong people had moments of weakness.

And he was going to be there when it happened.

So, when the system triggered the attack, everything was perfect.

Your instincts kicked in immediately. You dodged, countered, struck back.

But the moment you faltered—

Jing Yuan was there.

His blade met theirs. His body shielded yours.

Blood dripped from his arm, but he barely noticed. His eyes stayed on you.

And then, as if in a trance, your lips parted.

“Jing Yuan…”

Your favorability skyrocketed.

90%.

95%.

----

The fire crackled softly, flickering between the two of you. It wasn’t often that you got quiet moments like this. No battles. Just peace.

And strangely—you didn’t mind his presence.

Jing Yuan sat across from you, his white hair slightly tousled from the night breeze.

“Is there something on my face?”

“N-No..Nothing”

“Then why are you staring?”

“I'm not!”

He chuckled. “Not that I mind.”

You scoffed and looked away, but you didn’t deny it. Truth was.. this felt nice.

Jing Yuan stretched his arms behind his head, letting out a content sigh. “You know, this is rare.”

You glanced at him. “What is?”

He smiled lazily. “Seeing you relaxed.”

“I like it.” His voice was quieter this time. “I like seeing you like this.”

Jing Yuan had always been playful, unpredictable. But tonight—his gaze was softer.

And something inside you stirred.

You cleared your throat, shifting slightly. “It’s... nice.”

“Then let’s have more nights like this.”

Your heart skipped. That's not a bad idea.

----

Jing Yuan knew, step by step, you were falling.

Not yet—not completely. But you were softening.

And tonight, he was going to make sure you fell just a little bit more.

The town was lively even in the late hours. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting warm golden hues over the bustling streets. You walked beside Jing Yuan, carrying a small pouch of supplies for your next journey.

It had been his idea to take a detour here. A little break from the usual battles, something about “enjoying the little things.”

But just as you passed by a fruit stall—

“Hey—!”

You barely registered the blur of motion before your pouch was yanked from your grasp.

A small, ragged figure darted through the crowd, slipping between merchants and customers like a shadow.

Jing Yuan reacted immediately.

“Stay close.”

Then he moved.

You both weaved through the market, dodging carts and startled pedestrians. The thief was fast, but you were faster.

“Persistent little one, aren’t they?”

You didn’t waste breath responding—just focused on cutting off the escape.

And then—a dead end.

The thief skidded to a stop in a dimly lit alleyway, chest heaving.

A boy, no older than ten. Grimy, thin and desperate.

Your pouch dangled from his shaking grip.

Behind him, three younger kids peeked out from behind broken crates, their eyes wide with fear.

He wasn’t stealing for himself. He was trying to feed them.

You felt something in your chest tighten.

Jing Yuan stepped forward—not in anger, but with a sigh.

“Stealing is a bad habit, you know?” His voice was light, almost teasing. “But... I suppose sometimes, there’s no other choice.”

The boy flinched, hugging the pouch close.

“Please...” he whispered. “I—It’s for them.”

Then, to your surprise, he pulled out his own pouch and tossed it to the ground. The coins inside jingled.

“Go buy food” he said simply. “Real food. Not stolen.”

The boy’s eyes darted between the pouch and Jing Yuan, as if expecting some cruel trick.

“You... you mean it?”

Jing Yuan chuckled, ruffling his own hair. “I’m not heartless, you know.”

You stared at him.

The boy hesitated before dropping your pouch and taking Jing Yuan’s instead. Then, with a quick bow, he grabbed the younger kids’ hands and ran.

Silence stretched between you two as you picked up your pouch.

Jing Yuan smiled, tucking his hands behind his head. “Well, that was fun.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned. “Handsome too, right?”

You rolled your eyes—but your heart wasn’t in it.

Because for all his teasing and laziness—Jing Yuan was... kind.

And when he turned to you, golden eyes glinting under the lantern lights—

98%

Almost there.

100%

A quiet chime echoed in the back of Jing Yuan’s mind.

It's done.

You belong to me now.

The favorability bar had maxed out, but he wasn’t foolish enough to expect an immediate, dramatic change. No, your obsession was something that would seep in—gentle, like ink bleeding through parchment.

And oh... he couldn’t wait to see it unfold.

----

The battlefield was long behind you. The mission had gone well, leaving only exhaustion and the quiet hum of victory. Now, beneath the vast night sky, a small fire flickered between you and Jing Yuan.

For once, the silence between you was... comfortable.

He leaned back, arms folded behind his head, watching you.

Watching you watch him.

There was a difference in the way you looked at him now. Before, your gaze was wary—guarded, even when amused.

But now?

Now, your eyes lingered.

His lips curved. “Something on your mind?”

You blinked, but instead of denying it, you simply tilted your head. “You’re... a good person.”

His amusement deepened as he sat up slightly, propping his chin on his hand. “Is that so?”

You hummed in response, shifting closer—not much, just enough that the warmth of the fire wasn’t the only heat between you.

And then—you touched him.

Your fingers brushed against his wrist, tracing the faint scars that lined his skin.

“Y/N...”

Your fingers paused, but your gaze didn’t waver. “I was just thinking.”

“How long do you plan to stay with me?”

His smirk faltered for a brief second.

Then—he chuckled.

“Forever.”

He expected a laugh. A scoff. A shake of the head at his dramatic words.

But instead— You smiled.

“I like that answer” you murmured. “You’d better keep it.”

Something in your tone sent a shiver down his spine.

I like that.

I like that a lot.

He had reached 100%. And he couldn't wait to see how far you both would go.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan

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a-casxandra · 1 month ago

Text

𝗟𝗔𝗗𝗦 𝗠𝗘𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 : 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘅𝗶𝗮.

Anorexia is an eating disorder that causes people to weigh less than is considered healthy for their age and height, usually by excessive weight loss. People with this disorder may have an intense fear of weight gain, even when they are underweight.

★｡+ﾟ☆ XAVIER ☆ﾟ+｡★

Xavier doesn’t show panic—he never does. But when he finds out, it’s not through words.

It’s when you faint during a routine errand. He catches you before you hit the ground. “You’re cold… and light.”

The vitals don’t lie. He does the calculations in his head. Pulse. Weight. Skin pallor.

At first, he doesn’t say anything. He simply begins observing you more.

Then one night, as you're curled up, avoiding dinner, he asks softly: “Are you... trying to disappear?”

No judgment. Just painful, distant gentleness.

“I noticed. I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

He starts researching silently behind your back—treatment, psychological triggers, recovery resources in deepspace environments.

He doesn’t confront. He stays. In his quiet, consistent way, making sure there’s always something warm by your side, making sure you're seen.

And if you ever look into his eyes—you’ll see the heartbreak he never verbalizes.

★｡+ﾟ☆ ZAYNE ☆ﾟ+｡★

Zayne is a surgeon. He’s seen the signs before. He missed it in you because he trusted you to tell him.

So when he finds the nutritional deficiency reports from a scan you did quietly at another clinic—

His hands shake.

You come home to silence. He’s sitting at the table, your medical file open beside him.

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

His voice is calm. Too calm. The kind that hides a storm.

“How long have you been starving yourself in silence while I slept next to you?" He’s furious—not at you, but at himself for missing it. At the disease. At the fact that he should have known better.

He puts you on a treatment plan instantly—measured, gentle, structured. He checks in at every meal but never pressures. And when he finally does hold you, his voice cracks for the first time.

“I would rather hold a heavier version of you for the rest of my life… than bury a weightless version of you tomorrow.”

★｡+ﾟ☆ RAFAYEL ☆ﾟ+｡★

Rafayel notices. He always notices. But he jokes first—calling you “his little ghost,” or teasing your shrinking waist.

Until he sees the way your ribs show even when you breathe.

Until you start saying "I'm not hungry" every day.

He tries to deny it. Paints you laughing in color. Feeds you sweets. Begs you to just “eat a little for him.”

But when he catches you secretly throwing up a meal you barely touched—

He doesn’t joke.

“Is that why you won’t let me touch you anymore?”

You expect him to leave. He doesn’t. He sits on the floor outside the bathroom door, forehead against the wall.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because you were thin. I fell in love with your soul. And now I’m watching it disappear.”

He becomes annoyingly attentive. Makes breakfast and sits with you until you take a bite. Talks to you during meals to distract the guilt. Cries in the shower because he doesn’t know what else to do.

But he stays.

And every time you eat—even a little—he lights up like it’s a victory.

★｡+ﾟ☆ SYLUS ☆ﾟ+｡★

Sylus finds out because his people monitor everything.

You don’t tell him. You can’t.

But one day, he puts a folder on the table.

Your weight stats. Recent purchases. Search history. The skipped medical appointments.

“You didn’t think I’d find out, kitten?"

You try to laugh it off. You tell him it's not that serious.

He grabs your wrist—gently—and holds it up.

“You think I want a queen who’s vanishing in front of me?” He’s angry. Not at you, but at the world that made you believe you had to be less to be worthy.

He cancels every plan. Has your kitchen stocked with real food. He sits there while you eat, never forcing, just... waiting.

And when you break down one night, trembling, afraid he’ll leave—

He cups your face, red eyes sharp.

“You could burn the world down and I’d still crawl back to you. Don’t you dare destroy yourself.”

★｡+ﾟ☆ CALEB ☆ﾟ+｡★

Caleb knows something’s off when you start pulling away every time he touches your waist.

He teases you less. Then not at all.

One day, he opens your bathroom drawer by accident and finds a bottle of laxatives.

Then he sees the skipped meals. The clothes getting looser. The light fading in your voice.

He doesn’t accuse.

He hugs you. Just holds you for minutes.

"Pipsqueak, I don’t care how small you get. You’ll never be too little for my arms.”

He reads everything he can on anorexia. Talks to counselors. He starts cooking meals with you. Makes a game out of sharing bites.

He’s endlessly patient.

But when you try to dismiss it as “just a phase,” he grabs your hands and presses them to his chest.

“You’re breaking my heart every time you choose not to eat. And I’ll keep loving you, even if you can't love yourself right now.”

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads caleb #lads x mc #lads x reader #lads x you #xavier x mc #caleb x mc #zayne x mc #rafayel x mc #sylus x mc #angst #lads sylus #casxandraꔛ♥️

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mixingandmelting · 6 months ago

Note

If it's not a bother for you, can you please write batfam (including Bruce) and superfam getting jealous when reader subtly mentions her ex when they do something similar to her ex bf. (e.g. reading a book/watching a show/an activity that her ex used to love etc.)

Thank you!!!

A/N: Hello Anon! Sorry that this was sitting in my drafts for so long... 😔 I wasn't sure if you were meaning literally everyone in both families (batboys, batgirls, Jace Fox, supergirls, superboys, etc.) which would've made this post even longer and taken more time... If there are characters not written here you specifically would like, let me know

BATFAM FEAT:

Bruce:

Everything he does is subtle. The stiffness in his muscles, the tick in his jaw. All you did was mention how the way he readjusted his Rolex around his wrist reminded you of your ex. But since when did the things he did remind you of the other guy?

“Must be a thing.” He chuckles, the grip around on his mug tightening as he takes a sip of his coffee.

Bits and pieces of his control over his emotions continue to chip off. There’s irritation building up from sensing nostalgia in your voice when he casually asks about your ex. Under the pretext of curiosity, of course. A scowl set on his face hidden behind a newspaper without him knowing he’s making one. It’s to the point where he fails to school his expression on time when you push down the newspaper. For a moment you stare at him, shock and awe meeting cold and stormy.

“Playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne… is jealous?”

His eyes widen for a second. To think he was that jealous to where he couldn’t keep up a facade…

He frowns when your lips curl up into a grin. Let’s just say the two of you made up real quickly afterwards when he suddenly pulls your wrist towards him.

Jason:

Sure, people can be reminded of their ex but come on. He reminded you of yours over how he shakes his hair out after taking off his helmet? That’s way too oddly specific.

“From what? Riding a street bike?” He snorts, placing his helmet on the bench next to him with a thud from restrained strength.

His mind knows there’s nothing to think too hard about; your ex is an ex and he’s currently yours. But clearly his heart doesn’t, churning and coiling with awful emotions he’s all too familiar with. He goes to grab a rag and wrench for “extra maintenance” when it’s actually him finding it hard to keep himself cool-headed if he doesn’t keep himself busy.

“Jason? Jason. Look at me. It’s not what you’re thinking of.” The only indication that he’s listening is the glance he tosses over his shoulder, still unamused and an eyebrow raised.

“I-,” The eyebrow raises higher from your sigh, “You just do it so naturally and still manage to make it attractive, okay? My ex had to try, forcing a Justin Bieber’s hair flip. That’s all.”

He gets you to break into laughter when he grabs you by the waist and cuddles you, grumbling how you should’ve said so from the start.

Tim:

His fingers hover over the keys for a second. Then he goes back typing. Nothing is amiss albeit the sounds of the mouse and keyboard clicking a tiny bit louder. He’s not bothered. Nope. Even if it was over how he cracked open his can of energy drink with a single hand, he’s not overthinking it whatsoever.

“Yeah?”

His voice stays steady, masking his questions as curiosity while in a small corner of the monitor, he’s pulling up and scrolling through the file on your ex. Net worth? Minimal. Job? Mediocre. There’s nothing about your ex sharing this habit or any other habits with him. But he considers that his fault, having brushed the other as unnoteworthy (which he does with anyone who breaks your heart). He can feel annoyance bubbling inside of him from your reminiscence with the other and his inability to pass it off as a simple talk about exes. Wait. Was this why? Because of the one time he mentioned about his past relationships?

“...Tim? Are you jealous?”

“W-what? No.”

He flushes when he catches your unimpressed expression on the reflection of the screen. Instantly, he’s turned around, surprised to comforted when you start showering him with affection. Later on, he gives in and quit trying to get back at your ex for hurting you.

Minkhoa Khan/"Ghost-Maker":

Many had purposely brought up their exes to him before, trying to poke him for attention or gauge for a reaction. And most often he’d smirk and indulge them, finding the action as “cute”.

But right now, his lips are set into a straight line. Constantly swirling the champagne in his flute rather than drinking it down.

“Oh, I reminded you of your ex?”

Lacking the feeling for empathy or fear, he’s never had found himself feeling jealous especially over an old flame of his partner. Right now? His mind is filled with irrationality and possessiveness. More than peeved for such a small thing to trigger an unneeded memory.

He’s not one to usually filter or hold back on his opinion. However, currently, there’s twice as much sass and bluntness as he shares his thoughts on the other in response to how fond you sounded when talking about your ex’s shared habit with him where your eyes widen from how out of character he was behaving.

“Oh my god, you’re so jealous!”

He refuses to give you the satisfaction, choosing to stay quiet and finish his glass. But when you don’t stop gloating, his hand slowly makes its way towards your shoulder to have you stop in a more… efficient way.

SUPERFAM FEAT:

Clark Kent:

“O-oh, really? I didn’t know your ex wore glasses…”

It’s bothering him so much. He doesn’t like it that your ex does the same thing as him with the whole pushing up glasses if they were to slide down ever so slightly. It goes from him clasping his hands in his lap to resting them on his thighs in fists. More from him trying to stop said habit than anything else.

Frustration and restlessness is how he gets, shuffling every few seconds so he’d at least feel comfortable on the bench he shares with you. His smile more awkward and his voice more strained. He wants to be the good boyfriend that would support you in every way: emotionally, mentally, and physically. So he tries to stay empathetic but his response stays as half-hearted caused by the ugly emotion coursing in his heart and brain.

“Clark…? You’re not possibly jealous, are you?”

Instantly flusters, cheeks matching his Superman suit while he denies that he is.

“No! I’m not jealous whatsoever!” He tries to endure your stare, only to sigh and wave the white flag. “Yeah…. I actually am.”

He lets out a grunt when you wrap your arms around him, finally breaking into a smile when you call him a silly man and that you’re stuck to him with superglue.

Conner Kent:

He stops and turns towards you, an eyebrow cocked up.

“Uh, no. I don’t think so. This?” He flicks up the collar of his leather jacket in front you. “Is a Superboy signature move originating from yours truly.”

So obviously your ex was copying him. Not similar or “doing the same thing”. But apparently, you beg to differ. He keeps brushing his hair back and fiddle with his shades, trying to suppress his irk of you continuing to push that he is similar to the other. Huffing at every point you make and rolling his eyes.

He just doesn’t get it. Why he’s feeling this way and why he can’t act like normal. It’s not his first time hearing something like this from others, taking it in stride and joking how he’s that amazing that everyone wants to be him. But That’s not what’s happening right now. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, toying with a can near his foot.

“You’re jealous.”

“No???”

Jealous? Him? No. No way. He’s Superboy, why would he be jealous? Despite his denial, his face starts to resemble his pants as you accurately guess what was running through his mind. At least part of his dignity gets restored when you kiss his cheek, calling him cute to which he cheekily replies with a duh.

Kong Kenan:

The baseball lands into his hand with a satisfying plot while he’s looking at you with a confused gaze.

“Me tossing baseballs… reminds you of your ex…” He’s careful and slowly enunciating each word, making sure he didn’t (more like he hopes) misheard you.

He goes back tossing the baseball with pursed lips and blowing air through his nose. It’s only concern. Worry. There’s nothing that he and your ex share in common. So he’d think you wouldn’t stretch it that far about getting reminded over something mundane as tossing a baseball.

His tosses get harder, his eyes straining from keeping them trained on the ball. He makes an effort to at least voice out that he gets it, quite literally saying exactly that as he proceeds to explain why you’re wrong E.g., he’s smarter. He’s skilled. He’s Superman-

“Kenan, you know you’re jealous. Right?”

He startles, snapping his head towards you.

“What do you mean? I’m just saying-”

Trust for it to happen as soon as he takes his eyes off, the baseball would come falling on his head. Coiling over, he yelps then scowls with tinted cheeks. At least you comfort him in the midst of your laughter, rubbing circles on his back which releases the tension in him as you promise you have no intentions of leaving him.

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 24 days ago

Text

Say Goodnight, Baby

Bob Floyd x Fem!Wife!Reader

Chicago Med x Greys Anatomy x The Resident x Top Gun Maverick crossover

TW: chronic/terminal illness, unexplained fainting, passing out in the shower, medical trauma, implied panic attacks, hospitals, crying

(THIS one is my actual favorite now)

You’ve been tired lately.

That’s how it starts. Just that. Just tired. Not pain. Not sickness. No screaming warning sign from the universe. Just… tired.

You forget to put the laundry in the dryer. You pour juice in your cereal. You sleep through the alarm and nearly burn the house down trying to make toast. Bob teases you—softly, lovingly—calls you his sleepy girl, kisses your temple, and laughs when you crawl into bed at 6 p.m.

You don’t tell him how heavy your bones feel. Not at first. You don’t tell him that your vision has started to blur around the edges sometimes, or that your fingertips feel numb when you hold your phone for too long. You don’t say anything about the noise in your ears—like static, like wind, like something wrong—because you think if you name it, it becomes real.

You don’t say anything.

Until one night, you collapse in the shower.

⸻

Bob’s voice sounds like it’s underwater when he calls your name. You’re still conscious, barely. Just curled up on the tile, your body refusing to obey. Arms tingling. Breath shallow. You hear the panicked slam of the door, the sound of him slipping on the wet floor, the frantic shout of “Hey—hey! Baby, talk to me, come on, what happened?”

You can’t answer. You can’t even blink.

⸻

The ER doctor says it’s probably dehydration. Your blood pressure was low, maybe a drop in sugar, maybe exhaustion. They ask if you’ve eaten. If you’ve been drinking enough water. They hook you up to an IV, shine a flashlight in your eyes, and send you home with two ibuprofen and a pat on the shoulder.

Bob drives home with one hand on the steering wheel and one on your thigh, gripping it like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You try to sleep. You don’t.

⸻

Two days later, you faint again. This time in the kitchen. You hit your head on the counter on the way down. He finds you bleeding.

There’s no joking after that.

⸻

You start seeing doctors.

First your primary. Then a neurologist. Then a cardiologist.

They run labs. They run more labs. They order an MRI, a CT, an EKG, a PET scan. You wear a heart monitor for three days.

��We don’t see anything unusual yet,” they all say.

“We’ll let you know.”

No one ever calls back.

Bob’s quiet at night now. He doesn’t ask you how you’re feeling because he doesn’t want to hear the truth. You don’t tell him you lost your words in the middle of a sentence that morning. You don’t tell him your fingers are starting to go numb in your sleep.

⸻

The first real breakdown happens three weeks in.

You walk into the living room to find Bob sitting on the couch with all your test results spread out around him. Dozens of papers. Ink-stained folders. His laptop screen glows with open message boards and rare illness forums. There are numbers highlighted in yellow. One page has the word “sclerosis” circled four times.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in. His voice is low.

“This doesn’t make sense. It’s not adding up. Your bloodwork is fine but you’re falling apart—why are you falling apart if you’re not sick?”

You sink down on the couch beside him, and he buries his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to disappear.

You hold him while he cries.

“What if I lose you before we even know what we’re fighting?”

⸻

He starts booking appointments in other cities after that.

“We’re not waiting anymore. We’re not waiting.”

He flies you to Chicago Med first.

Dr. Halstead is kind. Young. Smart. He runs a full cardiac panel and refers you to Dr. Charles, who does a cognitive screening.

They say they’re stumped. They tell Bob you “present unusually.” That it might be a combination of minor things. They’ll keep your file active. They’ll follow up.

They never call.

⸻

Seattle is next. Grey Sloan Memorial.

You’re walking down the hallway with Bob’s arm around your waist when your knees give out again. You’re vomiting in a garbage can before you even make it to the neuro wing. Bob carries you the rest of the way himself.

Dr. Amelia Shepherd examines you. Her eyes darken when she looks at the scans. She doesn’t say anything at first, just leans in close and touches your wrist.

“If it’s what I think it is, we’ll need more imaging. Don’t be scared. We’re going to do everything we can.”

That’s the first time someone says “scared,” and Bob goes white. You grip his hand so tightly that your knuckles crack.

But the MRI results come back clean. No tumors. No lesions. No clear trauma. Just noise. A little inflammation. Some fog.

You seize in the machine on day three. They pull you out shaking.

No answers.

⸻

The Mayo Clinic is cold and sterile and full of specialists who look at you like you’re a puzzle they’re already bored of. They run more tests. They take a lumbar puncture. Your back bleeds. Your vision goes black for a full thirty seconds and no one panics.

Bob nearly punches a doctor when he suggests your symptoms might be psychosomatic. They put a note in your file. Bob leaves claw marks in the steering wheel on the way back to the hotel.

That night, you wake up at 3 a.m. and find him in the corner of the room, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He’s whispering. Over and over.

“Please. Please. I don’t know what else to do.”

You kneel down and fold yourself into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your shoulder.

“Don’t say that.”

“But I’m supposed to protect you.”

“You are. You are.”

You hold him until the sun comes up.

⸻

You don’t feel like a person anymore. You feel like a case file. A clipboard. A question.

You haven’t worked in weeks. You can’t drive anymore. You can barely eat.

Bob never complains. He carries you to the bathroom. He does your laundry. He cuts your food into tiny pieces even when you say you’re not hungry. He reads to you when your eyes are too blurry. He holds your hand in every waiting room like he’s bracing for impact.

You’ve never loved him more.

And it’s never hurt more.

Because one morning, when you wake up coughing blood, and you look over to see Bob already holding the tissue box in one hand and the car keys in the other—

You realize: he thinks he’s already losing you.

It’s their last hope in the States.

Chastain Park Memorial Hospital. Atlanta. The place people whispered about when they had nowhere else to go. The one that had been called a miracle machine. The hospital where medicine bent the rules, where doctors made impossible calls and patients walked away when no one else believed they could.

Bob had heard stories from a pilot friend—someone’s wife had flatlined twice there and still walked out breathing.

So he booked the flights. Didn’t ask. Just did it. Told her they were going to Atlanta. Told her it was going to be different this time.

She didn’t argue.

She didn’t have the energy to.

⸻

The flight was bad. Her body doesn’t regulate temperature anymore. She gets cold without warning. Then overheats. Then passes out.

Bob has to carry her off the plane while she apologizes under her breath. He keeps telling her not to. He doesn’t let go.

⸻

Chastain is everything people said it was.

Sleek. Quiet. The air smells sterile but somehow warm. They’re seen almost immediately. Bob flashes the file he’s been building for months—two inches thick now—and explains everything in the kind of voice that’s been ground down into nothing.

Dr. Bell himself comes to meet them.

He reads the notes, flipping pages fast but absorbing every word.

“We’ll do everything we can,” he says quietly. “We have some of the best diagnostics minds here—Dr. Devi and Dr. Pravesh will run the first round. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Bob nods like a soldier taking orders.

He doesn’t blink until they wheel her away.

⸻

The tests start immediately.

Bloodwork. Imaging. An echo. Neuro scans. Cardiac rhythm analysis. Leela takes lead on neurological markers. Devon tracks internal inflammation patterns.

It’s organized. Efficient. Bob paces in the corner, watching their coats blur past him.

He prays this time will be different.

She falls asleep during a scan. Her skin is too pale. Her hands are freezing.

⸻

Dr. Leela Devi comes in first. Her eyes are kind. She sits beside Bob in the empty consult room.

“She’s… unique,” she says. “Her case. Her presentation. There’s clear systemic degradation, but it’s not following any known autoimmune or neurovascular pattern.”

“So what does that mean?” Bob asks, voice tight.

“It means we don’t know. Not yet.”

“But you will, right?”

She looks at him, and that’s when he knows.

She doesn’t say no.

She doesn’t say yes, either.

⸻

Bell returns that evening.

Bob’s been sitting at her bedside, rubbing circles into her hand with his thumb. She hasn’t opened her eyes since noon.

Bell looks tired. A little older than he did this morning. His shoulders are heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you were hoping to see Dr. Hawkins. He’s… no longer with us.”

Bob looks up sharply.

“What do you mean he’s not with you?”

“He was let go. Temporarily, we hope. But he’s not on staff right now.”

“But he—he’s the best. You’re the place people go when no one else can figure it out.”

“I know.” Bell’s voice is gentle. “We’re still good. We’re still going to keep looking. But right now, without him—this kind of case… We’re limited.”

Bob doesn’t say anything.

Just nods.

Then turns back to you.

⸻

He stays quiet all night.

Nurses come in, offer food. He doesn’t move. Just sits at your side, holding your hand.

You stir at some point, eyes flickering open.

Your lips are cracked when you whisper:

“This was supposed to be the one that worked.”

Bob presses his face into your palm. It’s cold again.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He doesn’t cry until you’re asleep.

⸻

By morning, they discharge you.

Still no answers. Still no name for what’s eating you alive.

Leela gives him her personal number.

Devon squeezes his shoulder.

Bell walks them to the elevator himself.

“Please keep us updated. If anything changes—if we get more staff—come back.”

Bob doesn’t answer.

Not until the doors close.

Then he presses his forehead to the metal wall and says—

“We’ll come back when we’ve got nothing left to lose.”

⸻

They go home.

That night, you whisper:

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”

Bob swallows so hard it hurts.

“Don’t want to do what?”

“Hospitals. Machines. Tests. All of it. I just… I want the time I have left to be mine. I want to feel the wind before I can’t walk. I want to see the stars before I forget what they are.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

You’re expecting him to fight. To argue. To beg.

But he just wraps his arms around you. Pulls you into his lap.

And says, very softly:

“Then tell me where we’re going first.”

The bucket list isn’t written with tears in your eyes.

It’s written on a quiet morning, in your softest robe, with Bob’s hand curled around your hip in bed.

He’s still asleep. Dreaming, maybe. His breath is warm against your shoulder, and the window is cracked open just enough to let the summer morning in.

And you’re dying.

Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just… inevitably.

A little more each week.

A little quieter each hour.

You already know.

Even if no one has said the words yet, you know.

So you open your journal to a blank page. You click your pen. And you write, at the top:

“If I Go Before You”

And beneath that, you list places you’ve never been.

⸻

That afternoon, you show it to him.

Bob reads the title and doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Just presses his thumb against the edge of the paper until it smudges.

“We’re going to do all of it,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“All of it,” he repeats. “Anywhere you want to go. I’m taking you.”

⸻

🟣 1. The Lavender Field Wedding – Provence, France

It’s not a real wedding. But it feels like one.

You’re both already married. You eloped after Top Gun graduation, courthouse style, two rings from a pawn shop and champagne in a paper cup. You’ve never cared about dresses or flowers. But on the list, you wrote:

“I want to stand in a lavender field at sunset and promise to love you again.”

So Bob flies you to France.

He rents a small private plot. Buys you a dress from a secondhand shop. It doesn’t zip all the way in the back. You laugh so hard you start coughing.

He stands in front of you in a white shirt and suspenders and reads his vows with tears slipping down both cheeks.

“You’re the bravest thing I’ve ever known. And I’ve been in fighter jets.”

You exchange the same rings. You kiss until your knees give out.

And for once—for once—you don’t faint.

⸻

🌠 2. Rooftop Stargazing – Tokyo

You don’t even remember writing this one. But Bob circled it and put three stars next to it. You’re too weak for long excursions by then, but he finds a hotel with a rooftop observatory and a private terrace.

The city glows beneath you. You sit curled in his lap, blanket tucked under your chin, your fingers tangled in his.

He points out constellations with a flashlight and a guidebook he’s been studying all week.

“That one’s Andromeda. That one looks like a spoon, but it’s not.”

You’re too tired to stay up long, but he keeps his arms around you all night—even after you fall asleep.

You don’t dream.

But when you wake up, Bob is crying quietly behind you.

Just watching the stars fade into dawn.

⸻

🪂 3. Skydiving – Sedona, Arizona

This one’s a fight.

“You’re not jumping out of a plane, baby, you can barely stand—”

But you look at him, smile that tired, wild smile, and say:

“Bobby. I’m dying. Let me fall out of the sky while I can still fly.”

He relents. He calls a medical specialist. They make a harness to support your body, strap you in with a professional skydiver, monitor your vitals. He signs five waivers with his hand shaking.

You scream when you fall. Not in fear. Just in release. You laugh. You cry. The world explodes around you.

Bob throws up watching from the ground.

You land on your back in the red dust and whisper, between coughs:

“Okay. That one almost killed me.”

He nearly chokes trying to laugh and cry at the same time.

⸻

🎠 4. A Night in Venice – “Just One Gondola”

By the time you get to Venice, your legs barely work. You’re mostly in a wheelchair now. You sleep through the afternoons. You forget what day it is. Sometimes you forget Bob’s name until you see his face.

But you remember this.

The water. The sound. The candle in the gondola. The way he holds your hand like it’s the last thing keeping you tethered to this side of the river.

He doesn’t say anything about how quiet you are. How hard it is for you to keep your head up. He just presses his mouth to your temple and whispers:

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You cry, just a little, and whisper back:

“You’re gonna love someone else someday.”

His arms stiffen around you.

“No. I’m not.”

⸻

You write more entries every day, even when your hands tremble.

Some you don’t make it to.

Some Bob crosses off anyway, saying:

“You dreamed them. That’s enough.”

⸻

He carries you through the Florence museum when you can’t walk anymore.

He wraps you in five blankets during your last beach sunrise.

He tells strangers on every plane that you’re the love of his life.

And slowly, you start to drift.

Not all at once.

But you know it’s happening.

Your body is forgetting how to stay.

And that’s when the phone rings.

⸻

It’s late. You’re in bed, wrapped up in his arms. Bob has just turned off the light. You’re barely awake. He kisses the back of your shoulder like he’s saying goodbye and goodnight in the same breath.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand.

He almost doesn’t answer.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

ATLANTA, GA

His thumb hovers.

Then he swipes.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then:

“Lieutenant Floyd? This is Dr. Bell at Chastain Park Memorial. I know it’s late. I wouldn’t be calling unless it was urgent.”

Bob sits up slowly.

You stir beside him, eyelids fluttering.

“What’s wrong?”

He mouths “Bell” at you.

“We just re-hired Dr. Conrad Hawkins. He’s already reviewed your wife’s file. We’d like you to come back. We believe we may have a path forward.”

Silence.

The hotel room goes cold.

Bob doesn’t speak. Not at first. Just closes his eyes, presses his hand against his mouth.

“Is this real?” he whispers.

“I know you’ve been through a lot. But yes. This is real.”

“Don’t give me false hope.”

“This isn’t hope, Lieutenant. This is a shot. A real one.”

Bob stares at you.

You’re watching him through half-lidded eyes. You’re so thin now. So quiet. But your hand slips toward his across the sheets.

He grabs it like a lifeline.

“We’ll be there,” he says. “Just… please don’t let her die before we get there.”

The hospital doors open like a memory.

Bob carries you inside, one arm hooked under your legs, the other bracing your back. You’re barely conscious. Your head is on his chest. You haven’t said a word since they landed.

The cab driver asked if he should call 911 when he saw you. Bob just whispered, “No. We’re here. This is where the saving happens.”

⸻

Bell is waiting for them at the entrance. He looks ten years older than he did the last time they saw him. Grayer. Quieter.

“She doesn’t have time for paperwork,” Bob rasps.

“She won’t need it,” Bell answers, already holding open the triage door. “They’re prepped upstairs. We’ve been ready since I called.”

Bob doesn’t thank him. He can’t. He’s already biting the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking.

⸻

You’re stabilized in a private ICU suite on the fourth floor.

Dr. Voss is there. So are Leela, Devon, and Irving. They’re quieter than usual. You’re not a case anymore. You’re a clock ticking out its final seconds.

Until the door opens—

—and Conrad Hawkins walks in.

Bob doesn’t recognize him at first.

But then Bell says:

“Conrad. This is Lieutenant Floyd.”

“And this,” Bob chokes, “is her.”

Conrad looks at you for a long time.

Then he nods once and says,

“Give me four hours.”

⸻

Bob waits alone.

In the hallway.

Head pressed against the cool plaster.

He prays again.

But it’s not like before. Not pleading. Not bargaining.

Just—

“Don’t make me survive this.”

⸻

At 3:47 p.m., Conrad returns.

His eyes are bloodshot. His hands still have ink on them from marking charts.

“I know what it is.”

Bob’s knees buckle.

Leela catches him by the elbow. Devon steadies his shoulder.

“Her immune system is attacking her vascular tissue. Capillaries. Arterial linings. Nerve sheaths. It’s so rare there’s only one recorded case—ten years ago, in Brazil. Same degradation pattern. Same loss of motor function, cognition, everything.”

Bob can barely breathe.

“Is it treatable?”

Conrad doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Yes.”

Bob slumps to the floor.

“But—”

He looks up. Cold.

“No. No fucking ‘but.’ If you say that word again—”

“The treatment will likely kill her first.”

⸻

They show him the regimen.

Conrad is walking him through the protocol while Bob clutches the edges of the printout so hard it crumples.

“We have to suppress the immune response first. Shut down the system. Then reboot it with a series of tailored proteins—ones her body doesn’t recognize as a threat.”

“How long?” Bob asks.

“Minimum eight weeks. She’ll go into shock. We’ll have to intubate. Induce a coma. She may lose motor function. She may lose time.”

“Will she come back?”

Silence.

Then:

“She might.”

⸻

Bob doesn’t cry until he signs the consent form.

He finds your hand, lifts it to his lips, and says:

“I know you’re tired. But if you can hear me—just fight. One more time. I’ll do the rest.”

You don’t respond.

Your fingers twitch once, like a yes.

⸻

They sedate you within the hour.

You code once during intubation. They bring you back.

By morning, you’re on a ventilator, nonresponsive, your heart rate dipping in and out of safety. The machines breathe for you. The nurses speak in hushed tones outside the room.

Bob doesn’t leave.

He sits in a hard chair for three straight days. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t shower. The nurses start bringing him warm towels, coffee, painkillers.

One night, Mina Okafor sneaks him a second blanket.

“She wouldn’t want you turning into a ghost while she’s gone,” she says.

“She is gone,” Bob chokes.

Mina looks at you, still and pale in the bed, and says:

“No. She’s just figuring out how to get back.”

⸻

Day 12.

She spikes a fever. They drop her into deeper sedation. Bob screams at the wall.

Day 19.

Conrad adjusts her meds again. Leela holds Bob’s hand while they explain her kidneys are weakening.

Day 26.

Bob finds a dried petal from the lavender field in the bottom of his wallet. He folds it into her pillowcase. He whispers:

“Don’t make me live in a world where you’re just something I remember.”

⸻

Day 37.

Bob collapses in the hallway and cries so hard he can’t stand. Devon holds him. Irving calls Phoenix.

“She’s not dead,” Bob whispers. “She’s not. She’s not. She just… she just hasn’t come back yet.”

⸻

Day 46.

No change. No worse. But no better.

Day 51.

Bob tells her about the gondola again. He talks to her for three hours. Her monitor spikes slightly when he laughs.

Day 59.

He falls asleep holding her hand.

And for the first time, you move.

It starts at 3:12 a.m.

Bob’s asleep in the ICU chair—curled over like he’s guarding you with his whole body, hand locked tight in yours. He hasn’t slept for more than ninety minutes at a time in weeks. But this moment is still.

Until—

Your thumb moves.

Just a twitch. Barely there.

But enough.

Bob flinches in his sleep.

Freezes.

Then lifts his head and stares at your hand like it’s glowing.

“Do it again,” he whispers. “Baby… please.”

Nothing.

Silence.

And then—your thumb brushes over his knuckle. Again.

Like something ancient inside you is clawing its way back from the dark.

⸻

Hour One.

Alarms ping. Nurse Hundley rushes in. Bob’s already on his feet, eyes wild, one hand on the call button, the other wrapped around yours like a lifeline.

“She moved,” he chokes. “I felt it. I felt it.”

Hundley calls Conrad. Leela. The whole team. The lights come on. The room smells like antiseptic and adrenaline.

Your eyelids flutter once.

Not open. But not still either.

“Keep talking to her,” Hundley says softly.

“I haven’t stopped,” Bob whispers.

⸻

Hour Three.

You track light.

Only for a moment—but your eyes shift.

Bob sees it. Drops into the chair beside you, forehead pressed to your hand.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Come back slow, baby. I’ll be here the whole time.”

Conrad enters with new labs. Adjusts meds. “If she’s responding to stimulus,” he says, “we’ll begin waking her more intentionally. But slowly. The body’s coming back. We don’t want to burn out the brain.”

Bob nods.

“I just need her to stay.”

⸻

Hour Seven.

Your breathing improves.

No longer labored. Shallow, but yours.

The vent stays in for now, but Conrad gives the green light to begin weaning.

Bob’s voice cracks when he says:

“She’s fighting. I can feel it.”

⸻

Hour Eleven.

You open your eyes.

For half a second.

Then close them.

Bob drops his face into your mattress and sobs.

Not loudly. Just… like something finally broke loose after weeks of silence.

⸻

But you don’t speak.

You don’t move again that day.

The vent stays. Your eyes stay closed more than open. And when they’re open—they’re glassy. Unfocused. The light’s on, but you’re not fully in the room yet.

⸻

That night, Bob asks Conrad the question he’s been holding in his chest like a blade.

“What if this is it?” he whispers. “What if… she woke up, but she’s not really back?”

Conrad doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Then we give her time.”

⸻

The Next 3 Weeks.

You’re awake.

But barely here.

⸻

You can’t speak.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes.

Your lips try to form shapes that don’t make it past your teeth. You cough against the vent tube. Try to fight it. The nurses hold your hand. Bob tells you it’s okay.

“You don’t have to talk. I remember everything for you.”

⸻

You don’t move much.

Sometimes your fingers twitch. Sometimes your head shifts half an inch on the pillow. Your legs don’t move at all. You’re in diapers. Bedbound.

Bob holds you like you’re made of glass dipped in fire.

He reads to you every night. Brushes your hair every morning. Uses lotion on your hands to keep the skin from cracking.

He’s the one who notices when you start following the sound of his voice.

“Hey,” he whispers one morning. “That’s new. You’re watching me.”

He smiles like it’s a sunrise.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

You don’t answer.

But your hand curls the slightest bit in his.

⸻

Day 5.

The feeding tube is reinserted. You aspirate on water. Your eyes fill with tears. Bob strokes your back and says, “It’s okay. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Day 9.

Conrad brings in a memory specialist. Bob makes you a photo board. Gondola in Venice. Lavender fields. A scribbled postcard. A receipt with your name on it. You stare at the photos but don’t react.

Day 13.

Your eyes close when Bob reads from your journal. The one with the bucket list. You cry. He kisses your temple and cries harder.

⸻

Speech Therapy – Week 4.

You’re still nonverbal.

But you follow commands. Track penlights. Try to mirror mouth movements with glacial slowness. You get tired after three minutes.

The first time your lips shape the letter “B”, Bob falls to his knees.

“That’s me,” he whispers. “That’s my name. You remember me.”

⸻

Physical Therapy – Week 5.

Two nurses and Leela lift you into a tilt chair. You hold yourself up for nine seconds.

Your heart monitor goes crazy.

Bob cheers like you won Olympic gold.

You sleep for ten hours afterward.

⸻

One night, your eyes stay open longer than usual.

Bob reads you the Venice story again. The one where you told him he’d love someone else someday.

He stops reading when he sees your fingers twitch.

On the blanket. Slow. Trembling. Like you’re spelling something.

Bob leans close.

“What is it, baby? You trying to tell me something?”

Your fingers scratch slow letters onto the blanket:

“Where?”

Bob blinks fast.

“Where are you? You’re in Atlanta. You’re at Chastain. You’ve been here almost three months. But you’re safe. You’re alive.”

Your eyes flicker.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

More shaky letters.

“How…long?”

Bob curls forward and presses his forehead to your arm.

“You’ve been gone a long time. But I waited. I told them not to let go of you. You were always still in there.”

⸻

You don’t cry.

But you don’t stop staring at him, either.

Like something in you knows him, even if you can’t say how.

⸻

Later that night, he watches you fall asleep.

He sits in the chair, holding your hand, brushing his thumb over your skin like a rosary.

And he says, softly:

“You chose to stay. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

He kisses the back of your hand and whispers:

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you’re never alone again.”

It takes seven weeks before anyone mentions the word bath.

You’ve been sponge-wiped, catheterized, shifted by nurses with practiced hands. But you haven’t stood up. You haven’t felt water in months.

Your skin aches with absence.

⸻

Nurse Hundley wheels in a portable bath chair. It reclines. It has straps. There’s a gentle pump system and warm water and privacy screens. They schedule it for a quiet evening. No other patients in the hallway. No shift changes.

Leela leads.

Hundley assists.

Bob’s supposed to leave the room.

“Spouse boundaries,” Leela says gently.

But then your fingers twitch against the sheets—one of your only consistent movements—and spell:

“Stay.”

Bob doesn’t say anything.

He just squeezes your hand. Once.

⸻

They wheel you into the bathing bay in a soft blue hospital gown.

It takes two people to shift your body into the chair.

You whimper once—not from pain. Just from the feeling of being held.

Bob stands behind the privacy curtain until he hears Leela say:

“You ready, sweetheart?”

He comes around slowly.

And stops.

⸻

Your body is not the body he kissed under French sunlight.

It is not the body that ran down lavender hills or bounced on Venetian canals.

This body is paper-thin.

Bones and hollow places.

IV bruises.

Surgical lines.

Collarbone sharp enough to cut glass.

Hair patchy at the crown.

A feeding tube stitched in place.

A healing trach scar low on your neck.

Fingers that tremble just from being lifted.

And you look at him.

And you know.

Even without a voice, your eyes scream:

“Don’t look at me. I’m not who I was.”

You start to cry.

Silent. Shameful. Fragile.

Bob drops to his knees.

He doesn’t reach for you at first. Just presses both hands to his mouth and lets himself cry too.

Leela excuses herself.

Hundley gives him a small nod and pulls the curtain tighter.

⸻

He takes a washcloth from the tray.

Kneels in front of you.

And starts with your hands.

“Hi,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s me. I’m gonna help now, okay?”

You blink. Twice. Your hands twitch in his.

He dips the cloth in warm water and begins.

Fingers. Wrists. Elbows.

So slowly. So gently.

“You’re still my girl,” he whispers. “You still look like my wife.”

Your breath hitches.

He moves to your shoulders next. Then arms. Wipes around the ports, the lines, the bruises.

“They tried so hard to save you,” he whispers. “I’m not mad at them for what they had to do. But I am mad at the world for making it hurt you so much.”

⸻

He pauses at your ribs.

Sees how each one casts a shadow.

He almost loses it again.

You flinch.

He notices.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “You don’t have to hide. I still love every inch of you. I love this skin. These scars. This you.”

Your eyes stay locked on his.

He kisses your temple. Then your jaw. Then that trach scar you tried to hide under the towel.

“Thank you for coming back to me,” he whispers.

⸻

He washes your legs next.

One at a time. Atrophied. Weak.

But when he reaches your ankle, your foot twitches.

It lifts half an inch.

Bob laughs out loud—wet, wild joy—and says:

“You just kicked me.”

You smile.

Tired. Faint.

But a smile.

⸻

He wraps you in warm towels.

Carries you back to bed himself.

Hundley tucks you in and adjusts the monitors. Leela nods in quiet approval.

You fall asleep an hour later.

Warm. Clean. Held.

And loved so deeply it might bring you back in pieces.

It happens on a Wednesday.

Almost two months since you opened your eyes.

Almost one month since your bath.

Six weeks of speech therapy.

And still—not a sound.

You’ve been trying. God, trying. Your lips form shapes. Your tongue moves. Your eyes scream what your voice won’t carry.

But your throat won’t catch.

Your lungs won’t push.

You’ve forgotten how.

Until today.

⸻

The room is warm and quiet.

Leela just finished a PT session—your first attempt at sitting up on your own.

Bob’s arm is behind your back. You’re shaking all over. Your head keeps tilting forward like gravity is too loud. But you’re upright. Weak, but upright.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

You stare at him—sweaty, exhausted, drained—and your mouth opens just barely.

He thinks you’re going to mouth something.

He leans in, ready to read your lips like he always does.

But then—

You breathe in. Just a little.

And try.

It sounds like nothing at first.

Just a crackle.

Like a wire shorting out.

But Bob freezes.

“…What was that?” he whispers.

Your lips move again.

This time you push.

From the chest.

From the ribs.

From the part of you that still remembers who he is.

“…B—”

It’s air. Just air. But shaped.

“B-b—”

Bob drops to his knees.

Leela stares, wide-eyed.

“Say it again,” he breathes. “Baby, please—say it again.”

You try.

Your whole body strains.

You’re crying now, lips trembling, breath shallow—but you try again.

“B-B…ob-b—”

And then, so faint it barely exists:

“…Buh-bby.”

⸻

The silence in the room breaks like glass.

Bob makes a noise no one’s ever heard from him.

He curls into your lap like a man who’s been starving and just tasted sunlight.

“You said my name,” he chokes. “You said my name.”

You try to nod.

Your head barely moves.

But it’s there.

Leela wipes her eyes and whispers, “I’ll get Conrad.”

Bob doesn’t even hear her.

He’s got your hands in his, pressed to his mouth.

“Say it again,” he begs. “Please, baby. I need to hear it one more time. Just once more.”

You’re too weak.

Your voice is gone again.

But your lips form the shape.

Your eyes shine.

And your fingers curl around his like a promise:

“I remember.”

⸻

That night, Bob writes it down in your journal.

June 18th – she said my name.

He underlines it three times.

Then adds:

“She came back for me. I know it now. No one else could’ve pulled her through the dark.”

He doesn’t sleep.

He just lays beside your bed, hand in yours, listening to your breath and repeating your name back to you.

“You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.”

It’s been a week since you said his name.

Bob’s still talking about it like it just happened.

“You said my name, sweetheart. After all this time. I knew you’d find your way back.”

You can only speak a few words at a time.

Short, clipped. Barely louder than a whisper.

But you try.

Every day.

“Wa…ter.”

“Hurts.”

“Cold.”

“Stay.”

And his name.

Always his name.

“Buh-bby.”

⸻

This night is quiet.

No machines beeping. No interruptions. You’re propped up in your bed with three pillows and a weighted blanket. Bob’s sitting beside you with your journal, flipping through pages.

It’s the lavender field page.

You look at it for a long time.

He notices.

“You remember it?”

You don’t speak.

Just blink.

“We went at golden hour,” he says softly. “You said the sun made everything look like it was soaked in honey. You picked lavender for your mom. Remember?”

Silence.

Your hand twitches.

“We stayed ’til the field closed. You tucked some in my pocket.”

You whisper:

“Purple… sun.”

Bob looks up.

“Yeah, baby. That’s right.”

⸻

He flips the page.

Venice.

Gondola photo. You smiling. The first day you kissed him without warning.

He starts to turn it—but your hand covers his.

Weak. Trembling.

But definite.

You’re still looking.

“You like that one?” he murmurs.

Your lips part.

Nothing comes out.

Then a shaky breath.

Then—

“Tell…me…”

Bob freezes.

You blink slowly. Try again.

“Tell…me…Venice.”

⸻

He breaks.

Just folds forward with your hands in his and sobs against your legs.

“You remember that?”

“Tell…me.”

So he does.

Through tears.

Through laughter.

Through everything in him that ached thinking this memory might’ve been lost forever.

“It was hot. But you didn’t care. We ate gelato before dinner. You got mint chip, I said you were a criminal. You kissed me in the gondola just to shut me up.”

You smile.

Soft. Slow. Tired.

“Kissed you.”

“You did. Then I told you I was in love with you and you said, and I quote—‘Took you long enough.’”

You let out the smallest sound of a laugh.

More breath than voice.

But it’s real.

⸻

That night, Bob writes:

June 25th – she remembered Venice. Her laugh came back with it. I would’ve waited a hundred years for that sound.

It’s raining the morning they tell you:

“Today’s the day. We’re gonna try to stand again.”

You’re terrified.

Your hands shake. Your stomach turns. Bob’s thumb brushes over your wrist as he kneels beside your wheelchair.

“I’ll be right here,” he whispers. “You fall, you fall into me.”

⸻

You’re barefoot in the PT room.

A harness is strapped around your waist.

Leela adjusts the walker. Devon nods from across the room. Bob stays behind you—arms ready, breath held.

Your legs are trembling before you even lift them.

“We’ll count to three,” Leela says. “You just try. Don’t push. Just try.”

“One…”

“Two…”

Your hand tightens on the bar.

“Three.”

You push.

⸻

Your knees buckle immediately.

Bob lunges, catches you around the waist—his chest against your back.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You’re crying.

Not from pain. Not from falling.

From how badly you want to do it.

Bob kisses the side of your face.

“Try again.”

⸻

Second try, your left leg locks.

Only for a second.

But it holds.

Devon gasps. Leela beams.

“That’s it. You’re doing it. You’re up.”

You’re shaking so hard you might fall again.

Bob keeps one arm wrapped around your stomach, steadying you.

“One more second,” he whispers. “Just one.”

You hold for five.

Then drop.

He catches you like you’re made of starlight.

And kisses your temple over and over:

“I’m so proud of you. You just walked back to me.”

⸻

That night, you mouth four words:

“I want… more… steps.”

And he smiles.

“Then we’ll take them. Together.”

Your handwriting is messier now.

Shakier. Loopier. Still re-learning.

But it’s yours.

Bob finds the open notebook on your lap one afternoon, just before sunset, as you sleep curled under a blanket—finally strong enough to nap withoutmachines keeping time.

The bucket list page is full of fresh ink.

You’ve scratched out a few lines:

✘ “Go skydiving.”

✘ “Learn Italian.”

✘ “See the Eiffel Tower.”

In the margins, in crooked, soft pencil, you’ve added:

✔ “Come back from coma.”

✔ “Say Bobby’s name.”

✔ “Make him cry from joy.”

✔ “Walk to him.”

And then below, four new goals:

➤ “Kiss him in the ocean again.”

➤ “Thank the doctors.”

➤ “Go home.”

➤ “Stay alive.”

Bob covers his mouth with his hand.

His eyes blur.

“You did all of that,” he whispers. “You did everything.”

⸻

He stays like that for a while.

Quiet.

Holding your hand, listening to your breathing.

Until there’s a knock.

Low. Hesitant.

He turns, startled.

It’s Conrad.

⸻

“I can come back,” the doctor says. “Didn’t know she was sleeping.”

“It’s okay,” Bob says, voice rough. “She sleeps better now.”

Conrad walks in quietly.

Pauses at the edge of the bed.

He looks down at you like someone looking at a painting they thought had been lost.

⸻

“She’s healing fast now,” he murmurs. “Faster than any of us expected.”

Bob nods.

“She wants to go home.”

Conrad gives a small smile.

“We’ll get there.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Conrad pulls one of the visitor chairs closer, sits down, and does something he’s never done before:

He talks. Personally. Not clinically.

“I’ve had a lot of patients,” he starts. “Thousands, over the years. Some I remember. Most I don’t. There’s just… no time. No space to carry all of it.”

Bob watches him. Quiet.

Conrad’s voice gets softer.

“But I’ve never had someone stay this long. I’ve never had a patient who I had to check on every morning and night. Who I… worried about, not just charted.”

He looks at you again.

Sleeping so peacefully.

IV-free. Breathing without help. Bandages mostly gone. Scars softening.

“There were nights I didn’t think she was going to make it,” Conrad admits. “She came in too late. Too sick. I didn’t want to say it out loud, but every time I walked into this room, I thought: God, she’s not going to last through the week.”

Bob’s throat works hard.

But he says nothing.

Conrad’s hands tighten.

“I’m not sentimental. I don’t get sentimental. But she’s under my skin now. I watched her fight when her body gave her no reason to. I saw you—how you talked to her like she could hear you. Every day. For months.”

He breathes out hard.

“She didn’t just survive. She chose to. I think she stayed alive for you.”

Bob’s hand tightens around yours.

Conrad’s voice cracks—barely.

“You don’t know what it means, seeing her like this now. I don’t usually get to see it. I discharge them and move on. But you’ve both been here four months. And now she’s walking. She’s talking. And she’s writing new dreams.”

He gestures to the notebook Bob was holding.

“She rewrote the bucket list,” Bob says, voice raw. “The new version just says… Stay alive.”

Conrad covers his face for a second.

Like it’s too much.

“She’s the bravest patient I’ve ever had,” he finally says. “And you’re the only reason she’s still here.”

⸻

They sit like that for a long time.

Doctor and husband.

Two men who saw death knock and decided not to open the door.

⸻

When Conrad finally gets up to leave, he lays a hand gently on Bob’s shoulder.

“You should start packing,” he says. “We’re gonna be talking discharge soon.”

Bob’s breath hitches.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Conrad says, and glances at you one more time. “She earned it.”

⸻

Bob doesn’t move for a while.

Just watches you sleep.

The notebook still open.

His hand still holding yours.

And the newest line scribbled quietly at the bottom:

➤ “Grow old with him.”m

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skzophreniic · 3 months ago

Text

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. voyeurism, exhibitionism, public surveillance themes, dubcon undertones, masturbation mention, dirty talk, praise kink, overstimulation, filming/recording during sex, dom!reader, sub!Jisung, light power play, light humiliation, intense sexual tension.

⍣ ೋ notes: okay so i know u requested a drabble but it got a bit out of hand i'm sorry (not rlly). <3 also jisung is a wee bit of a creep here so if you don't like that, i suggest you don't read this one lol.

🧾 FORMAL INVESTIGATION REPORT

Filed by: Minho Lee Subject: Officer Voyeur Staff Member Under Review: Jisung Han Guest Involved: Guest at 704

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if you didn’t work here?”

Minho doesn’t even look up from the tray he’s balancing—some late-night room service no one claimed—but Jisung’s voice cuts through the silence like a mosquito in a dark room: annoying, high energy, impossible to ignore.

“I mean,” Jisung continues, spinning slightly in his chair, hoodie sleeves covering his hands up to the knuckles, “you? Probably some depressed barista who’d stab someone with a milk frother. Me? I’d probably be like… I dunno. A cam boy. But like a classy one. Real artsy lighting. Minimalist sets. Sad music.”

Minho finally glances up, deadpan. “You are a cam boy. Just without the lighting. Or consent.”

Jisung grins, unbothered. “Wow. That was almost a compliment. You think I’ve got the face for it?”

“I think you’ve got the delusion for it.”

He spins again in the chair, slow this time, letting the monitor light smear across his face. Black bangs hang in his eyes. Black painted nails—chipped and matte—tap against the armrest. “You ever think about what it’s like, though?” he muses, voice lower now, a little dreamy. “Being the one getting watched. Instead of always doing the watching.”

Minho snorts. “Jesus. How many nights have you been down here?”

“Too many.” He stretches, hoodie riding up a little at the waist. “Not enough.”

Minho slides the tray onto the desk, finally giving Jisung a look that says he’s both concerned and tired of his bullshit.

“Okay, Edgar Allan Perv. You seriously need to touch grass.”

Jisung laughs—sharp and wheezy, sleeves bunching as he curls up into the spin of his chair again.

“Grass doesn’t touch me back,” he pouts.

“Neither do women,” Minho mutters.

“I have women,” Jisung says, clutching his chest like he’s been stabbed, “just... from a respectful, tasteful distance. Through very discreetly placed cameras.”

Minho levels him with a look. “You know if Aeryn hears you say that out loud again, she’ll staple your dick to the control board, right?”

“Oh, Aeryn loves me,” Jisung says with faux innocence. “She keeps me around because I’m a visionary.”

“She keeps you around because no one else knows how to rewire this rat nest of a surveillance system without setting off the fire alarms.”

“Exactly.” He points at him. “Indispensable.”

Minho rolls his eyes and starts unpacking the tray, metal clinking as he peels back a corner of foil. “Indispensable, yet somehow the most likely to get the hotel sued for public indecency.”

“I prefer the term ‘unconventional asset,’” Jisung says, tapping a blunt black nail against his temple. “I bring innovation. Intrigue. Erotic suspense.”

Minho stares. “You bring violations,” he says. “I saw your 'private archive.' The one you named ‘private archive’ like a dumbass. Half those camera angles aren’t even legal in this country.”

“They’re experimental,” Jisung argues, slouched deep in his chair, hoodie swallowing him whole. “Like, avant-garde. Think of it as hotel noir. A study in loneliness. A peek into the human condition.”

“You mean tits.”

“Tits are the human condition.”

Minho groans, grabs a breadstick off the tray, and throws it at his head.

Jisung yelps, catching it midair. “Assault!”

“You’ll live.”

“I’ll press charges. I know how to access your payroll.”

“You are the payroll,” Minho says, flat. “And speaking of people who want to kill you—”

Jisung immediately straightens.

“No. Who?”

Minho looks like he’s been waiting for this moment. He leans forward, rests his elbows on the tray like it’s a podium, and locks eyes with Jisung.

“Concierge Aeryn.”

Jisung blinks. “...No.”

Minho nods, face pure grim satisfaction. “Yup.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Jisung recoils, hoodie cinching tighter around his face like a defense mechanism. “What’d I do? Wait—no. What’d she think I did?”

“Oh, she knows what you did. Everyone knows what you did. Suite 704. Hidden camera. Woman caught it. And instead of flipping out, she left you a little love note.” Minho makes air quotes with the hand not holding a breadstick. “And now Aeryn wants you to go clean up your mess before it turns into an HR nightmare.”

Jisung pales under the flicker of the monitor lights.

"Changbin?"

"Mhm. Or worse. The cops."

“The police?”

Minho shrugs. “I mean, best-case scenario, she’s into it and doesn’t report you. Worst-case?” He trails off.

Jisung’s spinning chair comes to an abrupt halt. He stares at Minho, stricken. “You’re telling me I have to talk to her? Like in person?”

Minho slaps a foil-wrapped pat of butter onto the tray. “Yup. Aeryn said, quote: ‘Tell that creepy little fuck to do whatever needs to be done.’”

“Define whatever.”

Minho raises a brow. “You know exactly what it means.”

Jisung sits frozen for a second, then groans—loud and guttural—and drapes himself backwards over the chair like he’s just died. “Hyung, I don’t do guests. I’m a background character. I thrive in the shadows.”

“Then consider this your main character arc. You’re going upstairs. You’re knocking on her door. You’re making sure she doesn’t sue this hotel for emotional trauma or sell your name to Buzzfeed Unsolved.”

Jisung is already scrambling to sit up again, bangs in his eyes, black painted nails tapping against his phone screen as he checks the suite number one more time like it might have magically changed.

“Seven-oh-four. Fuck me. She’s still in the room.”

“And probably waiting.”

Jisung’s hoodie sleeve rides up just enough to show a little ink on his forearm—some half-faded lyric he probably regrets—and he tugs it back down, muttering like a man preparing for war.

“This is bad. This is so bad. I’m not made for human interaction. I don’t even blink right. I’m gonna knock and she’s gonna pepper spray me.”

Minho tosses him a room key with a flourish. “Then make it count.”

______________________________________________________________

Suite 704.

Jisung stands outside the door, hoodie up, sleeves down, heart racing like he just ran a five-minute mile in a panic attack.

He stares at the door. The peephole feels like an eye. Like she’s already watching him—knows he’s there.

He raises his hand.

Lowers it.

Raises it again.

Knocks.

Silence.

Then: a soft voice. “It’s open.”

His spine straightens. A jolt hits low in his gut.

He fidgets with his sleeves just to stall, then pushes the door open.

Dim lighting. The faint smell of wine. You’re in the robe again—one leg folded under you, the other stretched out along the couch. Hair loose. Lip gloss smudged.

And you’re looking right at him.

Like you expected this.

Like you invited it.

Jisung lingers awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi. Uh. Sorry to bother you. I’m from security. Han Jisung. Not the scary kind—well, I mean, maybe a little scary if you saw me in a dark alley but like, not murder scary, more like, spooky little raccoon scary—”

“Shut the door,” you say, slow. Measured.

He shuts the door.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking down to his hoodie, his hands, his chipped nails clenched into sleeves. “So you’re the one who’s been watching me.”

Jisung’s brain bluescreens. “Okay, no, but also yes—but also maybe no again if you press charges—”

You pat the space next to you.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t move.

You smile.

Jisung exhales, then shuffles toward you, sits on the very edge of the cushion, spine stiff, hands between his knees like a middle schooler at a parent-teacher conference. He’s hard already. Jesus, just looking at you up close like this has the memory of last night resurfacing; you in that little dress, slipping it off–

You lean closer, voice honey-thick. “You don’t usually come upstairs, do you?”

He shakes his head.

“I figured.”

You trail a single finger up his thigh.

He makes a sound—half gasp, half squeak—and looks like he’s about to pass out.

“You don’t usually come upstairs,” you murmur, watching him squirm. “But when you do… you turn off the cameras first?”

Jisung’s eyes snap to yours. Wide. Busted.

You smile, wicked. “You didn’t think I’d notice?”

“I—uh—security protocol,” he blurts. “Can’t record myself doing, like, illegal mea culpa visits. Liability and all. It’s—it’s for your protection. My protection. Our protection—”

“You’re cute when you panic,” you interrupt, tilting your head. “But it’s a shame, don’t you think?”

He blinks. “What is?”

“That no one gets to watch this.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. He’s short-circuiting, visibly.

You lean back a little, robe slipping further down your shoulder. “I mean, I assume you know how to turn it back on.”

Jisung swallows hard. “...I do.”

“Then do it.”

He hesitates, just for a second, clearly running mental simulations of how badly this could end. But your gaze is steady, coaxing, amused. Like you want him to. Like this whole thing is your idea, not just his fucked-up fantasy.

He fumbles for his phone—shaky hands, hoodie sleeves falling back just enough to expose the faded lyric tattoo on his forearm again—and taps open an app buried between half a dozen folders.

You watch, fascinated. “So that’s how you do it? Everything through there?”

“Yeah. I, uh… I built it,” he mumbles, eyes locked on the screen as he taps through camera feeds. “Modified the firmware. Added remote access. Wired in some motion triggers. It’s—kind of janky, honestly. But like, in a good way.”

“Smart,” you murmur. “You really are a little genius.”

His cheeks flush. He doesn’t know what to do with praise—real praise, not Minho’s backhanded insults or Aeryn’s thinly veiled threats. And definitely not like this. From someone half-curled into the couch, glossy-lipped and looking at him like he’s something fascinating. Dangerous.

Valuable.

“Can it record?” you ask.

He licks his lips. “Y-Yeah. But I don’t—”

“Turn it on.”

Jisung short circuits. The red light flickers back on.

You lean closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Show me what it’s like,” you whisper. “Being the one getting watched.”

Jisung’s head tips back against the couch, hoodie slipping down, pupils blown wide. “Holy shit.”

Your fingers brush his jaw. “C’mon, Officer Voyeur. Don’t get shy now.”

He doesn’t get shy. He malfunctions.

Because you’re straddling his lap before he can even blink, thighs warm through the paper-thin barrier of his joggers, robe slipping open just enough to make his brain leak out his ears. One second you’re teasing, breath against his neck, and the next you’re grinding slow, deliberate, like you know exactly what it does to him. Like you’ve memorized him.

He makes a sound. Choked. Half whine, half breathless moan. His hands flutter uselessly at your hips, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, unsure if he’s even allowed to touch you.

You roll your hips again. Harder.

“F–fuck,” he gasps, bucking up just a little. “Wait—wait, I’m not—this isn’t—I’m not ready—”

“You’re already hard,” you purr, rocking against him. “Feels like you’re more than ready.”

He whimpers, hands finally gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet. His head tips back against the couch again, hoodie bunched at his throat, black bangs stuck to his forehead. Sweat beading already and you’ve barely touched him.

The red light blinks from the ceiling.

“You ever jerk off,” you murmur, sliding your hands up under his hoodie, fingers grazing bare skin, “thinking about someone finding the footage?”

His eyes snap open. He looks at you like you just kicked the air out of his lungs.

“I—n-no,” he stammers, flushing. “Maybe. Once. Shut up.”

You smile like a knife.

“Bet you’d look so pretty,” you whisper, leaning down until your lips brush his jaw. “Sprawled out in the security booth. Pants down, eyes on the screen. Mouth open. Begging.”

He moans. Real, raw, filthy.

“Jesus fuck, you can’t—” he gasps, hips jerking under you, cock straining against the thin cotton of his sweats. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You slide one hand between your bodies, palm flat against the heat of him. He jerks, bucks into your touch with a strangled noise, hands flying to your hips to hold you down as if that might stop him from unraveling.

It doesn’t.

“You wanna fuck me, Officer?” you whisper. “Or do you want me to keep putting on a show?”

He nods frantically. Then shakes his head. Then nods again. “I—both.”

You laugh, soft and wicked.

Then you lift just enough to tug his waistband down, cock springing free, flushed and leaking and so achingly hard he whines the second the air hits it. You sit back down slow, robe open now, pussy bare and already slick.

And Jisung’s brain just stops.

You’re wet—already wet—like you’d been waiting for this. Like you’d been thinking about it, touching yourself, fucking preparing before he even got here. His mouth parts, chest rising like he’s breathing too fast, too shallow, hoodie still clinging to him like a second skin. He can’t not picture it now—your fingers slipping between your thighs, sinking in, slow and lazy, while you watched the door and imagined him standing there like this. Squirming. Sweating. Begging.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice cracked and desperate. “Did you—shit—did you touch yourself for me?”

You don’t answer. Just shift your hips, tilt your pelvis forward—showing him the mess between your legs, the glisten that coats your folds, the way you glide your fingers along your inner thigh like you already know what it’s doing to him.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, hips twitching, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know whether to grip the couch or your waist or his own goddamn hair. His cock jerks where it rests, leaking against his hoodie hem, angry and untouched. “You did, didn’t you? Fuck, you got yourself wet for me, you—fuck.”

His pupils are pure black now, lips wet, jaw slack—completely undone. Like the moment that image lodged itself in his head, he ceased to exist as a functional human being.

You reach for him—slow and sultry—and he swears he could come untouched if you so much as look at him like that again

You sink down.

“Oh—fuck,” Jisung gasps, whole body seizing, fingers digging into your hips so tight it’s almost painful. His head snaps back again, jaw slack, breath stuttering out of him in a broken rush. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy fucking shit—”

You take your time—rocking slow, grinding deep, letting him feel every inch of you. He’s so sensitive, so overwhelmed, twitching and gasping under you with every movement. One of his hands slips under your robe, palm splayed across your lower back like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

The red light blinks.

You press your mouth to his ear.

“Smile for the camera.”

He whimpers.

You ride him slow and filthy, watching his expression crumble under every grind of your hips. His voice is wrecked—soft, shaky gasps, breathless little moans, whining your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

“Feels—feels so good—holy shit, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, rolling your hips just right, “C’mon, baby. Let ‘em see what a mess you are.”

He spills with a choked-off sob, hips jerking, whole body trembling as you ride him through it, eyes glassy, jaw slack, thighs shaking under yours. He clutches you like he’s drowning, face buried in your shoulder, moaning your name into your skin.

The red light blinks.

Still recording.

You stroke his hair gently, smiling as he gasps against you.

“Officer Voyeur,” you murmur. “You gonna watch this later?”

Jisung can’t even answer.

______________________________________________________________

INT. SKZOTEL – CONFESSIONAL ROOM (A.K.A. MINHO’S JANITOR CLOSET)

[Camera clicks on.] Minho sits on an overturned mop bucket, legs crossed, eyes heavy-lidded. The room smells like lemon cleaner and apathy. There’s a security monitor propped on a rolling cart beside him, flickering softly with very NSFW footage.

He lifts a paper cup to his lips. Sips. Winces.

MINHO (flat):"Didn’t think I’d spend my Friday night watching our head of security get reverse-cowgirled into the next life, but..." shrugs "...here we are."

He sets the cup down. Rubs his temple like this is the third migraine today.

MINHO (cont’d):"Honestly? I’ve seen less raw emotion in Oscar-winning films. Man was crying. Mid-fuck."

A long pause. He turns to the camera.

MINHO (deadpan): "Camera three caught his soul leaving his body."

He clicks a remote. Screen behind him pauses on Jisung’s face: eyes rolled back, mouth open, pure chaos.

Minho gestures vaguely at it.

MINHO (cont’d): “Ten bucks says he’s gonna ask me to make a highlight reel.”

Another pause. He sips his coffee again. Nods.

MINHO (quietly): "...I'm gonna do it."

[END OF RECORDING]

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx @miyaluvvsyou @jisuperboard @fackeraccount @silly250 @lov3rachan @lze325 @angel-writes-here @jesuisstay @lov3rachan @lze325 @scribblesnsketches05 @jesuisstay @slut4junho @wickedbutlovely @woozarts @pixie-felix

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